ASmouseInTheHouse Tries To Write

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ASmouseInTheHouse
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ASmouseInTheHouse Tries To Write

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This topic is for my various fanfictions (and maybe other writings of mine), mainly ones I wrote for the Fan Fiction Club but never published. At some point, I might post my series about Vance's return, but for now, I'll stick to short stories. :)

I recently re-listened to The Long End, so to kick this off, here's a piece from Part 2:

"Change"
Jules' POV:
“I know we keep talking about it, but I have to wonder… Do we change? Not just…how we look and act on the inside…but deep inside. Do we? Can we?”
I wanted to scoff when he said this to me on our way back home from Whit’s End.
Why should he wonder? It was obvious how much he had changed since he had come to Odyssey. As I fumbled for a quick reply, I realized something: It happened to me, too.
My mind flashed back to a few years ago. I saw myself back in California, where I had free rein, and no one cared what I did, or what I said, or where I went. Odyssey was a sharp contrast from my life in California. When I first arrived in the small town, I felt like I had no freedom. In my mind, Connie was too strict and place was weird.
In a split second, I realized something else: The Jules who stepped off the bus into Odyssey months ago wasn’t the Jules who now walked down the sidewalk with Buck Oliver.
Something had changed. Something inexplicable.
“You always said yes,” I said to Buck as I thought these things. “And lately, I have begun to believe it. I want to hope we do. I know you have, Buck. So have I since…”
I hesitated. But what was it? What had caused the change that I now noticed? Had it been the months living under Connie’s strict rules? Was it something conscious? Was it good? Was it bad?
Was it Odyssey itself?
“Coming here,” I finished quietly. The thought bugged me.
“Jules, I…”
Suddenly, the door of Triple J Antiques burst open. Our conversation about change was left hanging, until we were ready to compare our lives before and after the little town of Odyssey.
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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Carl
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Wow, great! Hope you do more.
Buckles shipper. Visit my Odyssey website at http://odyssey-news.com/.


Trista: Isn't it great to be an indevidual now, not just someone who wears what society tells them to wear?
Jules: But your telling my what to wear.
Trista: Of course, I'm your publicist, it's my job.

~#902 California Dreams, Part 1~
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PennyBassett
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Same! I really enjoy your writing!
"Let me get this straight. I bet all those non-friends of yours try to embarrass you about your love for that stuff, right? So, you almost feel like you have to hide your treasures away and can only take them out in secret on rainy days when your mom goes to the store to get more liver and nobody is around to berate your sensitive spirit. Is that what you’re saying?" -Jay Smouse
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ASmouseInTheHouse
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Thank you, I'm glad you like it! Stay tuned... ;)
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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Carl
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I definitely will!
Buckles shipper. Visit my Odyssey website at http://odyssey-news.com/.


Trista: Isn't it great to be an indevidual now, not just someone who wears what society tells them to wear?
Jules: But your telling my what to wear.
Trista: Of course, I'm your publicist, it's my job.

~#902 California Dreams, Part 1~
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ByeByeBrownie
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I'm arriving late to the party here, but this is great! Keep it up!
Shiyanne Rylie Steele

Buck and Jules Shipper
Wooton is the best character on Odyssey ever. Fight me.


"It's not that we don't make sense, it's that we have a different way of looking at things that do make sense." ~Wooton Bassett
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Marisa
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Ohh love it! Hope to see more in the future!
"Would you like a muffin?" -- Arthur Dent
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ASmouseInTheHouse
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I was going to post this story in the Fanfiction Club for Thanksgiving, but I never got around to it.
WHIT'S POV

