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?

365 days, 365 scenes.
Battles among supreme beings.
Poems about losing love.
Dragons showing mercy.
Kids stumbling upon magic.

This journey involves my answering of 365 creative writing prompts in a desperate bid to overcome my laziness.
The prompts come from https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/ and I write one a day.

THE SITUATION RIGHT NOW: I've gotten over the majority of my laziness. I'm unlikely to update this much. It's pretty much complete. The novel I'm working on is Dark Seas Leading Demise

During the entire shoot, the cameraman was holed up in his corner, cradling the gaming helmet. He used his bracelet to adjust the angle of the camera.
Fang Zhao just sat there writing. Initially, the cameraman had thought that Fang Zhao was posing. No wonder he starred in "Founding Era." That's some serious acting chops.
But eventually, the cameraman realized that Fang Zhao was actually writing. He was curious what Fang Zhao was writing, but he was hesitant to zoom in. Most artists didn't like voyeurs when they were immersed in the creative process.
The curly-haired dog stuck out its neck and glanced over at its owner.
The notebook spread open on Fang Zhao's desk was filled with words and all sorts of symbols and lines, but the cameraman couldn't understand a thing.
Not a single word.
After a few embarrassed chuckles, the cameraman reluctantly parted with the gaming helmet and packed his gear.
On the way back to the TV station, the cameraman shared his thoughts about the shoot with his colleagues.
"Fang Zhao's dog is vicious!"
"Doesn't he have a small dog?" one of his colleagues asked.
"It is a small dog, but now I know—the smaller the dog, the meaner it is!"
"Maybe it's leery of outsiders. Did it bite you?"
"No, but there's a saying from the Old Era that makes a lot of sense: 'Biting dogs don't bark.' It didn't bark, so it's definitely the biting kind. It kept staring at me. What a scary gaze. I'm thinking if Fang Zhao hadn't been around, it would have attacked me."
"Hahaha, so were you scared shitless during the entire shoot?"
"Yeah, but thank God there was a limited-edition gaming helmet to keep me company, hehehe."
While the cameraman was discussing the limited-edition gaming helmet with his colleagues, Curly Hair was already dragging the helmet back into the cabinet.
A puzzled Nanfeng looked on and asked Fang Zhao, "Boss, so Curly Hair likes gaming helmets?"
"Yep." Fang Zhao slammed his notebook shut, but he didn't put it away. It remained on his desk so he could edit his score in the evening. He had been inspired by the footage the documentary crew had shown him today.
Seeing as Fang Zhao had no intention of elaborating, Nanfeng moved on, asking about preparations for the awards ceremony.
"Boss, are you really going to wear that outfit on the red carpet?"
As far as Nanfeng was concerned, the outfit Fang Zhao had picked was too plain. It didn't stand out. Nanfeng had attended many awards ceremonies. Some celebrities were dressed unremarkably at first glance, but on closer scrutiny, there was a certain extravagance to their outfits. It was stealth posturing, to put it bluntly.
The celebrities attending the presentation ceremony weren't going to dress plainly. What a great opportunity for exposure it was. There would be so many people attending. How would they boost their popularity if they didn't wear something special that became a topic of discussion?
But the presentation ceremony Fang Zhao was going to attend this time wasn't of the pure entertainment variety. It was very high class. Nanfeng didn't have much in the way of precedents to work with. He didn't feel confident about this judgment and wanted to confer with Fang Zhao.
"There is no red carpet at the presentation ceremony for the Galaxy Awards," Fang Zhao responded.
As an elder in the arts world once put it: "They didn't need a red carpet to shine." 
Serious artists didn't care about things like that. They also weren't into ostentatious displays, which they considered too crass.
"No... no red carpet?" Nanfeng was disappointed, but he quickly found his composure. His job posed many new challenges, and he intended to take them seriously. 
Yan Biao and Zuo Yu were still taking their bodyguard classes. Nanfeng hadn't signed up. He had rented a room on campus close to his boss's room so he could be at Fang Zhao's beck and call. That way he could do his job efficiently and minimize intrusions to his boss's personal life.
After dinner, Fang Zhao started editing the song he had composed in the afternoon.
There had been a large element of luck in the four chapters of the "100-Year Period of Destruction" series becoming the key to curing the Hull virus, but there had been a certain inevitability to that luck too.
Fate worked in magical ways. Even Fang Zhao, who had endured the 100-year Period of Destruction, hadn't expected this added bonus.
The reason the Galaxy Awards selection panel had decided to make an exception and name Fang Zhao a Supernova winner was to send the message that music wasn't just a form of recreation or entertainment. It could also save lives. 
At 11 p.m., Fang Zhao sent the edited piece to the director of the documentary about the Hull virus.
After the interview, the director had a brief chat with Fang Zhao. It was also the director who had showed him the footage of the Hull virus patients his team had compiled.
On the spur of the moment, the director had jokingly asked Fang Zhao, "Wanna compose a new piece? I'll stick it in the documentary."
"Sure," Fang Zhao had responded.
While Fang Zhao was sending the director his score, the director was on a videoconference call with an old collaborator.
"What the station chief means is that they want to promote this documentary heavily. Curing the Hull virus is something beneficial to all of mankind. It's a rare topic to come by, so of course we need to make the most out of it. The production values must be meticulous. As for the score, we're counting on you, Old Jo."
Anyone in the business knew that an excellent score that meshed well with the film had a big impact on viewers. It would enhance the appeal of the documentary significantly.
