There are so many different types of writers. I am the type who loves to not talk to anyone all day, drink tea, read my favorite novels, and eat carrots with ranch dressing at three in the morning.

I also love typewriters.

They're so fancy. And beautiful. And so much less distracting than a computer. So much quicker than writing by hand.

I wanted: 1. To create a typewriter pun, and 2. To express how different we all are. And how special it is to create connections with other writers and appreciate both our differences and our similarities.

Also, writers type, right? So type righter. I mean typewriter.

One screwdriver.

That's the only thing of hers left in our old apartment

In the place where empty laughs echoed through the minuscule hallway,

Where we played tic tac toe on our arms,

Doodled on the walls and repainted them purple

Broke ice and hearts on tales of needlework

Screamed until our lungs burned

At least mine did.

She had used that screwdriver to unscrew our dusty vent,

We inhaled decades of grime, coughing and laughing

We gasped when we found a mouse, dead

She cried when she saw it

A Phillips head screwdriver

It came with screws and everything! But

She never used them

She told me to throw out the mouse,

After, she buried her head in my shirt and murmured about death

She wanted to stay with me forever, she said

To never die, to be immortal

I told her it was just a mouse.

It was a Tuesday when she

When

S h e

I can't--

Tuesday. It was a Tuesday.

It was only a mouse.

It was only an argument.

It was only... a screwdriver.

When she died, she left me that screwdriver

As a sort of "screw you."

I'm with a friend, exploring some dockside town, watching people load up ships and boats, the town is dark and eerie, a shell of itself-there was a time where it was a quaint seaside destination but now it's fallen to the wayside, kept alive by business over pleasure

we leave

i'm driving through country roads

i keep closing my eyes, thinking they are open

i fade in and out of consciousness, thinking i am awake

i feel like i am falling asleep, but realize i've been drugged

My friend is calm, she trusts me. I become more alert. I'm still exhausted.

We get to our destination. It's a maze. I walk in, my friend is gone. She hasn't abandoned me. Her leg of this journey is over. I walk into a room and see a different friend.

Her daughter and mine begin to play. There is a room of employees meeting in the background. I have flashes of driving on 501. The employees come out. They're taking a test. We leave to let them focus.

I walk out and am met with a brick interior. There are others. I'm told I've passed the test and am allowed to leave. I walk out into an empty field. There is gravel on the ground. Train tracks nearby. I hear a familiar song.

i follow the song

i realize i am chasing the train

this is not where i need to be

i turn around, continue on my way

I find a replica of the tin man and it becomes my friend. It is bulky, but light. The weight of tinfoil with the sturdiness of steel. I pick it up and carry it awkwardly until I reach a fenced in building. I walk through the fence and offer my tin man to the people I meet. They are hardened but amicable and appreciate the gift. A woman says "You're one of us, take this" and hands me a membership card. In a different time, she was a Marine. A man approaches. He's former Army. They encourage me to take a seat.

There are school desks littered throughout, and I notice the building looks like my Papa's workshop. I sit in the back right, and those around are warm and welcoming. After a time, those who are single and would like to be matched are asked to stand up. I stand up with them.

i remember my husband and daughter

i sit

i wonder about these weird worlds

how they got left behind

The dream ends naturally. No interruptions. No rude awakenings.

But it feels incomplete, a cliffhanger in a long, plot heavy book-

I've done a lot of things under maybe three or four different names. Some of it more successful then others.

The username is a pun based off my pen name (pun name?), Marissa Wolfe. The pen name is a combination of random parts of my and my husband's names, two puzzle pieces that I decided to make fit together. I wanted something that was still "me", but separate enough from my everyday identity (aka my government name) that it would be viewed apart from previous projects and collaborations. I wanted some level of anonymity, or at least anonymity on my terms. I also happened to see wolves with some frequency around the time of a major turn in my life, so there's a level of personal symbolism there, too.

I picture TheWolfeDen like a cottage, a place tucked away in the forest like a shrouded Hobbit hole, a place that is only known to those invited or found by those curious and bold enough to knock on an unfamiliar door. Inside, there is a fire going, a small table for two, three if someone doesn't mind sitting on an upturned wooden crate, and a meal just about ready to be served. Stay as long as you like for as many stories as you'd like to hear. We can drink wine, coffee, tea, or water pulled from the well nearby.

When I had a website, insidethewolfeden was the domain, and I used pictures of the plants and simple, pretty things around my home to give the site that warm, cozy feel.

How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? As the Owl says in the classic commercial, "The world may never know."

Truth be told, all tongues, levels of mouth Ph, and saliva glands are as different as trailer parks are to gated communities. These differences make it is virtually impossible to come up with a concrete number of licks it will take to get to the chocolaty, sticky, goodness that is the center of a Tootsie Pop. Consider the following examples:

John, a middle aged man who brushes and flosses regularly, eats a healthy diet, and receives regular dental care may be licking that sucker to the tune of a couple hundred licks leaving his tongue raw and bleeding like skin exposed to a sandblaster.

