Emica Kana is 18 years old. She has always loved writing stories., They were her escape from reality. She always wished that a man would come and save her like they always do in the stories.
Well, she got her wish.
Emica entered a small writing school that was near a river. Her friend had joined her. But, the teacher had an odd vibe around him. Emica became a little scared of him. She especially became scared when the teacher started to pay more attention to her. One day, when she runs from him, she falls into a world of adventure, risk, and abnormalities. 
But, her teacher is what scares her more than this new world. What secrets and schemes did he use to get her here?

Undertale, adalah sebuah game bergenre VRMMORPG yang sangat di gemari para gamers. Seorang pemain peringkat tinggi menerima kontrak dari developer game tersebut untuk membuat demonstrasi dari fungsi baru yang akan di luncurkan oleh developer game.

Sebagai pemimpin Guild Top Circle, Andika memiliki kewajiban untuk memimpin anggotanya untuk melaksanakan kontrak yang telah dia setujui dengan developer game.

Pada awalnya, semuanya berjalan dengan sempurna tanpa hambatan yang signifikan. Namun sebuah insiden yang tidak terduga terjadi ketika Andika akan menerima hadiah dari misi tersebut. Andika secara tiba-tiba dipindahkan ke dunia lain seorang diri, tanpa teman-temannya yang mengikutinya.

I didn't want to write this. I really didn't. I'm delighted that my loyal readers gave this book a chance anyway even though it's different from what other novels are like out there. But, I am going to cancel this novel or update slowly. I tried very hard to persist by writing more chapters. But I can't. I lost my direction and creative voice.

It's NOT the reader's fault. It's my own. I love and appreciate all the feedback and comments given. Readers are allowed to offer opinions and critiques. I praise those who do. It's very insightful and thoughtful. 

The reason why I chose to give up is for two reasons. I lost my direction, meaning that it's not coming out the way I initially wanted it. The reason why is because I felt that since my story is different, I took a risk, which all authors do. We take risks. 

But unfortunately, I changed and re-wrote this story twice because I tried to make it good. But I didn't follow my initial instinct because I was afraid of what people may think, which is my fault for overthinking in the first place. 

Now, for the second reason. I am comparing this book to my first one. Now, it's challenging to grasp attention as a novice writer with no experience. But my first book, "Daughters of the Elite," FAILED the first time. It flopped. Badly. I went in and re-wrote it. 

NOW, it has a million views, hundreds of comments, and dozens of reviews. I never thought it would reach that audience since it's not contracted. But it did, and I'm happy and thrilled! 

The second time I wrote it, I received collections and votes quickly. I struggled at first, but my audience multiplied, once the word spread. My synopsis grabbed people, and I didn't enter any competitions because I didn't like the fact that people had to pay spirit stones. UGH. The amount of money I spent on this app because of 1000+ chapter novels. 

I hated the spirit stone system, so when I began writing, I wanted my stories to be good and free, but the issues are none of my works are promoted for that reason. 

I didn't gain a cent writing DOTE, but it's OKAY. I write these books for fun, but in the end, I know when to stop if it's not doing well. This book is not doing well at all. Which, again, I am not hurt by it that much, because I have book three that keeps me going. 

Before publishing this book, I received many requests and comments about how people were excited about book two, and I feel like I failed you guys. It's mysterious for sure, with some intrigue. But it's not what people want. 

Book 3, however, is anticipated. Now, I already began writing the book, and there are no struggles with it so far in terms of plot writing. *Hopefully* but I should drop this one. I persisted with DOTE; I failed on this one. I'm sorry. 

This book is about love that is thought to be lost but regained over time. 

NOW! I might complete this novel!!! However, updates will be unpredictable. It could be once every few days, maybe once a week. I am focused on book three. 

I really do like writing this book. But again, not many people like the idea of this one, of course, as you readers being the wonderful exception. 

I will be deleting this chapter in 24 hours so I can proceed with new chapters. But again will be mainly working on book three:

...

BOOK THREE:

"A SONG FOR A SUMMER'S NIGHT" 
 
[Release will be in one or two weeks]
Tags: Romance; Arranged Marriage; Forbidden Romance

Song Luli is a sharp-tongued, bold, and reserved young woman who unexpectedly becomes the new successor of her father's company—Song Entertainment—right after her older sister abruptly disinherits herself. 

Song Luli, now the heiress of a large company, soon receives word that Song Entertainment is crumbling in the business world, and to secure her position; she must marry Long Jie, a wickedly handsome heir of a conglomerate, who is bound to duty and responsibility. 

Long Jie is a handsome, ruthless, and calculative young man who destroys careers or makes them, and he is known to be frigid by rejecting every offer for a suitable match. 

But he picks Song Luli. 

On the terms of marriage, they agreed to never fall in love, to never think about the possibility as they dedicate their time towards their jobs and families. Marriage benefited both of them for the sake of power and to survive the turmoils of High Society. 

Watch as the budding romance blooms between two stubborn and cynical individuals who share more in common than they want to admit, learning more about what it means to be married, and battle the power struggles that they face, together. 

Meanwhile... 

Song Luli's cousin Su Xiang is an aspiring doctor devoted to her job and inheriting the legacy her mother built. She is the heiress of Song Pharmaceuticals, but when her older adoptive brother returns from four years of Medical school, she must confront the blooming feelings she harbours for him. 

Until next time, and hopefully, I succeed.

What happens if the person you thought you hated the most turned out to be the one who loves you ceaselessly, unconditionally, and passionately? 

Status: Completed

...

Xue Guangli was a young woman who followed her mother’s legacy; she won’t marry to get above her status. She will earn it. 

However, when a tragedy struck her home, she lost sight of the things she wanted. 

To get her life in order, she must regain the classy legacy she left behind, find the real suspect of her mother’s killer, and pave a way through the challenges thrown at her. 