The Old Jo the director had referred to was a famed musician and composer of film scores. He was in his 80s. In the New Era, when life expectancies had doubled, these were prime years, the pinnacle of one's career.
Old Jo had a special knack for interpreting images. He also knew how to help the director advance his or her story. He had his own team and took on projects independently.
Old Jo had been hired to write the score for the Hull virus documentary. He had a sufficient body of work and a team with a proven track record that justified the appointment.
The director's email notification went off during the chat.
The director had dispatched teams to all continents, which were in different time zones. It was early in the morning where he was, but it might be noontime on another continent, so he was keeping his eye on the ball, scrutinizing every single email he received. 
When he got word of the encrypted email, the director clicked on it immediately.
"Huh?" The director was surprised when he read the name of the sender.
"What's wrong?" Old Jo asked.
"It's a scan of a handwritten score." The director didn't identify the sender. "But the score is a bit complex, unlike the ones I received earlier. It's incredibly detailed."
Old Jo's curiosity was piqued. "A score? Send me a copy."
Old Jo was an old collaborator, and the director knew he was trustworthy. He wouldn't sabotage another person's work. The director forwarded the score quickly after obscuring the name of the composer.
"There are quite a few symbols I don't understand. I'm not a music professional. Why don't you take a look and share your thoughts," the director said while secretly passing judgment. He's a young man, after all. Once he heard I could stick his song in the documentary, he got to work right away. A bit of a career climber.
Old Jo often vetted pieces for the director to prevent his team from being conned. Nowadays, many submissions were touted as the work of masters to fetch a high price, but in reality, they were often composed by those masters' students and then polished by the masters themselves. But veteran musicians could see through the act easily. 
When he got the score, the first thing he looked for was the name of the composer, but it was blurred. He chuckled. "Why bother redacting the name of the composer? Not to brag, but at our level, we can identify the composer with one glance. Even if I can't give you a name, I can tell you who the composer trained under. That's why they don't demand confidentiality for music academy exams anymore."
The director served himself a slice of watermelon. He chewed away while Old Jo kept yapping away. But after a while, when he had nearly finished the slice, he realized Old Jo had stopped speaking. He lifted his head and his heart leaped.
Old Jo's smile was gone.
"Old Jo?" the director asked.
On the other end of the call, Old Jo arched his eyebrows and glared, his voice filled with anger. "We've been collaborators for 20-plus years, if not 30, no?"
The director was confused. "What's up?"
"You promised me this project and now you look for outside help?"
"I didn't!" The director was at a loss.
Old Jo's frown deepened. "Then what's this score all about? Don't tell me it isn't for the documentary!"
"You could tell from the score?" The director was blown away. He raised his arms in surrender. "OK, I confess, this is a piece a young kid composed for our documentary. It was a nice gesture. He doesn't count as outside help."
Old Jo wasn't appeased. He was still trembling in fury. Raising his voice, he demanded, "You're still lying! A kid? This type of quality and competence, this level of emotional impact... a kid? Go find me a kid who can produce something like this!"
As far as Old Jo was concerned, it would take a composer with at least decades of experience to produce the score before him. And that would be someone quite talented.
The director froze. He immediately clicked on the email from Fang Zhao and showed Old Jo the name of the sender and the original scan. He circled Fang Zhao's name on the score. "See, there it is. The composer is Fang Zhao, the guy I interviewed today. You must have heard of him." 
Old Jo stared at the name on the score in silence.
If it were anyone else, Old Jo would have suspected a ghostwriter, but Fang Zhao?
Mo Lang, a national treasure, had personally invited Fang Zhao to collaborate on a piece. He had gotten into HuangArt's prestigious Twelve Tones programs before turning 30. And the four chapters of his "100-Year Period of Destruction" series had impressed the Galaxy Awards jury so much that they had made an exception and awarded him a Supernova Award this year. Did he need a ghostwriter?
Old Jo was still feeling embarrassed when the director asked, "Fang Zhao is only in his 20s. Compared to us, he's a young kid, no?"
Old Jo's cheeks were burning. "Fang Zhao... Fang Zhao is an exception. His talent has transcended his age."
It finally dawned on the director what Old Jo was getting at. "So you're saying this piece is quite exceptional?"
"Indeed! It's so good that it should cost you a hefty sum."
The director was delighted. "It's free. Fang Zhao said it's a gift. His only condition is that we don't change his score and that we record the song based on his score."
"You wanna change the score?" Old Jo glared into the camera. "Don't sabotage a good piece!"
"We won't, then! Not a single note. We'll stick to his handwritten score." The director realized he had lucked out big time. He had saved some major bucks. He couldn't afford to splurge on someone of Fang Zhao's market value. He had never thought that Fang Zhao had taken his joking comment seriously.
Let's give Fang Zhao more prominent play in the documentary, then.
Then it struck the director that he could publicize Fang Zhao's gift. Who knows, maybe other master composers would donate their work!
The director couldn't contain his joy. He was smiling like a fox that had just nicked a juicy chicken leg.
"This kid Fang Zhao, he's quite willing to lend a helping hand. He's a good kid."


