Storyteller's Collection: Volume 1 of 10 Stories From Your Favorite Genres: Storyteller's Collection, #1

Storyteller’s Collection: Volume 1

10 Stories from Your Favorite Genres

Stephanie Writt

Contents

Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

Once Every Year

A Walk of Power

Twin Competition

Valley Girl Vampire to Save the World

A Future Song

Stranger That Saved Her

Contract Vampire

Unstoppable Force

Flight of Little Bird

Read and be happy!

Free Story: 1st in Geriatric Magic’s: The New York Collection

Geriatric Magic

Want to read more in this series?

Free Story: 1st in Tony & Gage’s: The Junior Year Collection

The Day Tony Earned Detention

Want to read more in this series?

Preview: Love & Jinx

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Love & Jinx: Want to finish reading?

Also by Stephanie Writt

About the Author

Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

Look , I know I was that girl.

The girl kids at school ignore unless they want to feel good about themselves by hurling their unwanted pizza slice at or accidentally spilling their soda on. The nerdy girl kids fight to sit by so they can desk-lean in a fake yawn during a test. That the cute guy feigns to like until she does his paper for him.

Yeah, that girl.

But I saw it coming.

I became self-aware enough at the shining age of seven to see the social-structure writing on the wall. And my older sister worshiped high school melodrama movies, where the underdog girl gets the guy via internal make-over/he finally sees who she really is. Oh, heart flutters and pink fluffy sighs.

You know, reality. (heavy sarcasm)

So, second grade, first day of class, I had allowed my mother to dress me like the princess I will never be in cute pigtails (at least my hair was out of my eyes) and a dress that was apparently so adorable I needed to fear others wanting to ingest me.

Oh, I could just eat you up!

Ronny Baker, who would grow up to become high school track star legend (in the sprawling metropolis of you-wouldn’t-know-the-name-if-I-told-you middle America) sat in the desk behind me at the very back of the class. He kept farting and making Leticia Blackstone (future cheerleader and most-likely to become pregnant by Ronny) giggle.

When I raised my hand to ask the teacher if I could move, my head was jerked back by a yank on one of my pigtails.

As I stared into the reverse starry night of the hole-dotted ceiling tiles, Ronny whispered some threat into my ear on a reek of un-brushed breath that would have made me feel bad for the future Leticia Blackstone, if I had known or cared.

It was in that moment, as many moments come in life that you don’t realize is one of those turning point moments (eye roll), that I made a realization. And a decision.

I didn’t care what these people thought of me.

I loved to learn, was exponentially smarter than all of them (later, than most of my teachers), and the only thing in school that mattered was absorbing as much knowledge as possible. In a couple years it became clear that the task of knowledge absorption lay solely with me. My mother, in all her wisdom (another eye roll), wanted me to have the opportunity to grow scoially as well as mentally, and that meant not moving me up though enough grades to keep my mental levels occupied.

The ceiling tiles did not speak to me.

I did not find a savior between their dots.

But I made a decision.

If I was to be forced to experience the social growth of the students around me, I would not stimulate them to grow on me in any way.

So, once Rony released me and I was allowed free range of movement of my own body, I leaned across the aisle to whisper to Cathy Wiserdon. (Her mixture of shyness and an easily mutatable last name – wiener-dong, among the kindest – led her into the Goth scene where she thrived, hidden behind shield of white face powder, drapes of black clothing, and a creep factor that kept most insecure kids – meaning most kids – away.)

Cathy had a box of school supplies that would shame any self-respecting scrapbooker.

I asked for a pair of scissors, which she handed me safely with the purple loops of the handle sticking out of her hand she held at hip level and out of sight.

Her eyes went from doe-panicked wide of possibly being caught by the teacher, to two giant reflective lemur eyes when I used her scissors to cut both my ponytails off my head, right above my bow-decorated rubber bands.

It took me longer than I thought, since I had to saw through the hair a bit. My little hand had cramped when I handed the scissors back to her. I dropped the two pigtails, still held together in the rubber bands, into my backpack and returned my attention to the teacher. He didn’t notice until after lunch, but only because one of the kids told him.