But when it comes to her mother’s murder trial, Xue Guangli is forced to get help from the man she hates the most—Long Huojin. Long Huojin is an achingly handsome and devastatingly perfect successor of a large conglomerate, but the two never got along. 

Xue Guangli hated Long Huojin for most of her life—so much that when he looks at her, she can hardly breathe. 

Long Huojin, on the other hand, secretly pines for Xue Guangli patiently waiting for the day she’ll let him in. 

***Novel Completed at Chapter 70***

——

“Her eyes dropped to the hollow of his throat, to the bob of his Adam's apple. Her gaze lingered and stopped at his mouth, at the seams of his lips. It hadn't occurred to her what it would feel like to taste them.” 


Keywords: Male Lead; Female Lead; Romance; Crime Drama; Strong Female Protagonist; Respectful Male Lead; No Prolonged Misunderstandings; No Sexual Assault; No Evil Sisters; Detailed Smut; 18+ 

——
 

Other Works: 

Daughters of the Elite (4.8)
A Song For a Summer's Night 

Art cover isn't mine. Will remove when asked.

Staying with Eva certainly wasn't boring. On the first night they were at her house she insisted they were going to burn through as many Disney movies as possible so Hazel would know who all they bothered standing in line to take pictures with. 
She hadn't realized her lack of knowledge had been so apparent. But Eva wasn't unkind about it. It seemed more like she wanted to share something fun that she liked than she thought Hazel was crazy for not knowing before. 
Most of the movies were pretty cute. Exactly the sort of things kids tended to eat up. 
Hazel had enjoyed it too once upon a time. Her parents used to put those types of movies on for her and sometimes even take her to see them in theaters. 
She used to wish they would play movies while she was in the mental hospital. But after meeting Will and hearing all of the amazing things there were to know about the real world, the fictional one hadn't appealed to her as much anymore. 
Besides, once she got out her uncle wasn't the type to allow children's movies in his house. He didn't like the slightest bit of noise indicating she existed most of the time. That was the only reason he supplied her with minimal art supplies. 
Drawing was always an effective way to shut her up. As she went back to school and was able to check out books from its library she tried to draw the things she read about. There were even some guides on how to draw that helped her a lot as she tried to improve. 
Hazel spent the remainder of her elementary school days and most of middle school as well refining her technique. She was so absorbed by all there was to learn that she had no interest in friends so it wasn't like anybody other than her uncle would have taken her to the movies either. 
When they weren't watching movies, Eva wanted to hear more about Hazel's life. There really wasn't much to tell leaving out her juicy past. She was a pretty boring person. 
Talking about her art was a fairly safe topic. She mentioned that she had been interested in it basically her whole life so it was the obvious career choice even though people advised her against it. 
Everything had worked out in the end. She landed this comic job, which looked great on her resume. And after that she ended up married to someone who was willing and able to buy her all the art supplies she could ever want. Will had kept his promise quite well even if it was later than she had hoped. 
Getting here had been a rough road though. Her uncle didn't support her dreams and refused to pay for her to go to art school. He had barely acknowledged her when she got a scholarship by buying her a school sweatshirt. 
All of her high school teachers (except the art teacher) were against it too. They thought she was wasting her brains on a field that wouldn't pay well or offer a consistent job unless she decided to be a graphic designer. 
Hazel didn't want to spend her entire life creating lifeless things for other people. She refused to go down that road, even if it meant picking up a bunch of odd jobs to get by. 
Graphic designers didn't have any sort of creative freedom whatsoever in her mind. She needed to be unrestrained and free in her art or she felt choked. Even working with a finicky author like Eva was far superior to making logos all day. 
The nice thing was that Eva understood how she felt about taking the easy road. She could have gone to grad school to become a social worker like every other psychology major she knew because it was the 'smart choice' with that degree. Social workers, like graphic designers, were in high demand. 
But she was one to take the road less traveled by. If she went back to grad school it would be to specialize in the very specific field she wanted and nothing less. 
She had told Hazel how she ended up where she was now, in what her mother called 'a career dead end.' Yes, she was working two jobs and didn't have the most glamorous lifestyle but she made enough to do fun things every so often like their trip in Florida. 
The point was that she was doing what she wanted and didn't feel a rush to change that. Hazel could respect that. 
What she was less fond of was that Eva's interest in true crime and serial killers was because she was genuinely intrigued by criminology. Her eventual goal was to work for the FBI as a profiler. 
Wanting to catch people like her parents' killer wasn't the part she was upset by. It was how she consumed countless amounts of media about serial killers and other famous criminals and helped perpetuate sales and popularity for those things. 
It was people like her who kept the market for such grotesque things open. Those she truly despised—the people who capitalized on other people's pain by writing books picking apart the sick minds of killers—made money off of people like Eva. It was why they kept doing it. 
She had seen the book on the Bay Area Blade that had largely inspired his inclusion in that docuseries in a stack on the coffee table. It had taken all of her willpower to keep her mouth shut about it.
The series had already started airing and Hazel desperately hoped Eva wouldn't want to watch it while she was stuck here. She wasn't sure she would calmly be able to explain why she couldn't bear to watch that crap. 
Three days passed and there was no sign of the snow letting up back home so she would have to stay here a while longer. That show aired on Sundays and it was Thursday now. More than anything she wanted the airport to be cleared for travel before then.

“I’ll marry anyone who will take me!” Hazel declared loudly. “I don’t need love!”

“Get down!” Will hissed. “You don’t know what kind of people are lurking around in here! Talking like that might get you killed!”

==

Hazel Dixon thought she was putting her troubled past behind her. But when the person she thought she trusted most betrays her, she loses her head and proposes to an entire bar full of strangers. 

Enter Will Sheffield, a charming stranger who decides to take her up on her offer to save her from herself. 

