Of course.
Day 01 → Your favorite song
Day 02 → Your favorite movie
Day 03 → Your favorite television program
Day 04 → Your favorite book
Day 05 → Your favorite quote
Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy
Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad
Day 09 → A photo you took
Day 10 → A photo of you taken over ten years ago
Day 11 → A photo of you taken recently
Day 12 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 13 → A fictional book
Day 14 → A non-fictional book
Day 15 → A fanfic
Day 16 → A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 → An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 → A talent of yours
Day 20 → A hobby of yours
Day 21 → A recipe
Day 22 → A website
Day 23 → A YouTube video
Day 24 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 → Your day, in great detail
Day 26 → Your week, in great detail
Day 27 → This month, in great detail
Day 28 → This year, in great detail
Day 29 → Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 → Whatever tickles your fancy
The day I finally get fanfic, it's not done yet. Great.
Well, you'll have to be content with this. It's more of an actual story than it is fic, but it'll have to do. Written for my English class.
"Mister Kingston! Mister Kingston!"
Hundreds of tiny flashes went off, blindingly bright.
Grimacing, the guitarist shoved his bassist into the hotel room and, before disappearing after him, told the press, "Thank you, Mister Kingston will not be taking any more questions today."
The photographers' moans of protest were cut short by the resounding slam of the door.
Patrick exhaled deeply, adjusting his hat and glasses as Pete, his companion, glowered at him.
"What was that for?!" he exploded.
Patrick stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to be eaten alive by those bloodthirsty media vampires!" he fumed. "They're everywhere!"
"So? This is a good thing, Patrick!" Pete persisted.
"Good?! In what universe is having people attack you everywhere you go and taking so many photos you should've had a seizure last year a good thing?"
Pete stood firm. "But our name is out there now, Patrick! People will pay attention to us!"
"Maybe to you..." he muttered.
"Oh, so it's you that wants the spotlight, is it?" he sneered.
"No, Pete." He sounded tired. "The music, Pete! It's always been about the music, or at least until you decided to start pulling your stupid stunts!" It didn't take much for Patrick to fire back up again.
"I only wanted--" the bassist began.
"Drinking snake's blood, harassing mimes, assaulting security guards!" Patrick reeled, cutting his friend off. "How is this doing anything to promote our music?" His voice dropped as he murmured, almost to himself, "Did you ever stop to think that you might be hurting someone who cares about you?"
Guilt welled up in the bassist's stomach, heavy as lead and just as toxic. He opened his mouth to say something, but found no words. Everything Patrick said was true.
"I'm done, Pete." His voice was eerily quiet. "I'm done playing babysitter. I can't sit back and watch you kill yourself."
With that, he snatched his jacket from the armchair and left. The door slammed shut, a cacophonic echo of just minutes before where his friend had only been trying to save him from himself.
-----
Patrick flew down the hall, forcing down the lump in his throat as tears brimmed his eyes and blurred his vision. He whisked past his (now former) drummer carrying a bucket of ice back to his own room.
"Hey, Patrick!" John greeted cheerily. His call went unanswered.
He stopped, raising an eyebrow as the guitarist raced down
the stairs. Frowning, he unlocked his room to find Mark, the
band's rhythm guitarist, sprawled out on his bed, flipping through TV stations. He looked up at his bandmate, smiling until he saw the puzzled expression on his face. "You look as though you've seen a ghost," he joked, British accent twinging the sentence. When the drummer gave no notice of having heard him, the Londoner poked his shoulder. "Come on, then. You all right?"
John shook his head. Staring directly into his mate's eyes, he shared his conviction. "I think something's wrong with Patrick."
-----
"Where to, kid?" the gruff taxi driver asked, every aspect of him emanating typical New Yorker.
"Any where but here," the guitarist mumbled, staring bleakly out the window as the cab lurched into motion.
---
I just want to be better than your
Your head's only medicine.
A downward spiral, just a pirouette
Getting worse til there's nothing left
What good comes of something when I'm
Just the ghost of nothing, nothing?