Bob, a middle aged man who doesn't believe in that new fangled science called dentistry, has a taste for methamphetamine, Jack Daniels, hand rolled cigarettes, and avoids eating anything that doesn't have enough additives and preservatives to survive into the next ice age. In short, the carcinogenic environment of Bob's mouth could melt the bumper of a '59 Cadillac. A poor Tootsie Pop exposed to the caustic environment of Bob's mouth may not be able to withstand more than a couple dozen licks.

As you can see, thanks to the varied fauna that exists within all human mouths there is a wide difference between the potential number of licks it will take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop.

This science lesson has been brought to you by Urban Idiot Labs: If you see us running you'd better try to keep up.

It's not even a pretty diamond. Just a crystalline mound, really. Disgustingly large and cut unevenly to preserve every piece of it, more of a testament to the rarity of the find than a show of elegance or use. But if value comes from scarcity, it's the perfect score.

I hook my rope to the skylight and begin to slide down. Ten minutes before the mansion's security systems reboot, no matter how thoroughly my forced power surge took them out. If these cameras catch me, the police station lineup will be little more than ceremony.

I turn on my flashlight as I near the ground, careful not to misjudge my landing in the almost pitch black room. I hate the sound when my own boots strike the tile. It's the sound of a pressure plate, a sensor. An error. Close calls batter one's nerves.

So does the figure across the room.

I choke back a startled noise and level my flashlight at it. But the fear devolves into irritation when I recognize him.

"Oh, don't balk at me," he says with his insufferable British accent and his ridiculous toothy grin. "Surely you knew I couldn't ignore this find, either. Donbury, out of town overnight? An empty house? It's irresistible."

I glare. "Ryker, stay out of my job before I put a hot ball of lead through your chest."

It's the windup to a punch I can't land, and he knows it.

"Don't play, Tonya. You can't hide a body in ten minutes. Settle with me, and you can go home to your quaint little dugout with ten percent profit and no prison. Deal?"

I don't let my shoulders slump. Five minutes left on the clock, and I'm tired of running. If he doesn't bend, we both go out.

"Ninety."

Rain streams down the window pane -

The darkness of the storm rages outside

Broken only by lightning flashes

That match the fevered rage in my soul

Rivulets of water cascading down

As tears streaming from my eyes

I peer out through the pane of glass

Separating me from the storm outside

Black on blackness, darker still

Both outside, and in my soul

At the edge of my world

I see the silhouette of treetops beyond.

Whipping, bending, thrashing as if in agony

The trees shake and tremble before the gale

Primal nature, battling

Played out on the stage of my windowsill.

The wind howls, then does with a sigh

As it seems to whisper my name

And then renews it's raging strength

As if expressing an unnamed pain.

My eyes watch this 'dance macabre'

As I yet look within myself

To find that torture continues

And see beneath, to it's cause.

A scream struggles within me

But finds no words, nor breath of release

Another struggle of nature without,

While inside me, a different storm rages.

This is the first page of prompts that I have for everyone and they will all be snippets of dialogue. Have fun and please tag me. :)

But really, did you honestly think you could trust a traitor?

How many times will I break your heart before you finally understand you can’t trust me?

You should have known, once a villain always a villain

I’m tired of being the villain, can’t I be the hero in someone’s story?

Shall we… burn it down? Burn down your town just as you burned our villages.

“You left us, you left us and you broke my heart.”

“I broke several hearts that day, including my own.”

Perhaps you have never seen the real me.

If you saw the monsters I hide, you would leave.

You created this monster and you blame me for it?

“They say I’m a monster”

“That’s okay, so am I”

She bit her lip hard enough that blood flowed, then she smiled as she wiped the ruby red droplets off with the inside of a pale wrist, “It worked.”

I don’t know how to stop fighting, I’ve been doing it on my life what am I if not a warrior?

“You’re leaving after I just started to trust you.”

“I’m sorry, but even if my story doesn’t have a happy ending I can at least ensure you and your family do.”

I promised you the world and I delivered, I just forgot to mention it would be on fire.

Isobel blinked in surprise as blood dripped to the ground by her feet. She let her gaze dart upwards to find Kyriss bleeding from a cut on his arm.

“You’re hurt.” She said softly.

His eyes narrowed, “You were not given permission to speak.”

Isobel nodded but continued to observe. Despite his bold claims, he was clearly in pain.

Moving slowly, she ripped the bottom of her tunic into strips.

She wound one of the strips around his arm, beginning to bind his wound.

“What are you doing?” He growled.

Isobel suppressed an eye roll, “Helping you.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, “You’re in pain.”

“I’m your guard, one of your captors.”

She continued her bandaging, “You’re a guard, not a monster. You are human, just like the rest of us.”

A shiver coursed down his spine, “You’re an odd one Isobel.”

A/N

This is an excerpt from a story I thought of. The main character is imprisoned in a fantasy work camp and most of the guards are brutal. Over time she beings to notice something different about one guard. I hope you enjoy reading this and I'd love to see input of where I should take this story :)