He spoils her rotten without expecting anything in return and Hazel's confusion only grows. She doesn't know why he is acting this way. Or why he reminds her so much of the 'dangerous' childhood friend she thought was gone forever...

Sylos had decided to get a head start on his quest for citizenship. He had twelve lunar months to accrue ten thousand points in order to become a citizen of Vanerlos. If he wanted Eurymian citizenship, he would have to gain sixty thousand points. If one got at least five thousand, the permit would be extended for a year. This extension could be repeated only once but ensured that those with a minimum of five thousand points were guaranteed citizenship. Quite a few applicants had employed the strategy of extending their permit.

There were many ways to obtain points. The higher the degree of difficulty, the more points one could get. The easiest way was to report daily at the Office for one point. At the end of the lunar year, a bonus point would be given for each day one had reported if one had reported every day. One could thus win five hundred and four points extra. Another way, was to take up a trade or profession. There were dozens of options. One was free to seek someone with at least a senior position and ask to be taken under their wing. If that mentor was an expert or master, they would have higher requirements for which applicants they'd accept.

Once the mentor admitted the applicant as an initiate, they would receive a weekly stipend and a hundred points would be given. Two hundred points would be given for becoming an apprentice, three hundred for becoming an assistant and four hundred for a chief assistant. Five hundred points were the reward for acquiring the title of the title of junior associate. One could also get eight hundred points with an advancement to senior associate rank, but that was very difficult to achieve in one year. Each promotion would be accompanied by an increase in salary and rank-related tasks would pay off more points and coins. 

There were significant differences between the types of professions as well. They were divided into three tiers: lower, middle and upper. The jobs that rewarded the most points were also more difficult to progress in. Those ranked at the top were the most specialized and included herbalist, pharmacist, doctor, machinist, and alchemist. Nevertheless, the highest paying careers were in the middle-tier because the demand was greater. 

Furthermore, middle-tiered jobs like hunter, guard, and soldier provided the greatest advantage for receiving missions. Becoming an assistant in a lower-tier profession within twelve months, was easily attainable to most, but the points you would gain were insufficient to even extend the permit. One would have to either be very productive or combine it with other jobs and tasks. Most applicants had opted for middle-tiered jobs and many of them obtained local citizenship after twelve months. Obtaining Eurymian citizenship had been deemed an impossible goal by the vast majority, although some tried their hand at it, none succeeded.

The occupation one chose could effectively be combined with joining a guild. A trader joining the merchant guild would be synergistic, for example. It would facilitate job completion, provide a professional network and bonus points for each fulfilled task. Nonetheless, it was up to the aspiring citizen make their choice. Some took risks and elected to be strategic and creative with their job and guild selection. Joining several guilds or combining different jobs could also exponentially raise the points one could gain. However, those who could effectively do that would have little reason to seek citizenship in Vanerlos since their skills ensured their worth in most kingdoms.

Thirdly, there were job and guild independent tasks, quests and missions. Tasks denoted local activities that benefited the town. Unlisted acts could also be rewarded, but the standard of evaluation was not explained. More importantly, good behaviour, i.e. respecting the law, and passing the civics exams were both requisites. Failing one of those would guarantee an immediate expulsion. The latter's reward was two hundred points while the firsts was fifty points. Quests pertained to ventures outside the locality of Vanerlos. And missions could only be given by someone with both some status of nobility and political power. Moreover, they would only be given to applicants who had already proven their competence.  

The ranking of those three activities was done by stars. It went from easiest, one star, to hardest, five stars. The local tasks didn't exceed three stars, however. Some quests could take one outside of Vanerlos for days., Taking them up implied one was willing to give up on the five hundred and four bonus points for reporting daily. One had to truly be intelligent every step of the way and make smart and strategic decisions. Nevertheless, those who were earnest, talented and hardworking people generally obtained citizenship. Since Lord Vanyor the XII had introduced this system centuries ago, thousands of applicants had become faithful and fervent citizens of Vanerlos. A number of them were incorporated into the Hunter's Collective and became loyal subjects of the Loze family. However, some aspired to a comfortable and peaceful life after working hard for naturalisation. They usually changed professions and picked less stressful jobs after officially becoming citizens.



Since the exam could be taken freely, Sylos initially wanted to wait a few weeks. Taking it immediately didn't seem like an appropriate move. However, his conversation with Camilla had convinced him otherwise. He then thought of joining the Naturalist Guild which regrouped the top-ranked jobs in Vanerlos and to apply for an apprenticeship with one of its senior mentors, or even masters. He had also selected a few tasks during his late-night reading. 

Sylos arrived at the Citizen's Office a few hours before midday. He recognized Mérias who was posted outside and went up to him. "Greetings, sir Mérias." The guard's eyes widened. "His spirits have recovered?" The guard thought to himself. "Greetings, sir Sylos." He imperceptibly smiled and nodded. The applicant confidently entered the hallway. He continued towards the central room of the ground floor after flashing his permit to some guards. The Office was way livelier than the previous day. It was filled with people, both civilians, clerks, and officials. Some clerks gave Sylos a quick and curious glance. He was greeted by several people and politely exchanged names and brief pleasantries with them.

Sylos went to the front desk and was greeted by a middle-aged secretary. "Good morning. You're an applicant for citizenship?" The man had already heard of the popular foreign candidate but could hide it well. "Yes. Good morning. I was asked to come here at midday by miss Mirella. I came earlier to take the civics exam." The experienced clerk showed no reaction as he replied: "Very well. Please wait for a moment as get someone for you." He proceeded to quietly speak into an ivory horn-shaped object.  

A minute later, miss Mirella entered the central room and motioned Sylos to follow her. Although the Office was now packed, she still effortlessly stood out from the crowd. "Follow me to the first floor, you can take the exam in the classroom there." She calmly said. Sylos was surprised that neither the secretary nor Mirella were asking him to reconsider and take more time to study. There were over thousands of pages of course material! Was this sort of performance within their expectations? 

