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Old 01-21-2006, 10:47 PM   #1
MalReynolds
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Default My Story

I was born in Virginia, on June 24 1987, at approximatley 9:15 in the morning. Nothing exceptional about me being born, except it was me being born, and thusly, it was exceptional. The hospital had all of their I birthing suites already booked and the maternity ward was full, so they moved my mother down to the basement where I was delivered by a doctor with a hook for a hand and an eye patch.

Alright, maybe that part isn't exactly true, but I was born in the basement of Henrico Doctor's Hospital. It was always my imagination that led me to believe that I was born under a swinging green light that barely illuminated the room surrounded by shrouded monks who lived in the basement and observed my birth, not because of some kind of ritual, but because I was being born on their sofa and they all wanted to sit down... Because it was the basement. Of the hospital.

I had an older brother, the second I was born. He was two at the time, and staying with a babysitter while my mother gave painful birth to me. The second my mother walked in the door with me bundled in her arms, my brother walked up, smacked her, and told her to take me back. If only, if only.

The house I was taken to was situated in Richmond, the capital of Virginia, and coincidentally, the rape capitol of the US as well as the city with the most mixed drugs you're ever going to find. Weed coming in from Mexico, painkillers and other assorted goodies coming down from Canada, and a bunch of dealers smack in the middle of the east coast made for my comfy birth city. Our house was situated in the middle of one of the worst areas you could imagine; I was born, and two weeks later, down the street, there was a gang shooting.

My dad started carrying a cro-bar in his car as a precaution in case someone tried to jack his car. To my knowledge, he never had to use it, although whenever Bentley (my brother) or I would try to touch it, he would snap at us, as if at the exact moment of our touching the bar, the car would get jacked and Dad, for some reason, wouldn't be able to bat away the assailent.

The house was full of strang occurances. We lived next door to a voo-doo creole couple who were very nice and gave us warm blankets for Christmas that I was too scared to use because they were unfamiliar and smelled of gumbo. On the other side of our house, our other neighbor, was a surly cop who had a viscious dog and was pretty drunk most of the time.

In the back yard, we had a shed that my brother and I weren't allowed to touch. It was filled with old Civil War uniforms that were state treasures (now boosted to the National Treasure branch of... branches of old stuff that relate to the state) so certain sections of the backyard were cut off. It was a common occurance for me to be running around the backyard and stumble across a round, reddish ball. These, I later found out, were musketballs from the Civil War. If you ever need to clone that guy that got killed by the ball, he left his DNA all over it.

I was two, my brother was four when the strange occurances began. They would happen in the middle of the night, after everyone went to bed. The chandalier downstairs in the dining room fell. Glasses would be thrown out of the cupboards. The dishes, piled in the sink in the night, would be in the dishwasher or put away the next morning. My mother and father denied to us and to each other that they were throwing anything around.

It was about that time that my mother found a pair of spectacles in the basement, which wasn't paved or painted. It was just dirt. She found the glasses in the corner one day and put them in her night stand.

Upset by the nightly occurances, they hired a nanny and went across town to see an occultist. The occultist asked us if any dishes were missing and to take note of them. If they were, then come back and see here.

Two wine glasses were missing.

My parents went back. The lady said that whatever force was causing the trouble wasn't meaning to, and that he took the glasses for a specific reason. My mother brought up the fact that she found the spectacles in the basement, and wham-bam-thank you ma'am, we found out we had a bonafide ghost that was taking glasses and running into shit because he was clumsy without his eye pieces.

So, why were the glasses in the basement? A trip to the library showed us that our house had been a Civil War hospital, and that the basement was a place where they sent soldier's whose outlooks didn't look especially favorable to die.

Makes sense.

After a few weeks of resettling, after the ghost left, the gang violence took a bad turn and ended up right outside of our house. Some bullets passed through one of our windows and put the chandalier out of comission for good this time.

It was at this point that my father called the police and my mother called a real-estate agent. The next week, we began looking at new houses in a much more liveable area, a small burg named "Midlothian." At the time, it was mostly trees, and the neighborhood we were looking at was a nice little place with about ten houses called "Cross Creek."

The only problem with the equation was this: My mother was a radio personality (as was my father) and the radio station was in Richmond. That was the primary reason we were living in the slums; job proximity. But, they sucked it up and we bought the house with a little help from my grandmother, who we call "Gaga" for various reasons. One of them is, she's crazy. Literally, admitted and cleared twice.

She helped us by the house, and in turn, she got to re-furnish the basement and live in it. It had a half-bath, a kitchen a living room and a bedroom. It was an incredibly nice basement, to say the least. Of course, one of the rules was, she had to knock before coming upstairs because we were treating it like it was: An apartment.

Naturally, she made herself at home upstairs, coming up to ask the silliest and most inane of questions, usually pertaining to a crossword puzzle or to ask if Bentley and I wanted a piece of candy.

For my third birthday, she got me a My Little Pony Tale doll. To people unfamiliar, these are toy horses with real hair. The main draw is that you can brush it and be gay. These were toys for girls that my grandmother had given me for my birthday.

