Marrick took one look at the notice and tore it down. He ripped it in half and tossed it in the trashcan, then glanced back at Brynt.

"And you were just 'released'?"

"Apparently they have an odd way of determining whether someone should be allowed back into the public. They let me in even though you're probably more ready than I am." Brynt glanced at Marrick from the side. "What are you planning on doing?"

"Where have the police been alerted?"

Rushing, gushing, limping, trickling, dipping up and down, the little brook runs. All through winter, all through summer, through autumn and spring. It always burbles and chuckles, running along its merry way.

Its cool, clear, bright, crisp moisture relief to the weary travler; amusement to the young child; mirth to the day dreamer.

Ah yes, that lovely little brook, chuckling and singing down its merry way.

too long have I strayed
like a ship at sea,
cast gently upon shore
after shore
yet never finding the solace,
the peace that I yearn for.
at last my trembling fingers take
ink, and spirit
and let them run unbridled
weaving words into a haven,
walls with paned-glass windows
to let the light inside.
the heavens sigh, relieved
they will not be troubled tonight
by my earnest conversation
with the unknown.
I have captured it and pinned it
upon this paper
with an alchemist’s delight -

 ...My normally spotless room looks like it suffered a direct hit from an RPG.

...The spiders with whom I am forever making war (my bedroom is in the basement) have recaptured the entire southern sector of my bedroom.

...I have eaten more cereal, raisins, and cheese in the month of December than in the rest of my life combined.

...I haven't posted on Apricot Pie for two months.

...Both of my blogs have been woefully neglected.

...My run-amuck yorkie terrier has eaten two of my dad's leather gloves in the last week.

I stand in the midst of a thousand hands,
Each one writes a thought, drafts a poem grand,
That mournfully drifts over desert sands,
Or tells of the kings in a distant land.

Now some hands are picked for a noble cause,
To write on the gates for all eyes to see.
Now my hand is picked; for with Ben’s applause
My essays and poems with his sense agree.

The Writing at Apricotpie begins!
Hear now our thoughts; here are our pens.

Now stand twenty-eight of our working hands,

I am planning to participate in NaNoWriMo[National Novel Writing Month], an attempt to write a 50,000 word story during November. But I can't decide which story to write. I'd appriciate any opinions or advice, especially since I should decide by November 1st, less than two weeks away.

Skye
format: 1st person

Structure:Two parts

1.Kestrel
2.Skye—after Kes’s death

Opening: Kestrel’s story/dream of the fire and escape