Few things were known about the kingdom of Eurymia. Very little information seeped through Her borders. Books, like those that Sylos read, could hardly be found elsewhere. Nevertheless, the stories of Eurymia being peaceful and prosperous appeared to be true. "It must be because of many great talents, and not only the King's Seal, that this kingdom has maintained its peace and prosperity." he silently reflected and felt grateful for Camilla's guidance. "No more hiding." He again remembered.

Mirella lead him into a small classroom, picked a seat for him and took out a bundle of papers. She put the papers on his desk and said: "You would normally have three hours, but as your tutorial starts at midday, you'll have to make due with two. Clear?" Her smile contrasted her impartial tone. "Yes." Sylos nodded. She took out a horn, spoke into it and moments later, a guard came in. She went to the door, turned around and smiled: "Good luck, Sylos." As the guard stood watch, Sylos wasted no time and picked up a feather pen. 

There were over a hundred sheets in the exam bundle with a few questions per page. Sylos did not delay and started immediately. Subjects were randomly ordered, some tested information retention, others tested comprehension. He was fascinated by the thoroughness of this examination. There were even psychological and moral questions. Most answers were didn't take more than a few words, some a few sentences. Most of the time would go into reading and comprehending the questions. This was not an issue for Sylos who wrote at a high pace. To the guard, it looked as if he was quickly writing answers without reading the questions. He finished in less than an hour. "Finished?" The guard neutrally asked when he saw Sylos put his pen down. "Yes. I am." Hearing his response, the guard spoke into a horn and Mirella was back within minutes. 

She promptly retrieved the bundle and briefly gazed at Sylos. "If you have nothing else to do, we can start the tutorial immediately." She proposed. "If it isn't inconvenient for you..." He replied to her. "Not at all." She then nodded to the guard and gave him the exam bundle. He nodded back and left the classroom. "You learned everything at night, right? Did you read through the naturalisation chapters as well?" Mirella smoothly asked as if she already knew the answer. "Yes, I read everything." He replied. 

Mirella put her horn next to her ear and appeared to be listening. "Let me get straight to the point. Since you could process all the information, there is no real need to go through with the tutorial. Everything you would need to know was included in the books and documents you received" She started walking around the room as he explained. "I will tell you this, however. The process of admitting citizens is adaptable. Young Lord Vaner and his father have always been adamant about testing each applicant as an individual and adopting the necessary methods to draw out their unique potential. The rules and procedures you read about are thus subject to change. Do you see what I'm getting at?" She cordially asked. 

A light went on in Sylos' head: "This period is not only for testing but also for training?" Mirella smiled brightly. "You could say the testing is the training." She suggested. His eyebrows abruptly rose in shock. "Could it be?!"

Camilla of Roy fortuitously meets a  mysterious boy while patrolling the border of the King's Domain. Their fated meeting marks the beginning of a pivotal turn in the history of The Realm.