"Every time background music plays in my head, I feel like there is nothing to be afraid of." —Fang Zhao
Toward the end of the apocalyptic period, Fang Zhao lost his life. However, instead of dying, he found himself 500 years later in the body of a young and aspiring composer who shared the same name. Having received a second chance at life, Fang Zhao sets out to achieve the previous owner's dreams.
Armed with the experience of living through an apocalyptic age and his profession as a composer before that period, Fang Zhao uses his talent, wits, and knowledge to make his mark in the entertainment industry of the future.

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."

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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 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!

I am a 13 year old who loves reading .I thought that I cold give a try in writing and here I am .Never expected anyone to read my book and Thank you to all who read it.I live in India so we have English as our first language so there won't be many grammatical mistakes.We have compulsory creative writing in English so all of us are used to writing lame stories.I know currently nothing much is happening in the story but I can assure that by the weekend the story will get interesting.

what if, your marriage was not your own choice

"Your challenge will be to defeat a new type of monster called Demon Rats," Jin explained as he showed them the pictures taken by his reconnaissance teams. Demon Rat Brutes, Demon Rat Specialists with their various equipment such as the Steam Tanks and the Steam Helicopters.
"Xiong Da and Luo Bo will be fighting against the horde of rats who have come to recapture a town that was liberated by the Werejackals. You remember those from the Bank Heist Instances?" Jin asked, and the rest nodded their heads except for Yang Ling and Ruo Ying who had neither seen nor experienced those instances before.
It wasn't until Xiong Da described them as the human-ish dog…fox like creatures they saw in the WunderPanda Theme Park Instance when it clicked for them. Jin continued his briefing telling them that the Werejackals were the commanding defensive team that would be protecting the town along with some knights.
"So it's basically the same as the goblins, just a different battlefield and probably on a harder difficulty?" Shi Zuo asked as he saw that the Demon Rats now had access to heavy machinery to aid them, unlike Orcs, who mainly focused on manpower to overwhelm them.
Jin nodded his head, and Luo Bo commented that Jin must really hate the Ruby Rats to the point he even created a raid theme all about them. The rest chuckled at her comments, yet Xiong Da agreed he would be dying to kill all those Demon Rats in place of the Ruby Rats.
"Aww Shucks you guys." Jin was being slightly sarcastic before continuing the briefing. "So yes, it is a new raid that will most likely replace the Goblin Raid instance in the near future. Call it something fresh or else people would become bored killing Orcs again, and again, right?"
"Personally, I would love to join the Orcs and fight against the goblins for a change." Shi Zuo said, and the rest agreed.
"How about making it a bit more special, like a cultivator versus cultivator kind of thing with the old Goblin Raid Instance. Where cultivators fight alongside the race they choose?" Yang Ling suggested, and Jin nodded his head at that idea.
"Ah, I did think of that one before as well, but I hope there will be varied battlegrounds instead of just the two raid instances and the secret instances." Luo Bo replied as she had nearly memorised all the building and knew exactly where to hide in order to snipe the Orcs down.
The Orcs did became cleverer in time and tried to ambush her, but so far they failed since the rabbit archer was very creative in her use of traps. (However, she had to give credit when they nearly caught her in a surprise.)
Ruo Ying also added that she remembered how exciting it was to be teleported to somewhere new in the first limited phase of Goblin Raids where they could do various missions. While the current instances were vast and crazily exciting, she missed those short battle sorties and hoped Jin could bring them back.