One of the freaked out kids.

Apparently, I was the talk of recess.

And everyone gave me a wide berth after that.

If she just snip-snipped her own hair, what else would she do.

Unpredictability is a beautiful myth. But if they had any intelligence at all, they would have realized the opposite to be true.

I didn’t want them to interact with me. At all.

Leave me alone.

And I got it. In spades.

I went to school, studied in class (usually not the subject), aced the tests, forced myself to do the busy work they handed me, and then went home to my computer for more of the same.

I wanted to go to Harvard. And brilliant or not, I believed that if I got crap grades they wouldn’t touch me. So, like any brave soldier, I got in there and did what I needed to do. Including extra-curricular activities. All online or sponsored by the local community college (in some ways not much better than high school), so not as agonizing.

Ten years and nine months later, I found myself tracing the squares on my periodic table mouse pad with a single finger.

I had just turned eighteen, legal to run far and fast, away from my restrained way of life into personal freedom. But I had decided to stay and finish out my last week of school before graduation. I needed to, not for a sense of accomplishment, but because even though I had been accepted to Harvard (the only one I applied to since it was the school I wanted, and applying anywhere else would have been a waste of my time), they required a high school diploma. At least from me.

One more week.

Senior Week, they called it.

Couldn’t avoid the twitter of excitement from my classmates as I dodged between bodies in the halls. All light, and arms in the air and thank god it’s almost over and we are almost on our own and it went so fast. All the voices contained a streak of acidic fear. I shared their words (except the fast, which it was sorely not), but truly felt them in my core.

I would be gone. Away from them. Free.

My finger had stopped on the cloth square that read 18 AR Argon 39.948 and circled.

One unshod foot on my computer tower propped me up in my desk chair as the other on the edge of my desk swiveled me slightly, side to side. Habit ingrained, I reached for the trail mix in the faded plastic My Little Pony bowl on my desk and popped an almond and a cranberry into my mouth.

18. Argon.

Argon is a noble gas and the third most common atmospheric gas, the fourth being carbon dioxide. You know, the air we exhale and plants inhale, in lame-man’s terms. It’s everywhere, all around. But it does nothing.

Greek for the word inactive, Argon doesn’t interact with most other things naturally. It’s chemically inert under most conditions.

Another reach for the trail mix.

Chocolate, peanut, and a chewy bit of coconut.

I had nothing to do.

I mean, I always had something I could research. But online tracking said my books for first year classes (early start program – thank god!) hadn’t even been shipped yet.

All the teachers had surrendered to the seniors’ inattention to schoolwork these last few days of high school life had caused in the senior class student body, so I had no busywork to do.

I could jump online and chat with friends (worldwide, mostly scientists and fellow intellectual kid recluses like me), but it was the last Friday night before the last Friday night as a high school teen, and for some reason that meant something.

I just had no idea what. A first for me.

Argon. Inactive.

I just kept circling the little square.

My mother called from downstairs for dinner, her muffled voice barely made it across my bedroom, absorbed by volume-packed bookshelves, rainbow smeared posters of space phenomena, and the cocoon of bed-linens in the center of the room (to provide more wall space for bookshelves, of course).

A little pang of guilt and a foreshadowing flash of homesickness swept through me, followed abruptly by shock.

Ah, crap.

I let my feet drop to the plastic roll mat under my desk with a chill.

I knew that, no matter how I trained my brain, I still had emotions. Unfortunately. And that school and life as I knew it coming to an end had stirred feelings. In me.

I hated the clichés, but there it was. The tightness in my chest confirmed it.

Little inert and inactive me, Princess of Argon (my mother would be so proud of me, finally a princess of something), was reacting to my life around me.

Minute, annoying, but unavoidable.

But what if…

My finger began circling the little cloth square again, but this time with feet firmly on the floor, my back erect, my eyes focused. This time, I thought with purpose.

Because, and the pigtails proved it, I never did anything half-assed.

When I decided to do something, nothing held me back.