Chapter 31
T-minus
 
The Der'Mo in the Morning studio was on the ground floor. The first time Nom had seen a clip of the show, it seemed a rather add place to put a studio. The same could be said for most of the morning shows. But then, most morning shows failed to get a sitting President of the United States as a guest. 
It was quarter to three, and the crew was putting the final preparations into the set. The show would not begin for another two hours, but everything had to be perfect for such an illustrious guest as the President. The Secret Service massed all around the studio. To even get in, Nom had to show his still warm company ID and be cleared. Even the coffee boy had to go through a magnetometer and have his caffeinated essence of life x-rayed. 
It took a few extra moments for clearance. Nom had not been on the list of preapproved personnel ZLOY had provided when the SS had asked a few days before. Fortunately for him, Kaitlyn had sent in an email adding him on the day before. It seemed that the background clearance had not been completed yet. Still, he was an official employee, vouched for by their contact at ZLOY, and he had been screened for weapons. Nom did not even have to adjust their minds. Five minutes after arriving, he was given access.
The studio was far smaller than he had expected. Unlike its competitors, Der'Mo in the Morning did not use an indoor audience to ham things up. It was a purely functional space. Along two walls, Nom could see out into Rockefeller Plaza. He walked over to an agent standing by the south wall observing the preparations. 
"Hi." Nom said, extending his hand.
"Hello, sir." The agent said, taking it. "What are you doing here?" 
"I'm here from corporate. The show is one of our cash cows, but, as with all things, there is the ever-pressing question: Is there any way we can trim the fat?" Nom said with a chuckle.
"Ah." The agent replied. "Looking for something specific?"
"Nope." Nom said. "Efficiency is a science when it comes to factories and corporate bureaucracy, but not in a case like this. These shows are artistic. Can't crimp down on our artists, or the viewers might notice and slip away." Nom replied.
"Then why did they send you?" 
"A bureaucrat thought there might be fat to trim, so I was sent to write a report. I'll draft one, explaining how this show is the most profitable show for its time slot in every major American market." Nom said.
"So, just here taking in the view?" The agent asked gesturing outside.
"Nope." Nom replied. "I'm going to do what they asked. I'll write my analysis, going over all the numbers as usual. But I have to be able to describe how all the money we pour into this show is used. Can't do that without seeing it first-hand. It's a matter of instinct to know what can and can't be cut, not just numbers in an artistic case like this." Nom said with a gleam in his eye. Waxing fake academic on the pedantic was an easy way to lull people's confidences.
The agent grunted agreement, growing bored.
"Hey, I was wondering about something." Nom said.
"What?".
"Well, in a few hours, the most vulnerable man in the world, with the most vigorous security apparatus ever known to our species, will be sitting on that couch." Nom said, pointing to the center piece.
The agent nodded.
"Anyone can see that you people have this studio locked up tighter than a drum head. It's not very likely that a threat would come from the inside. But every time I've watched one of these shows, there has always been a glaring unaddressed risk." Nom said.
"What's that?" The agent said, his voice perking up a bit. The conversation was becoming more interesting.
"Oh, the windows." Nom said. 
"The windows?" The agent asked in puzzlement.
"Well. I'm looking out there right now, and you have NYPD securing Rockefeller Plaza as we speak. No one can get close enough to cause a problem. You have salt trucks lining the side of the road, to block would be bombers from ramming a truck in. Cops are pulling out all of the hobos and late night tourists to keep shooters out." Nom said.
The agent nodded. "Yes, it's our job to keep threats away. This is a ground floor studio, we can't take any risks."
"What about snipers?" Nom asked.
The agent looked a little surprised. "You're starting to worry me a bit pal."
"Oh, I'm not making a threat!" Nom said holding both hands up in mock surprise. "I'm just saying that those windows offer a great view of the President of the United States. A view visible from literally thousands of offices and hotel rooms around the square. It was only a few months ago that a shooter in Las Vegas blew out a hotel window and shot up a country music fest. NYC may have strict gun laws, but that doesn't keep a man from field stripping a long rifle, smuggling it in, buying green tip ammo, and going to town out of a window with a bump stock." Nom said in a hurried finish. 
"Sir, I cannot discuss security measures for the President. But, since you do seem to be genuinely worried," The agent leaned in. "Not many people know this, but all of these ground floor studios have bullet proof windows." 
"Really?" Nom said impressed. "I would have thought they would cost far too much for that. Plus, when I look at the ones they have in a bank, they look thick like an aquarium. These windows look normal and thin." Nom said.
The agent nodded to the window behind the couch. "It's an inch and a half thick. It doesn't look it, but it is. Back in the nineties congress passed a special appropriation for us."
"You mean the Secret Service?" Nom asked.
 "Yes. We had a problem securing the morning shows. It is rare for the President to come to one of these studios in person, usually they send a crew to the White House. But we do have a lot of high ranking personnel in here on a regular basis, congress people, cabinet level even. We were worried but the News stations, they had to be political. So, we fortified the studios. None can be approached from the streets, and all have barricades. The buildings are blast resistant, and the windows can take a shot from a fifty-cal BMG." The agent said.
"No way." Nom said dismissively. "I own a BMG. That thing will shoot clean through two inches of aluminum. I blew clean through the engine block on an old Chevy Aveo out at my range with a green tip. If I can punch though solid metal, what challenge will bullet proof glass be?" Nom asked.
"Well green tip ammo is one thing." the agent said. "But the difference is that your aluminum block is solid. Polycarbonate windows are made of hundreds of layers. Hard, soft, hard, soft. Each with the crystal lattice running at ninety degrees to the last. The result is a relatively thin window that acts like a pillow. The hard casing layer holds it together, the soft layer takes and spreads out the blow." 
"So, we're not at risk if some nut job goes after the President?" Nom asked.
"You are safe as it can ever be in NYC, when you are in POTUS's presence. It is our job to guarantee it." The agent said with pride.
Nom nodded. "Well, I'll let you get back to it."
Nom walked away from the agent. Over the next few hours, he made a show of observing the studio, the booths, and every aspect of the production. He asked questions, took notes, and did everything a bureaucratic worm looking for a corpse to feed on normally would. 
The beautiful thing about his cover was that a stench of career death wafted from him. No one on the staff wanted to be seen with him out of loyalty or been seen avoiding him out of self-preservation. The end result was that the show hummed along as if he wasn't even there. 
Tom Glopyy was the first cast member to appear. He was followed shortly by Sunny Torkret. The pair were still yet to don their coats and had makeup paper sticking out of their collars. The blond set of legs Du jour was Kelly Blyad. Females had a notoriously short shelf life on the show. She was the last to arrive. The trio engaged in a bit of banter over coffee along with last minute discussions with the show producer. By five-fifty, they were on their couch. At two minutes to six the studio went silent, as the camera started their live feed to the control room. 
Nom found a chair out the way and sat down to watch.
The first fifteen minutes of the show were uneventful. A creative fictionalized retelling of the morning's news, filtered through a heavy mesh of bull shit. Nom had to bite his cheeks to keep from roaring with laughter. Then Sunny Torkret announced that the audience was in for a treat, the most "popular" President in US history would be visiting the studio at the bottom of the hour. Nom felt blood trickling into his mouth. The effort to not laugh at the absurd lies had caused him to bite almost through both of his cheeks.

Death, a Biography, is a fictional horror novel. It is crass, violent, profane, and not meant for the light hearted reader. Imagine living in a world surrounded by fools. For years your frustration grows, and no matter what you try to do you cannot free yourself from the preverbal ideocracy. Nom DePlume is just such a man, only one day he is granted the dearest wish of his heart. Nom, a grad student working as a truck driver is: intelligent, well educated, and the sort of person who always can find a reason to have a chip on his shoulder. One day while driving in Texas he finds that he has the ability to wish death on those he hates. Being scientifically minded, Nom proceeds to experiment searching out the scopes of his new found powers. He begins in Texas, a state he despises. As he moves on from each experiment, he picks his prey to match some facet of modern western life that he hates. Each receive a fate customized to match what Nom feels they did wrong. Nom then travels home to Michigan after initially defining his new role in life. In Michigan he uses his powers to settle a few old scores and family business. A run-in with an old friend convinces him that he is being selfish for not using his god like powers to better mold humanity. The end of the book sees him taking on the leader of the free world. Nom now personifying Death, learns that he has a true foe, Life.Nom will return.

A fiber of connection from miles away...



Our places on this earth are divided by oceans setting us apart from one continent to another. Several countries speaking several languages to understand each other. People with several cultures and beliefs. Different personalities and opinions.

In this chaotic world, we live in called real life we search for a place to escape from that reality. To be accepted as who or what we are. We have found that in the music we sing. In the books, we read. In the movies we watch. In the places, we travel and visit. Everywhere in which we get inspiration to face reality head-on.