It’s that time of year again.
Dark clouds are in the sky this Thanksgiving Eve. Nothing particularly exciting is happening this year except Thanksgiving dinner with Jason. He’s been cooking all day. I can still hear him crashing around in the kitchen, getting the last-minute things done. I tried to help him, but he insisted that I take it easy and relax.
“Hey, would you mind turning off the oven?” he shouts.
I walk into the kitchen and press the off button on the oven. Jason pulls open the door and takes out the chicken. We didn’t get a turkey this year. We would never be able to finish it ourselves.
“How’s it looking?” I ask as he unwraps the tinfoil.
Jason stabs the meat with a knife and gives it a once-over. “Looks good enough to me,” he says cheerfully. “I’ll set the table.”
“No, I’ll do it,” I object. “You’ve been working hard enough with the food.”
“Fair enough,” he agrees.
I walk into the dining room with an armful of plates, silverware, and cups, thinking. The dinner is prepared and the weather is perfect, and yet the celebration feels incomplete without Jana and her family. It’s been years since we were all together.
The table is ready in two minutes. Jason comes in with his hands full of the chicken and stuffing. He dumps both on the hot pads and goes back into the kitchen.
I smile to myself. Here I am, complaining on a day that is supposed to be full of gratitude.
This year is better already. It isn’t like the other years, when everyone was out and about, spending the holidays in different parts of the world, and I was here alone. It’s good to have Jason around. Not having to worry about what case he’s on at the moment, or what kind of danger he’s in.
Jason comes in and interrupts my thoughts. “Ok, I think that’s everything,” he says. He has a strange look on his face, almost as if he’s keeping a secret.
We sit down. The dinner looks and smells delicious. There are at least five different dishes he prepared.
“This all looks great, Jason,” I say.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He surveys the table, then narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. “Are you alright? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assure him. “I was just…thinking.”
Jason pauses for a moment. “About Jana?”
“Well…yes.”
Jason sighs. “It’s too bad she got snowed in. It would have been great to have a family reunion.”
I quickly speak, not wanting to dampen the mood of the meal, “Even if we can’t be all together this year, I’m thankful that you’re here.”
“Me too.”
He glances towards the window, then reaches over to open the blinds. “Well, would you look at that? It’s snowing.”
Suddenly, the doorbell rings.
“Why don’t you get that?” Jason asks. He looks smug, obviously holding back a grin as I get up to see.
I can’t help but wonder who would be outside, on Thanksgiving night of all nights? My curiosity is piqued as I unlock the door and pull it open.
I gasp in surprise when I recognize the person standing on the doorstep, who grins and yells, “Surprise!”
“Monty!”
I based this story off the fact that in The Long End, Monty says that after he catches Mr. Skint, he will visit Whit. I thought it would be fun if Jason and Monty surprise him.
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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MonkeyDude
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Dude, this is really nice! It makes me feel warm inside haha
*Finger guns aggressively*
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ASmouseInTheHouse
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Thank you guys for the feedback!

I don't know how many of you saw this on the Aio Insider, but this was my entry for the fanfiction contest:
Every head in Triple J Antiques turned when the loud ringtone of Jason Whittaker’s phone blasted through the building.
“That’s mine,” Jason called. He picked his way through the pieces scattered over the floor of the showroom and glanced at his watch. 4:30. Thirty minutes till closing. It had been one of those days at the shop. The days where nothing gets done and everything goes wrong, he mused. Gotta find that silly lamp tomorrow, write that letter for Mr. Whilk…call Mr. Brown and tell him to reschedule the meeting…
Halfway to the phone, Jason looked up in surprise. Why are there so many customers in here? He glanced towards the front door where Jillian’s table was set up. It had been her idea to give out free food to people who came in. That day it was green smoothies. A glance at the table revealed that the customers were definitely not there for the smoothies…not one had been touched since morning.
Finally, Jason lethargically reached for the phone, which was sitting atop a mahogany dresser. He mechanically read the caller name, Connie Kendall, and swiped to answer.
He jumped when her enthusiastic voice exploded in his ear. “Jason! Are you ready?”
Jason began the careful journey back to the counter. “Ready for what?”
“Ready for what?! Are you kidding?!”