-Fall out Boy, "From Now On, We Are Enemies"
~~~~
(Yeah... Pretty sure you can guess who they all are. X'D)
The fic I'm currently working on centers around Greek gods and goddess, because I'm sort of in love with Greek mythology. X3 I'd consider reading up a bit before you read mine, that way you can get a bit of a grip on the whole thing. :3
Day 02 → Your favorite movie
Day 03 → Your favorite television program
Day 04 → Your favorite book
Day 05 → Your favorite quote
Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy
Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad
Day 09 → A photo you took
Day 10 → A photo of you taken over ten years ago
Day 11 → A photo of you taken recently
Day 12 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 13 → A fictional book
Day 14 → A non-fictional book
Day 15 → A fanfic
Day 16 → A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 → An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 → A talent of yours
Day 20 → A hobby of yours
Day 21 → A recipe
Day 22 → A website
Day 23 → A YouTube video
Day 24 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 → Your day, in great detail
Day 26 → Your week, in great detail
Day 27 → This month, in great detail
Day 28 → This year, in great detail
Day 29 → Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 → Whatever tickles your fancy
The day I finally get fanfic, it's not done yet. Great.
Well, you'll have to be content with this. It's more of an actual story than it is fic, but it'll have to do. Written for my English class.
"Mister Kingston! Mister Kingston!"
Hundreds of tiny flashes went off, blindingly bright.
Grimacing, the guitarist shoved his bassist into the hotel room and, before disappearing after him, told the press, "Thank you, Mister Kingston will not be taking any more questions today."
The photographers' moans of protest were cut short by the resounding slam of the door.
Patrick exhaled deeply, adjusting his hat and glasses as Pete, his companion, glowered at him.
"What was that for?!" he exploded.
Patrick stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to be eaten alive by those bloodthirsty media vampires!" he fumed. "They're everywhere!"
"So? This is a good thing, Patrick!" Pete persisted.
"Good?! In what universe is having people attack you everywhere you go and taking so many photos you should've had a seizure last year a good thing?"
Pete stood firm. "But our name is out there now, Patrick! People will pay attention to us!"
"Maybe to you..." he muttered.
"Oh, so it's you that wants the spotlight, is it?" he sneered.
"No, Pete." He sounded tired. "The music, Pete! It's always been about the music, or at least until you decided to start pulling your stupid stunts!" It didn't take much for Patrick to fire back up again.
"I only wanted--" the bassist began.
"Drinking snake's blood, harassing mimes, assaulting security guards!" Patrick reeled, cutting his friend off. "How is this doing anything to promote our music?" His voice dropped as he murmured, almost to himself, "Did you ever stop to think that you might be hurting someone who cares about you?"
Guilt welled up in the bassist's stomach, heavy as lead and just as toxic. He opened his mouth to say something, but found no words. Everything Patrick said was true.
"I'm done, Pete." His voice was eerily quiet. "I'm done playing babysitter. I can't sit back and watch you kill yourself."
With that, he snatched his jacket from the armchair and left. The door slammed shut, a cacophonic echo of just minutes before where his friend had only been trying to save him from himself.
-----
Patrick flew down the hall, forcing down the lump in his throat as tears brimmed his eyes and blurred his vision. He whisked past his (now former) drummer carrying a bucket of ice back to his own room.
"Hey, Patrick!" John greeted cheerily. His call went unanswered.
He stopped, raising an eyebrow as the guitarist raced down
the stairs. Frowning, he unlocked his room to find Mark, the
band's rhythm guitarist, sprawled out on his bed, flipping through TV stations. He looked up at his bandmate, smiling until he saw the puzzled expression on his face. "You look as though you've seen a ghost," he joked, British accent twinging the sentence. When the drummer gave no notice of having heard him, the Londoner poked his shoulder. "Come on, then. You all right?"
John shook his head. Staring directly into his mate's eyes, he shared his conviction. "I think something's wrong with Patrick."
-----
"Where to, kid?" the gruff taxi driver asked, every aspect of him emanating typical New Yorker.
"Any where but here," the guitarist mumbled, staring bleakly out the window as the cab lurched into motion.
---
I just want to be better than your
Your head's only medicine.
A downward spiral, just a pirouette
Getting worse til there's nothing left
What good comes of something when I'm
Just the ghost of nothing, nothing?
-Fall out Boy, "From Now On, We Are Enemies"
~~~~
(Yeah... Pretty sure you can guess who they all are. X'D)
The fic I'm currently working on centers around Greek gods and goddess, because I'm sort of in love with Greek mythology. X3 I'd consider reading up a bit before you read mine, that way you can get a bit of a grip on the whole thing. :3