We write stories or poems to inspire others, reading the words we weave from our own world. For some of us, it is simply an escape from reality into a world in which we can use our imaginations to dream make-believe or to live our secret fantasies or just plain be creative.

Getting on the web gives us more ways to share and get connected to other people with the same kind of thinking from across the ocean. Some of the people we meet along the way give us reasons to smile again. It's where we become friends, get to know them well, and get so close that we even trust them enough to share our own greatest fears.

I was a living a kind of living death when I found solace here on Stories Space. A place to write, camouflaging my hatred and sadness from myself when I was reading all the poetry and fictional fantasies created by the writers. I found another escape from reality and indulged in reading.

My feelings from my own troubles in life had made me feel so empty that only through laughter and reading could I be free and somewhat whole again.

I made my own heaven in purgatory.

A friend told me to write down all of my pains and troubles in poems or stories. Another friend of mine told me to be fierce in my poetry writing. I found friends who helped me give my own life a reason to continue living again through writing.

Writing makes me calm every time my mind gets into a panic mode. The pains and the fears of the unknown are my muses for writing.

When I met someone who understood me and made me feel needed and loved my poetry changed its tune. It made me think of happy thoughts. I got inspired by the things I saw and the happy memories of my childhood that I could write about.

Painful memories and realities were always there and so I wrote about them from time to time.

When that someone left me I continued writing. The same inner muse I had gained I used to keep on writing.

Then, out of nowhere, I got to know you. I became happy again. This time I got even more inspired and more creative, experimenting with my writings.

I set aside my shyness and reservations to write creatively. I still can't overcome some of my shyness and reservation but I am blooming, inspired by you.

You became my muse.

The man in the moon. The stars in my darkest hours. When at night I can't sleep thinking of you calms me to sleep.

The sunshine after the heavy storm. Where all the dead trees come to life again. That keeps me warm when everything gets chilly.

My own little heaven in my real life purgatory.

Writing...

Rune's Prose & Poetries

LUCID DREAMS

my wandering crazy mind is just doodling in the sands...

it's just me ...this is a collection of my amateurish writings of poetry, short stories, and prose...

These are all short stories compilation a different story per chapter.

WARNING: Adult contents, please be advised that you're reading EROTICA


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
RuneMcGrey
Copyright©2014-present

All writings remains MEG Cabingan a.k.a. RuNe also known as runemcgrey's property.
Don't use it for any other purposes without her permission.

"There'll be champagne."
"And oysters."
"Plus lots of other delicious food and booze."
"Free food and free booze."
"And girls."
"Dozens of girls."
"Beautiful girls."
"All panting to meet the Nordic God."
"Now, we know you're a good husband."
"A very good husband."
"In fact, probably a model husband."
"Still, you could probably use some admiration."
"And adoration."
"And fornication."
"Everybody can."
"Oh yes, and there'll be this hot new band – The Sunshine Kids."
"You probably heard them on the radio, performing in the breaks between the commercials."
"Some of which were probably art-directed by yourself."
"Well?"

 The Glitter Twins – also known as John and Jim Robinson – grinned at me from inside their Italian suits. They were very big on corporate fun; their vaudeville cross-talk routine was developed because of this overwhelming desire to please everyone and everybody. Once, they'd even brought an ukulele to a presentation, and attempted to perform a proposed advertising jingle in front of a roomful of suits; that was when people started calling them the Glitter Twins. The clients loved them. Everybody else hated them. Well, not everybody else; they were account directors now, and rumor had it that before long they would be anointed as account group directors.

"I can't come, guys," I told them. "Donna has a company Christmas thing too tonight, and someone's got to take care of the baby."
"Ah, the baby."
"Oh, baby, baby."
"Oh, baby, baby, bay."

 They got up, strumming imaginary guitars and grinning wider than ever. Jim or John (I couldn't tell them apart) slipped out of my office. John or Jim made as if to leave, then stopped, turned to me.

"Try to come, Oscar," he said softly. "It would be good if you came." He looked serious for a brief moment; then he rearranged his features into the usual mask, and left.

 So: you know my name is Oscar, Oscar Hansen. I'm an advertising art director. I wanted to be a painter, but I became an advertising art director because I had to make a living, like everyone else. Painters who actually paint usually can't make a living, and only a very few can make art.

 I'm thirty two years old, married to a Donna. Her name is Donna, and she is a Donna. She has long black hair, big sad dark eyes, and a wide red mouth; she is suitably willowy, though not very tall. We don't have children, but about a year ago, I made up this lie that we had a daughter. It just happened, just like that. One moment I wanted to take the afternoon off – I was having a really grotty day – the next I was telling the secretary that my daughter was having a fit in her expensive day care, and that I had to go, right away. I wanted to set the record straight later, but I couldn't. Everyone at the office was suddenly looking at me with new respect. It was nice, and also I found that having a kid and a working wife was the right setup to have if you wanted time off in a hurry.

 It was four o'clock, and I had nothing more to do that day, nothing that couldn't wait till tomorrow. I swiveled round in my chair and picked up the phone and called Rapid Taxi, and asked for Joe, my childhood buddy Joe, the guy I used to play cops-and-robbers with.

"Joe," I said, when he came on the line, "Can you do the usual?"
"I got twenty assholes waiting for cabs," he said.
"Well I want a cab too."
"Asshole." He hung up.

 I hung up too, got up, and went to the can with a slow, deliberate step. On the way I caught a glimpse of the Glitter Twins. They were knocking on an open door, grinning at each other. The door belonged to the office that belonged to my partner, Tad. Tad had once wanted to be a writer, but he became a copywriter because he had to make a living, and – as he confided to me one beer-sodden evening – he couldn't make art. We got on together famously, me and Tad. We talked only when it was absolutely necessary because of the job, and gave each other maximum slack.