I wiggled my toes into my slip-ons tucked under my desk, snagged my messenger bag (as close as I’ll get to a purse) propped against the nearest bookcase, and pulled open my bedroom door. As it clicked closed behind me, I yelled down the stairs, Mom, may I borrow your car?

Social media is an incredibly powerful tool that can be used for good or for evil.

Of course, my idea of evil fell in the realm of people subjecting others to selfies, pets, and random food items. Because I lacked the desire to know the greasy reason why my classmates called in sick to school that morning, I had not engaged in the more common social interactive websites. Like Facebook.

But, that particular Friday night, well into Saturday morning and the rest of the weekend, I lived in it.

All part of my plan.

And as with all mad scientists, I had engaged the assistance of a henchman.

Taz.

Though his personality and look resembled nothing of the Tasmanian Devil as most thought he had taken the name for, he told anyone that actually asked (I being among the few) the name was short for Tarzan. As in I am a human, being raised by apes.

Of course we were each other’s best friend.

Tall and thin, he moved through life like a dark thoroughbred looking for a race and finding none.

At first he balked at my idea when I texted him to meet me at the Bread & Brew, our favorite bakery/coffee shop that Friday night. Said he had more engaging appointments to attend that evening and my idea proved I had lost my mind, and dear lord he hoped it wasn’t contagious.

That meant he’d be there in five.

An elitist snob of the more biting variety, he had chosen not to do the assigned busywork, received mediocre grades supported only by the aced tests and jaw-dropping writing ability.

His writing the reason he also got into Harvard.

Held back when he was young due to a disinterest in school, teachers and parents alike believed (so very incorrectly – sigh) Taz had a learning disability. His only disability lay in his refusal to conform. So, a nineteen year old junior in high school, Taz had decided to apply to Harvard when I did. And, bam, got in on a full writing scholarship. Diploma be damned.

The guy had a way with words.

But sometimes he just didn’t feel like using them for good.

He said the reactions entertained him.

He hung out with me (though he never would admit it) because I challenged him. If not verbally, then in being able to read him beyond his words.

Hence the reason I had his extra hot caramel latte, heavy on the cream, sitting on the blondewood table in front of me. Also the reason we neither made any reaction (even a greeting) when he stepped out of the night shadows and slid into the golden pool of candlelight at our favorite booth.

At the back of the fast-food joint converted bakery, foliage (live and leafy) had been placed above and between the booths to give a sense of privacy; the reduced evening lighting a sense of mood. It also distracted from the bright red and yellow décor they had not updated, inescapable in the daytime.

We only came by at night.

Taz snickered and ridiculed my idea and my plan.

Then proceeded to improve upon it, since I could not be dissuaded to do otherwise. More than one occasion had proven my bullheadedness outstretched his.

So he yielded to help me, if only for the entertainment of watching the reactions of my fellow classmates to my little rebellion, as he called it.

More like a social experiment.

But he refused to wear the proscribed outfits.

Monday morning proved my weekend’s work on Facebook had been successful.

Most of the seniors sported colorful Hawaiian shirts, grass skirts and (painfully and culturally inaccurate) sombreros.

Day one of senior week had begun.

Hawaiian was an easy first-day outfit to persuade all my new Facebook friends to wear in my sudden swing to socialdom, since they had found reason to wear the such three other times that year alone. Homecoming, end of quarter, Thursday; my follow high-schoolians loved a reason to dress up in some ridiculous outfit to demonstrate how much fun they were having in school.

I just fed into the already existing desire.

Fueled by the craziness (oh my god, so cray-cray – eye roll) factor of last chance to go out with a blast, my online orchestration of a week they’ll never forget quickly gained a huge following.

I did receive a few comments and a friendly jab or two about cutting off people’s pigtails. I ignored them, and realized some of the fellowship stemmed from curiosity at what I’d planned rather than true engagement.

So at lunch, dressed in their PE clothes as recommended on my Facebook page (brightly labeled Go Senior Class and without a picture of me in sight), about twenty of my new friends met me on the goal-less soccer field.