Jason turned just in time to see Jillian carrying an armload of china to the window display. Dropping the phone to his side, he waved his free hand at her. “Uh, Jillian, that’s the wrong set—”
Before he could finish, Jillian tripped on the leg of a coffee table and sent the teapot flying across the room. There were several screams and gasps of surprise from the customers as it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces.
“Perfect,” Jason sighed.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Jillian darted into the broom closet.
And I already had a buyer for that, Jason thought disgustedly.
“Hello?”
Jason remembered Connie on the phone. “What were you saying, Connie?”
“What’s going on over there? I thought I heard something break.”
“You did, but—”
“Excuse me, sir!”
Jason was cut off again by a lady standing at the counter.
“How may I help you?” he asked, placing the phone atop the cash register.
She held out a pair of earrings. “Are these diamonds real?” she questioned.
“No, that display in the back has our replicas.”
“I looked these up online and read that they were made with real diamonds.”
“The original is, but the replica—”
“JASON!” the phone shrieked.
“Excuse me,” Jason apologized. He picked the phone up. “Connie, can you hang on a sec? I’m in the middle of something.”
“But we’re almost there!”
“Who?”
There was a brief silence on Connie’s end of the line before she spoke. “Jason, don’t tell me you don’t know about this. Whit was supposed to let you know!”
“We haven’t had a chance to talk recently, now just tell me what’s going on!”
Connie began to laugh. “Ha! At least I know what’s going on for once—” Jason was unable to hear the rest. The screech of the smoke alarm made everyone jump.
“Smoke alarm!” Jillian shouted, waving her broom furiously. “Fire! Everyone out!”
“Jillian! There’s no fire!” Jason yelled. From his place, he could see that a wisp of smoke from a candle had set the overdramatic alarm off. “It’s that guy over there who lit the scented candle!”
It was too late. Jillian’s frantic warning had been very effective. The customers stampeded out of the building, screaming, shoving, and trampling everything in their way. This included several vases, a flimsy basket, a plastic plant, and Jillian’s table of green smoothies.
Three seconds later, Triple J Antiques was empty.
The customer with the scented candle quickly blew out the flame. “Sorry about that,” he called.
Jason’s phone shrieked. “JASON, WHAT’S GOING ON?”
Jason annoyedly held the phone to his ear. “Connie, call me back.”
“But Jason—”
He hung up. “Jillian, go outside and tell everyone that there’s no fire. I’ll see if I can—”
Suddenly, there was a hiss from above their heads. Jason, Jillian, and the customer yelped when they felt cold water pouring on them.
“The sprinklers!” they shouted together.
As water pooled on the floor, Jason sprinted for the fuse box. He struggled with the rusted door for a moment and finally, it popped open. It only took him a second to find the switch for the sprinkler and flip it. Jason sighed, half in relief and half in disgust.
“Should I go now?” the man asked, still holding the candle.
“I think we need to close up for today,” Jason said weakly. He surveyed the damage. The books were damp, the furniture wet, and the spilled smoothies plus the water made the floor look like a swamp.
“I’ll get the mop,” Jillian said.
Jason leaned against the wall. “Another fine day at Triple J’s,” he muttered.
He looked up as the door opened. His jaw dropped when he saw who it was.
It was Jack Allen himself, with a broad grin. “Hello, Jason!”
“What?! Jack?” Jason wondered if he should pinch himself. Suddenly, he was aware that he was in the midst of a disaster: Everything was soaked, green goop was all over the floor, and the smoke alarm was still beeping every two seconds.
“Sorry about the mess,” Jason stuttered. He rubbed his foot through a puddle. “Slight run-in with the sprinkler system…we were just about to clean that up…sorry about all this.”
Jack held back a laugh. “There’s no need to apologize, Jason. I heard what happened from the crowd of people outside.”
Suddenly, Jason came to himself. Who cared about a few puddles, some spilled glop, or even a noisy smoke alarm? The Allens were back in town! “Uh, Jack, could we please start over?”
Obligingly, Jack exited. Jason then realized what Connie had been trying to tell him. Dad probably forgot to tell me, he thought. He grinned to himself. “Connie, I guess we can call it even.”
A second later, Jack returned through the door. “Hello, Jason!” he repeated.
Jason splashed through the puddles and leaped over the swamp as if they were nonexistent. “Jack! Welcome home!”
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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Carl
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I saw it! This is one of my favorite fanfic pieces ever.
Buckles shipper. Visit my Odyssey website at http://odyssey-news.com/.