 The company can was just around the corner from my office, and mercifully it was empty. I combed my hair twice, inspected my teeth, and ran a quick scan of things in general. And then, probably because I was in the can – there's something about the place that invites introspection and reflection – I started thinking about me and Donna. Things weren't well there. They weren't simple, either. They never are when there's guilt on both sides.

 I spent two more minutes in the can, repeatedly glancing at my watch. Then I walked out and took the long route back to my room, past the main secretarial desk. The secretary – the constantly smiling Paula Johnson – wasn't there. She smiled at everyone as often as she possibly could, and possibly she had a good reason; rumour had it she was snitching for Schutz, the managing director of our ad agency. I made a long detour so that I could walk past Daphne, our red-haired receptionist, in a seemingly preoccupied and professional manner.

"Oscar," she sang out, thanks God, and waved a pink slip at me. I unrolled it, looked, frowned.
"My daughter's sick again," I told Daphne.
"Your little daughter."
"My little daughter, oh yes. Very little."
 She grimaced and bent over her log, her spybook. I noticed a little pile of what looked like cab slips next to her elbow.
"Are these –?"
"Oh yes. It's for the party tonight. Don't drink and drive."
"Absolutely," I said, reaching out.

 The street was speckled with Christmas lights and decorations that became gaudier with every minute, as the day died. I inhaled the cold, clammy air; solitary snowflakes fell heavily onto the pavement and onto my shoulders. A smudge of orange intruded from the left – Rapid Taxi. Good old Joe. If you know a good old Joe, life is so much easier.

 I settled down in the smelly, creaky interior and gave the appropriate directions. I have a car – or rather we have a car, me and Donna. We share it – I usually get it two days in a week (the exact days differ). Life is nice then, because our car is a big BMW. Things are quite pleasant even when I'm stuck in the morning traffic jam, with a steaming styrofoam-cupped coffee clipped to the dash and a guy doing his best to entertain me on the radio. The other three days a week are hell. We live as close to the suburbs as you can without actually living in the suburbs. Getting to work involves a bus and a fucking train. A lot of the perfumed people I meet therein don't wash in the morning. There are legions of the unwashed in my city, even though it deems itself a world-class city, and the area I live in – an upscale, world-class area. It must be that the world is unwashed, as a whole.

 But now I was riding along in a cab, and the company was paying for the long ride. I enjoyed the approaching headlights slashing across the windscreen, lighting up the thickening snow; I even got used to the smell. It wasn't a dirty smell, but –
"Nice smell you've got in the cab," I said. "Air freshener?"
"And Mister Clean." He guffawed and bent over the wheel.
"What?"
"Mr. Clean. You know." He paused to negotiate an intersection with sure, flat slaps of the steering wheel. "Hope you don't mind my telling you this," he said, "But a guy threw up all over the back seat earlier today. Started the party early. But I scrubbed everything real careful with Mister Clean. Including the cracks, heh-heh." I wished I knew how to levitate.
"It's very important to wash in the cracks," I said.
"Yah. Heh-heh."

 The driveway was marked by fresh tracks, squeezed black into the thin, melting snow. A light was on upstairs. I tipped the honest driver and weaved along the flagstones to the front door. I don't like this weaving path. I used to cut across on a regular basis, but Donna forbade this. She cares about the grass.

 The house still smelled faintly of paint and synthetic carpet, and it was empty. I knew that without trudging up the staircase, without removing my shoes. I took them off anyway, shed my jacket, and got rid of the fucking tie. I soft-socked it to the booze cupboard and poured a drink. After a while, I poured another. Donna was still absent. She was in her world, a world of professionals dealing with failed love. Donna is a very good divorce lawyer. She specializes in getting minimal settlements for guilty husbands. A long time ago, when I still had my very own Mustang, I drove round to someone else's cheap, ground level law office and watched Donna work.

 I stood half-hidden behind a street lamp post, feeling like an idiot; the blinds in the window were up, but a cleverly placed potted cactus obscured the face of her client. I got a good look at Donna, though. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun; her wide mouth was pursed in solemn concern. Her hand held a pen as if it was a scalpel, the paper beneath – an unsuspecting body. I understood then how she got wronged, furious women to shrink their claims. She'd say yes, he's wrong and you're right, but being right carries a price too. They'd look at her and agree, as they had to.

 Donna owns everything; I don't own a damn. My money pays for the bills – we have an ever-increasing amount of ever-growing bills – and the weekend shopping sprees at the local plaza (very upscale: a fountain masquerading as a waterfall, tons of plants in ceramic tubs, guys and gals in fancy dress smiling as if their life depended on it - maybe it does - while pushing assorted flyers and leaflets into your hands; donation boxes for at least three different charities on each checkout counter; and let's not forget the string quartet serenading the shoppers - two  string quartets and a choir at Christmas. In short, everything one can think of to make the act of spending money - consuming - a moral experience).

 When Donna and I moved in together, I covered rent, the car, and entertainment, and she got the groceries and the bills. Now it's the other way around, and she goes to Christmas parties without waiting for me to tell her I'm not going to mine. You might say I've got plenty of material for deep thinking sessions in the office can.

 We'd met at a Christmas party, several years earlier. It wasn't a corporate get-together, but a friendly booze-up thrown by my neighbours, a married couple who were increasingly worried by my single state. Donna was invited to meet me and another unmarried holdout, a rich real estate agent called Frank Mahoney. Frank Mahoney habitually has tufts of hair sticking out of his nose, a pot belly, and a beery laugh, while I, as John and Jim Robinson have observed, I am a Nordic god. Donna looked like a Barbarian princess in artistically torn suede and net stockings; we hit it off at once, while Frank pensively dipped his nosehair in large glasses of whisky.