Two cardboard halves of a refrigerator box Taz had scavenged from the Home Depot sat facing each other about ten paces apart. Nestled in the grass on either side of each cardboard half sat a metal drum full of water balloons and a metal drum full of water. On the ground around the metal drum of water lay rainbow piles of empty water balloons, and large plastic plungers that looked more like turkey basters, to be used to suck up the water then fill the water balloon with. Such technique had already been demonstrated by a handful of freshman eager to please their betters in a desperate reach to be cool that morning.

(Taz’s idea, which I didn’t approve since the poor wretches hadn’t realized it would do little to improve their social standing, but it got the job done and I had better things to do.)

It took little to motivate the all-out water war that quickly ensued, the sun flashing hot through colored plastic as it sang airborne to the poor intendee soon to be moistened. Which, by the end of lunch, had become everyone.

Yes, including me.

Covered in smiles (mostly feigned) I led the charge at the start, and found myself at the center of the crowd when we left the field.

A strange sensation, to be the center of attention. And of these people.

But the heartfelt promises given by these same people to meet back at last break to clean up the plastic rainbow of itty-bitty carnage (a promise I had made to the principal when I proposed my week-long list of events) had been empty indeed.

A few of the non-seniors sauntered by Taz (whining loudly) and me on our hands and knees in the grass and voiced their desire (also whine) to participate in the events.

Which inspired me to modify the next day’s activities.

Tuesday.

As the seniors returned to the soccer field (many more this time – go Word of Mouth) for lunch activity number two, they met a group of lower classmen also dressed in their PE gear, ready to face them.

In Rotisserie Football.

About as ludicrous and messy as it sounded, six soon-to-be-unbagged rotisserie chickens sat in a quiet row on the sideline. Seniors versus everyone else would use one of the chickens as a football until the remains became unplayable. Then another chicken would be substituted.

To ensure bone and gristle would not be picked clean from the field by only me (Taz had refused any future self-degradation – though I was surprised and touched he actually helped the first time), on last break the winning team got to point out all the bits to the losing team to pick up.

The victorious underclassmen frothed at the mouth to be able to order the seniors around, and skin slapped skin and flesh parted. Not only of the quickly disintegrating fowl.

It was a disgusting success.

Half the school showed up that break to watch and ensure every bit and scrap of chicken had been retrieved by the senior class as they groveled in their loss.

Even I smiled when Sarah Bartch kneeled on a bone that snapped under her weight and began to heave as if to throw up. It didn’t help that when she lifted her hand to her face a big slop of fat and veiny skin had globbed to her hand.

Most of the seniors took three showers that day.

Facebook exploded that night with comments and requests to know the next day’s activity.

I had been keeping everyone in the dark, but Mark Dreller’s mom had spilled the beans to her son that donuts were involved. Speculation about what two hundred donuts, gladly purchased by the boosters club for their sweet seniors (ugh and sigh), flooded my page, with no response from me.

Though I watched it all from the privacy of my bedroom, feet propped, chair swiveling, trail mix popping…

Wednesday.

Most of the school and some of the teachers circled the two sets of tables set with wood blocks beneath table legs to keep them from sinking into the soft soil.

Two eight-foot-long tables covered in wax paper taped down precisely by one anal-retentive Taz had been covered with two hundred donuts, one hundred each. At the head of each eight-foot-table sat a cardtable, currently empty.

Two teams of twelve had been carefully selected to represent the senior class and the underclassmen.

Buried within each set of one hundred donuts, fifty pieces to a puzzle had been hidden. The first team to extract all fifty pieces, without using their hands, and put the puzzle together would be the winner.

As designer, I stood apart, though I eagerly awaited the jelly filled massacre about to happen.

And it was.

Yellow and magenta globs of donut innards smeared across perfectly made-up girl faces in their scramble to teeth-and-tongue dissect each of the two hundred donuts.

Eight people per team slammed face to table in the piece search. Two more per team, one on either side of each table, ran up and down retrieving puzzle pieces from the mouths of their classmates to run them to the cardtable where the other two team members wiped them clean and attempted to put the puzzle together.

The crowd roar deafened me even as I joined them.

My hands hurt from clapping so much.

My calves ached from bouncing up and down on my toes even as I swiveled