"Hmm. Perhaps, I really can spice things up, I will revise it when I have the time. As for the cultivator versus cultivator kind of battles, I have already filled out the necessary paperwork, but before I get issued the license I can't implement anything of that sort. The one time with Xiong Da was only possible because the detectives agreed to look the other way." Jin took all their opinions in before he returned back to the topic.
He was thankful that they were taking their time to talk and discuss all this because Another Jins were frantically making the presentation slides as they were speaking. Even the images when the presentation first started was by them, and yet the Pandawans before him had no clue Jin had helpers behind the scenes creating all of this in real time.
They thought that he was merely a person who was very prepared for anything …or had someone proficient in the use of magic like how the dungeon supplier managed to create the Giant Tree in the middle of Shenzhen overnight, getting coverage not just in local news, but to the whole country as well.
The System had predicted that the global news network would pick on it when it goes viral after Day One and was anticipating to collect the opinions of other news networks.
"Anyways there is something I haven't mentioned yet. To make it even more unforgettable for all of you. I've taken into account the feedback gathered in the Goblin Raid Instance and came up with this innovation. You guys will be testing out this brand new feature." Jin moved the presentation to the next slide with merely a word there: 'SQUADS.'
Both he and the System had used the data of the cultivators and replicated highly intelligent human behaviour on the NPC clones they created. Not to mention, using the Farming Humans as the base of the NPCs had accelerated the process.
The System had always been keeping unique individuals that it found impossible to clone for use as followers. However, the Farming Humans was sort of an empty slate, where the System could clone them as NPCs and inserted certain specific behaviour, making them behave like humans when they were not (at least in the biological sense of Jin's world).
They were more akin to Penguin Patsu or Bear Cub One rather than Octofussy, Vulcan or Chef Roro. To call them human was kind of the wrong category, so in order to preserve them as NPCs, the System had made the 'Squad' mates faceless and equipped them masks that were in accordance to the Leader who would be leading them.
For example, Xiong Da would receive a Squad full of Full Masked Hippo members. Initially, the masks would be very basic and more details would only be added as Xiong Da levels his squad up. Yes, Jin was going to proceed with the virtual gaming system that the System and him had talked about during their fight against Rong, The Demon Bull Exorcist Trainee. (This reminded him that he still had to speak to the leaders of JODE and initiate the passing out ceremony for the Demon Snake Exorcist Su Zhen later in the afternoon.)
"Oh? So we get to receive these squads for free from you?" Shi Zuo was excited to hear that and Jin nodded his head.
"As part of the experiment, yes. Otherwise, they will be priced rather expensively. Consider it as a possible premium feature of future instances, like how customers wished to fight alone and not with other cultivators. They can replace the team with their own NPC squad members." Jin explained and listed the various possibilities of having a squad of their own.
"Also, this Squad highlight might potentially change how cultivators participate in Raid Events drastically. While I do not wish to brag, but you can customise how all your squad would look like to a certain extent and even choose the kind of weapons they would be equipped with."
Jin emphasised that it was an exciting feature which he could not wait to see it being tested out. 


In a modern world where cultivators need a place to cultivate or vent their boredom, there are private businesses that set up instance dungeons with the aid of technology and cultivation magic to enable cultivators to train and commoners to experience the life of cultivation. They are called dungeon suppliers.

Xie Jin's one and only dream was to be a dungeon supplier and when his only relative passed away, the relative's inheritance gave him a plot of land and surprisingly, a 'System' Module which the relative had previously used. 

With the help of the system, Xie Jin decided to pursue his dream of becoming the number one dungeon supplier.