 Donna and I got married on a rainy May day; her Hispanic aunt observed, mystically, that rain on a wedding day meant plenty of married good luck. I changed jobs for a 50% raise three months later. In September we bought a house in a new housing development. The developer had used a talented architect, and the house – a two-storey affair of grey brick, black slates, and white window frames – looked good inside and out. I didn't like the synthetic bluish-grey carpeting everywhere, but Donna did, and she was totally won over by the Italian kitchen. She thought she'd be doing a lot of cooking, just two years back. But our married good luck continued unabated – she got promoted, changed jobs, got promoted again, and now she was working eighty hour weeks and pulling in well over a hundred grand a year. You can't deal with cooking when you make money like that.

 It was good she did. My own job situation was - let's call it insecure. They were firing people left, right, and centre in all the ad agencies in the city. I'd heard that S&S Unlimited bodybagged six media and four creative people just the other week. And you could feel it, you could feel it every day, cruising down the corridor – there would be this waft of cold air on your neck in spite of all the expensive air-conditioning, and if you looked quickly enough you'd see a door closing, a shadow disappearing around a corner, someone quickly averting their eyes.

 Night had fallen; the pool of light from the standing lamp turned a bright yellow. I stopped pacing around the room and went upstairs for a long shower. I caught a whiff of perfume when I entered the bathroom. There was a thin trail of talcum powder near the basin's pedestal, and a few drops of hairspray frozen in the corner of the mirror. I felt a tug of jealousy at the thought of Donna making herself pretty for other people and squinted at my reflection, suddenly ashamed of my thoughts, my nakedness, and at the way things were going with me and Donna. She had written me a couple of love notes on the mirror soon after we'd started living together. I should have felt happy, but instead I felt embarrassed. To start with, I'm uncomfortable with the mirror: I know the man inside is no Nordic god. Also, the very thought of my writing a note like that practically made me gag. I regretted feeling that way, and actually forced myself to think about writing Donna back, so to speak. But I couldn't very well use lipstick, and once I started thinking about writing materials (shaving foam? No, it would run. Soapy finger? No, it would simply look as if the mirror was dirty) the whole thing ceased to have anything in common with love, etcetera, and became like art-directing an ad. So I dropped it and became embarrassed instead, and eventually Donna became embarrassed too, and there were no more love notes.

 I took a very short shower and went to the bedroom to dress in something comfortable, and found the kind of note Donna and I wrote each other nowadays. She'd gone to her Christmas party; she hoped I'd enjoy mine.
 I reached for the phone.
"Joe," I said, when he came on the line, "I need a cab."

NOTICE
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https://www.webnovel.com/book/15514503505719105
If you are reading it at a different site, it has been copied and reproduced without the author's consent. The owner of that site is a thief.

What do you do when you've just lost your job, your wife, your home?
The answer is simple: you go looking for treasure in Africa.
NOTE: This is a completed novel I wrote a long time ago.

I messaged lee Jong suk that I signed the contract and he came online I was like bad timing. he was typing then his message came "that's nice now I can finally meet you" I was kinda shocked for what he wrote " finally can meet you"
one month later
I cannot believe that I can speak korean so well and I learnt it within a month and tomorrow is my flight to korea.
After 16 hours 
it was really a long flight and I'm so tired there were so many people who were my fans and they surrounded me luckily my guards were able to take me out from that crowd. I was welcomed very nicely at the hotel, I went inside my room took a shower and slept. next morning my manager came and wake me up in the morning saying that I have to get ready and meet the director of the drama I am so tired I dont even want to get out of the bed so I got out of my bed took shower and wore my clothes I wore black jeans on top of that white tshirt with black leather jacket, I reached the site met the director and he was explaining me about the drama ( love you with heart) since it is my first kdrama all of a sudden I heard "annyeonghaseyo" I turned to see who it was....
.
.
.
.
I turned to see who it was and it was lee Jong suk I know him since I have seen his photos on insta he was looking very hot and handsome in person. I don't know why he looks like my best friend who was with me when I was in 6th grade and he belonged to Korea because his dad is a Korean and his mom belonged to NYC and we became so close that we promised to marry each other in future but when I was in 10th he disappeared and never came back this is the reason why I am single at the age of 26.
Jong suk was wearing blue skin fitted jeans on top of that white tshirt with blue denim jacket with sunglasses omg all of a sudden my heart started to beat faster and I don't know why I was looking at him then the director snapped his fingers and I realized that we were discussing about the drama.
Jong suk came towards me and said hi ashley Anderson, hi I said we both sat for the dialogue practice Jong suk was sitting beside me and said you look more beautiful in person, thanks I said while blushing 
After 1 hour 
the dialogue practice was over I left the office my manager was waiting for me inside the car outside the office as I was going I said bye to Jong suk and I didn't saw the stone lying on the ground I tripped and fell into jong suk's arms
.
.
.
.
.
TO BE CONTINUED 
I HOPE THAT YOU ARE LIKING MY STORY IF YES THEN PLEASE GIVE THSI STORY A LIKE BECAUSE THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING A STORY.

I am sitting the game system, in discord...  I just need suggestions cuz my brain is closed... PLZ HELP!  
I finished writing the basics of the EXP system, and now stuck in the elemental system (almost done, but need some creative ideas!) 

After I finish writing the new game system, I will proceed with the re-write... so the more you help me, the faster I can start writing!  (Discord Link both in comments and in writer's note!)

Voidne is the unluckiest person in the world.  Just like his mother, he needs to work 5 times harder than normal people, just to achieve the same thing.

But one day the unlucky Voidne crossed through a wormhole by a mistake, that sent him into a parallel universe to occupy the body of the Voidne from that universe.

The new parallel universe was more advanced, and a new game was about to get released.  It was a VRMMORPG, that is going to be super popular.  Even companies were going to fight over occupying this game.

Voidne who was the unluckiset person in the world, is now the luckiest person in the world...  

See how Voidne's life will change!

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