Trista: Isn't it great to be an indevidual now, not just someone who wears what society tells them to wear?
Jules: But your telling my what to wear.
Trista: Of course, I'm your publicist, it's my job.

~#902 California Dreams, Part 1~
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ASmouseInTheHouse
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I've been having fan fiction writer's block, so I'll be posting my older pieces until I can come up with some new ones.
This piece is from Buck's POV, immediately after Album 53.

"Different"
It’s funny that no matter how much our location changed, we never did. All over the country we were always jumping in for a season, doing the job, and then vanishing. And though cities and states changed, the people in them were generally the same. We used that fact to our advantage when conning them. It didn’t take much to trick someone who was blinded by greed and selfishness.
But small-town Odyssey was anything but typical. We went in with our standard procedures, but had a lot of trouble. We wondered why things kept falling apart at the time, but now I know why. It was the people. They weren’t like any others we’d dealt with. They were careful…and even tricky… yet they weren’t deceitful. They cared about each other, and not only about themselves as I had seen in others so many times before. They wanted to do what was right… They were different.
I had never seen that before. And now, I'm asking myself, what made them different?
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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ASmouseInTheHouse
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Well, it's been awhile. :o
A while back I heard several episodes with Barrett and the entire Jones family. Those, and the Rydell Revelations, resulted in this odd story:
(Barrett's POV)
Late nights were a thing.
I mean, it wasn’t unusual to hear some crashing here, footsteps there, and find Emily crawling around the place at one in the morning. Usually it was over silly stuff, like…her suddenly remembering where she hid my birthday present…or thinking of the perfect way to prank us for April Fool’s.
But this was different.
I was rudely awakened one night by some loud thumping in her room…at two in the morning. Usually, the noises stopped after a second, but this time they didn’t. It sounded as if she were opening and slamming her drawers.
Irritated, I dragged myself across the hall. “Emily!” I hissed.
No one answered, but I could hear her talking to someone – probably herself, as usual.
I knocked softly, then, when she didn’t answer, louder.
The door creaked open. “Barrett! What are you doing here?” she whispered.
I snorted. “You’re the one making a racket at 2:30 AM and you ask what I’m doing?”
I saw her tap something on her phone and then fling it onto her bed. “I was just confirming something.”
“Like what?”
She gave me a look. “You really want to know?”
“No,” I answered. “I’m going back to bed.” Before she could run off, I said, “You know, it sounds crazy, but you could carry out your late-night work without disturbing anyone, if you’d just be quiet and keep the lights off!”
The noises stopped. Who knew? Guess she does listen sometimes.
I didn’t think about the incident again until the next day.
“Barrett!” Mom shouted.
“What?” I yelled back, not taking my eyes off the TV screen. I slammed buttons on the remote furiously. Aha! Just a few more points would beat the high score!
“BARRETT! Come down here!”
Ugh. I paused the game, yanked off my headphones, and ran to the top of stairs.
Mom was at the bottom. “Have you seen Emily?”
I glanced at the living room clock. It was 5 PM. “Not recently.”
“When did you last see her?”
I shrugged. “Uh…after school. She was talking to someone.”
“Was it Matthew?” Mom asked.
“No, it was some other girl,” I replied. As I had started home, I had seen Emily talking to a girl at the bike racks. I didn't stick around to see what had happened to them.
After a second, Mom told me was going to the store and that Dad had just pulled in. She didn't say anything else about Emily. I went back upstairs to Verminoids.
“BARRETT!”
Could a guy ever get some peace around here?
I went downstairs again, glancing at my watch. It was already six. Time flies when you’re saving the world, I thought with a smirk. “What, Dad? I’m in the middle of—”
He cut me off. “Where’s Emily?”
I blinked. “Huh?”
He waved a hand in my face. “Earth to Barrett. You’re at the Jones house. 6 PM. Friday.”
“I know, Dad!” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been upstairs since I got back from school.”
“And Emily hasn’t been here?”
“I dunno. She could have stopped in and left again.”
He sighed. “That’s helpful.”
“Did you try calling her?”
“She isn’t answering.”
I sat down on the steps. “She’s probably with the Parkers.”
“I called them,” Dad said. After a moment of staring into space, he asked, “You have no idea where she could be?”
“No,” I said apologetically. “I didn’t even talk to her after school.”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“To look around.”
We got in the car and drove to the school. I asked a few kids if they had seen her, but no one had. I got back in and we started driving through McAllister Park. There was still no sign of her. To be honest, I was getting worried until Dad’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, then answered it. “Hi, Whit.”
There was a long silence.
“We’ll come and get her. Thanks, Whit,” Dad finally said. He hung up and tossed the phone on my lap.
“Where is she?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief. “Whit’s End.”
Before he could explain, we pulled up in front of the building. After only a few seconds, Emily strode towards us. For the first time I noticed that dusk was falling.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, hopping in the back.
“Are you alright?” Dad asked.
“Yeah.”
I raised an eyebrow at this question. “Where were you?” I asked her.
She sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Got detention again?” I teased.
“Seriously, Barrett!” she snapped.
Surprised, I didn’t say anything else the whole way home.
That night, I heard a crash from her room. It sounded as if a book had fallen.
Normally, I would have ignored it. But for some reason, I snuck up outside the door and listened. I could hear some muttering but make out what she was saying.
I tried knocking, but she wouldn’t answer. As usual.
The only light source in the room was her desk lamp. I was surprised to see her, sitting at the desk and still wearing her trademark green sweater. A book rested on the floor next to her chair.
“Em?”
Her head was balanced on her hands and both elbows were leaning heavily on the desk. She wasn’t asleep. She was staring blankly at the bulletin board nailed to the wall.
“Em!” I called.
“What?” she said suddenly, snapping out of her daze. “Barrett?”
“Did you even go to bed?” I interrogated.
She didn’t answer. I glanced around the room, noting the untouched plate of food she had brought up to her room for dinner.
“What are you still doing up?” I asked.
She sighed. “Just thinking about…stuff.”
“What happened, anyway?” Obviously, something had. "You've been acting weird ever since we got back."
“You really want to know?” she asked. I blinked. This time, she sounded completely sincere.
Without knowing why, I nodded.
Emily raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Really.”
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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Carl
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Wow, that is great! I would love to hear the rest of the story.
Buckles shipper. Visit my Odyssey website at http://odyssey-news.com/.


Trista: Isn't it great to be an indevidual now, not just someone who wears what society tells them to wear?
Jules: But your telling my what to wear.
Trista: Of course, I'm your publicist, it's my job.

~#902 California Dreams, Part 1~
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ASmouseInTheHouse
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Thanks! If I eventually write the rest, I'll try to post it. :)
"Next up, Mark Morgan's message to all math maniacs in the middle school is meaningful if you mingle by the mezzanine for a momentous mix of methodological mayhem and a menagerie of multiplicative inversions. Ha ha ha! I bet I could say this backwards. Inversions multiplicative of menagerie a and mayhem methodological..."
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