Glossary Page:
nodsglossary.wordpress.com


-----------

Discord channel: https://tinyurl.com/pandawan

If you have some spare change, please buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/moloxiv

After the number theory lecture, Lu Zhou went to his complex functions lecture. After all, he was still enrolled in this class, plus his roommates were there.
During the lecture, when the teacher saw him sitting there, he asked him to teach instead.
Lu Zhou started talking about the complex plane and the Riemann sphere. Even though he was not very skilled at public speaking, it gradually became smoother.
However, he obviously ignored the abilities of the listeners.
While he was lecturing on stage, the students who were listening were all muddled.
Only a few people could keep up with his stage. For example, Luo Rundong. Others, like Liu Rui, could barely keep up.
"… the transformation function between ζ-coordinates and ξ-coordinates can be obtained by compounding one of the maps with the inverse of the other and can be obtained by a transformation. The unit sphere and the Riemann sphere are different from the same embryo."
Lu Zhou was constantly writing on the blackboard.
Now, even fewer people could keep up with his pace.
Most people started to feel lost.
For example, even Luo Rundong was staring at the blackboard with a confused expression.
Liu Rui stopped writing, and he whispered instead.
"F*ck me, what is this sh*t?"
Huang Guangming looked at the blackboard as well.
He was not confused because he was not listening at all.
"Guangming, do you understand this?"
Huang Guangming shook his head and said, "Nope, Lu Zhou doesn't understand how dumb we are."
Liu Rui paused for a second.
He did not know what to say.
When Lu Zhou finished writing on the blackboard, he stood aside to let the students copy the notes.
The students in the first row took out their phones and started taking photos, but the other students did not bother to do anything.
The old professor, who stood aside, smiled and placed his vacuum flask down. He walked next to Lu Zhou and spoke.
"Remember, this is in the exam."
The students moaned.
They looked at the blackboard and felt hopeless.
They did not know what to do.
Liu Rui was going crazy and Huang Guangming said to him, "It's fine, Lu Zhou is coming back to our dorm anyway, so he can just teach us then."
Liu Rui ignored him.
He was not crazy because of how hard the content was.
It was because…
He found out the gap between him and Lu Zhou.
…
Lu Zhou could not attend any lectures, at least not mathematics ones.
After the complex functions lecture, Lu Zhou did not go to class again.
There was nothing that undergraduate classes could teach him. As usual, he went to the library instead.
His experience in the library gradually got better.
He refused a few thesis invitations, and fewer people bothered him.
After all, they had their own matters to attend to.
They could not stalk Lu Zhou all day.
This could also be due to the fact that Lu Zhou chose a low-key spot to sit at.
He devoted himself to his thesis.
Writing a thesis was actually a learning process for Lu Zhou.
In order to introduce Hilbert space into quantum mechanics and use mathematical problems to study the motion law of microscopic particles, he also studied a lot of theses and also attended several advanced graduate lectures in quantum mechanics.
University of Jin Ling's theoretical physics department was highly rated, and the lectures were inspiring to Lu Zhou.
Of course, even though quantum mechanics was fascinating, mathematics was still his cup of tea.
Therefore, he used a more mathematical approach to his thesis.
He only slightly touched on the topic of quantum mechanics.
[A viscous approximation method for equilibrium problems and finite non-extension maps in Hilbert space.]
[Abstract: A new iterative format is introduced in the real Hilbert space, which uses the method of viscous approximation to approximate the common elements of the solution set. The equilibrium problem and the fixed point set of the finite non-extension map forms a strong convergence theorem.]
The abstract was the final stage of the thesis.
"Finally finished!"
Lu Zhou looked at the completed thesis and sighed in relief. He then entered the system space to check his mission progress.
Reward mission: Documents read (13/50).
From the mission completion details, it was clear how much effort he had put in.
Fortunately, he did not have to worry about the thesis.
He only had to hand in the thesis to Professor Tang.
After that, he could start making his PowerPoint presentation for the oral defense.
As for the submission, he planned to submit it to the [Advanced Theoretical and Mathematical Physics] journal.
This journal focused on physics and mathematics. It had an impact factor of 2.3, which was not high. However, he chose it because this journal was a core journal and was quite famous.
After completing the graduation thesis, Lu Zhou went to Professor Tang's office. As a second year, he handed over his final undergraduate assignment.
Inside the office…
Professor Tang skimmed through Lu Zhou's thesis and said, "Your thesis puts forward many good points. There are many overlaps between the research on the real Hilbert space and my own research field, but I won't ask you technical questions. Just do well in the oral defense."
Lu Zhou nodded humbly and said, "Thanks, professor."
Professor Tang smiled and said, "Oh, you're afraid of my questions? Remember to work hard on your PowerPoint presentation. There's quite a lot of judges that want to ask you questions."
Lu Zhou coughed and said, "Professor, please have mercy."
"I will, I will," said Professor Tang as he waved his hand and smiled. He continued, "Dean Qin and I will give mercy, but the other two professors might not."
Lu Zhou carefully asked, "Can I ask who are they?"
Professor Tang said, "Sure, one is academician Lu Shenjian from our school. The other is Xiang Huanan, from the Chinese Academy of Sciences." 
The fuck?
Even though Lu Zhou had not heard much about Xiang Huanan, he knew that he was a deputy director of the Mathematical Society. In short, the guy was famous in the field of algebraic group and functional analysis.
As for academician Lu Shenjian…
He was a member of international cooperation groups such as BESIII and LHCb. In 2013, he discovered the four-quark state Zc (3900) in the Shanghai Electron Collider Test. This discovery was named the world's top ten physics discovery of the year.
Although it was a great honor for these two big names to take time and critique an undergraduate student's thesis, Lu Zhou only felt one thing.
I only want to get my undergraduate certificate, but not like this…
Lu Zhou felt nervous.


After suffering from a heat stroke while working under the scorching heat of summer, Lu Zhou, a hardworking but poor university student, somehow becomes the owner of an advanced technological system. With the cheat given by the system, his university life changes overnight. 
  
A Master's degree? Easy. 
  
PhD? Not a problem.   
  
From a nobody, he quickly becomes a huge celebrity in the world of science. With the missions given by the system, he is on his way to winning a Nobel Prize.   

"System, can points be exchanged for money?"
  
"No."
  
"F**k, what use are you then!?"
  
"This system will make you the ultimate scholar, the kind that lords over all of humanity. What use will money be to you?"

Her tears slowly fell. She refused to believe that there was no solution to this. No one will understand her if she gives the presentation. She can't speak at all, because that would only make everyone confused. The best short-term solution would be finding someone to talk in her stead. Then she will need an explanation as to why she isn't talking.

 She took her phone and opened Google Translate again. Then she started typing. 'Lyla, I have something to ask you. Could you take over my presentation? My throat started hurting yesterday. I thought it would stop, but it got worse. I lost my voice.' She sent the message to her colleague and put her phone in her bag. 

 In the bus, she started translating a short message. 'I'm sorry. I lost my voice. I can't speak today.' She then wrote it on a small piece of paper. When she looked at her phone again, she saw a new message: 'geen probleem'

 She quickly translated the message: 'no problem' 

 April heaved a sigh of relief. And her anxious eyes slowly made way for relief. She only needed to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the day and everything would be fine.

 At least that is what she thought.

 When she arrived at the office, she just repeated the familiar yet foreign hello's she received. Her boss came over and said something to her that she couldn't understand, so she just showed the message on the piece of paper she wrote in the bus. Her boss had a hint of dissatisfaction in his eyes, but it disappeared as fast as it came.

 A hand landed on her shoulder from behind. April turned around and when she saw Lyla, her eyes started shining. Lyla seemed to explain to David, her boss, what was happening. David nodded and revealed a slight professional smile.

  He gestured for April to join the presentation. The others were already waiting in the conference room. April gave her USB stick to Lyla. She couldn't help but being nervous. What if someone asked her a question and asked her to write the answer on paper? 

 This time she had to thank herself for her good work. There were no issues, so she didn't get any questions. Lyla answered a few minor questions. It wasn't something she couldn't handle. April was surprised when she looked at the printed document in front of her. She clearly remembered writing this. How come she couldn't understand a single word now? People started to stand up and walk towards the door. The discussion must have ended. And she herself started walking away too. 

 'April ga je mee koffie halen?' What was this supposed to mean? She didn't react and got dragged towards the coffee room by Lyla. Her friend gave her a cup of coffee and it visibly got herself more relaxed. Lyla rambled some more scenteces in Dutch that she could no longer understand. And her mind started to wander. Should she move to a different country? She probably won't be able to sell her house because all the paperwork would be a nightmare to translate.

April woke up one morning. This presentation would be very important for her future career at the company. 

Then she suddenly realized that she wasn't able to read the texts on her phone anymore. When she couldn't understand the news on her tv, she knew something was terribly wrong.

Her mind seemed to think in a different language!

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