My brother was five and ready to start school, which means that I was three and not. My mother worked mornings at the radio station and my dad went in at 12:30 in the afternoon. He would nap on the sofa and I would watch Nick for Kids, because at the time, Nick Jr. wasn't around.

The shows I would watch were typically David the Gnome and The Little Bits. After The Little Bits had ended, I was allowed to get five jellybeans for an afternoon snack, under the stipulation that I woke Dad up. And I did. The Jellybeans were in a cabinet right next to our piece of the broken Berlin wall.

I have several home-movies of me dancing to various songs, although I don't quite remember that. The next two years were kind of a blur. When I was four, I was a tag-along, although there were only two other kids in the neighborhood and they were thankful to have friends.

Soon enough, it was time for me to start school. School/Acting career. Both kind of started at the same time.

Before I could start school, they put the potential JK (Junior Kindergarteners) through some testing to see if they would have to go through a year of JK or just straight to Kindergarten. There were several tests to see if we could determine color, and various other things. I missed one question (I swear, my shoulder is my elbow and there's no debating that point) so I was put into Kindergarten. You miss 2, it's JK for you. That's the rhyme they taught you.

Within a week, I was enamored with the school setting. I was slowly learning to read at home, and I had a very Miracle Worker breakthrough where all of a sudden I could read. I could read well, and children's books no longer satisfied me. In Kindergarten, I began to read all of RL Steins library, including Fear Street and the bizarre erotic vampire stories he wrote about his son.

Naturally, it came time for us to read a story about an indian in a canoe in our Kindergarten class. It was a good story with confused morals, but in the process of reading the picture book, we made indian shirts. Brown shirts with the bottom cut into tatters and a headband made out of a grocery bag with construction paper feathers.

One of the defining moments of my life was coming up:

My teacher said, "Who wants to be the indian in the production of this story?"

Everyone's hand shot up. Mine shot up fastest, and I got the part. This was the most ruthless audition I had ever been to at the time.

We weren't a group for rehersal, so after reading the story twice, my teacher took the actors out to the communal area and showed us how the canoe was going to be set up. In all of my wisdom, I examined the main set piece, which was a large piece of construction paper that spanned the length of the "Octagon," the communal area. It was okay.

Two hours later, our parents filed in and the play began. The teacher gave us our line readings by sitting next to the canoe, narrating, and telling us what to say in a whisper. I'm partially deaf, so I may have fucked my lines up, but I'm an incredible actor so I did it well.

In the show, the canoe is supposed to break because the indian lets too many animals in. When it happens, we were to lean forward and break the construction paper.

First techincal snafu ever: The canoe didn't break. Well, fuck balls fucking fuck balls fuck fuck tits.

The moral of the story was completley lost without the canoe breaking, but my teacher took it in stride and pretended like the canoe not breaking didn't happen. She continued business as usual. As did we.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!

And it ended. We were supposed to be in front of the broken canoe to take our bow, but it hadn't broken, so half of us took our bow behind the canoe while the other half hit their heads against the edge of the construction paper.

All in all, good show. I had established myself as an actor and that was the important thing about that day.

Of course, Kindergarten consisted of many other days. Since I can't remember them all, and I doubt you'd want to read them all in such boring detal, I'll sum them up:

- A kid named Robby threw up on my math book
- A kid named Jabaree got in trouble for fighting and his bathing suit fell off during Fun-Day
- I was pantsed
- I found out you can't apply tape to sand
- I had a crush on a girl who had a crush back. We got 'married' and she married someone else who had found a frog on the playground.
- I wrote a macabre version of Old McDonald.
- I made my teacher a necklace that she wore in class, but took off every day before recess "for safe keeping" (really, it was because she didn't wear it in front of her friends)

And various other assorted days.

Well, I'm too tired to continue writing right now about my past, so I'll leave you with this juicy tidbit to look forward to in the next chapter:

My first criminal offense!
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"A new take on the epic fantasy genre... Darkly comic, relatable characters... twisted storyline."

"Readers who prefer tension and romance, Maledictions: The Offering, delivers... As serious YA fiction, I’ll give it five stars out of five. As a novel? Four and a half." - Liz Ellor


My new novel:

Maledictions: The Offering.

Now in Paperback!
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Old 01-21-2006, 10:51 PM   #2
JurseyRider734
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Default RE: My Story

I thank God that our house was brand new when we bought it.
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the fact that you're resorting to threatening physical violence says a lot anyway.
Just that you're a piece of shit who can't see reason and instead deserves a fucking beating.
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Old 01-22-2006, 12:38 AM   #3
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Default RE: My Story

I have ghosts at my house too.
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Old 01-22-2006, 03:14 AM   #4
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Default RE: My Story

so are you dieing or no?
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Old 01-22-2006, 04:14 AM   #5
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Default RE: My Story

My house is haunted too. Everytime I am hungry, there is never any food! I am convinced a ghost is eating/hiding my food...and stealing my socks.
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Old 01-22-2006, 10:25 AM   #6
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Default Re: RE: My Story

Quote:
Originally Posted by jewpinthethird
My house is haunted too. Everytime I am hungry, there is never any food! I am convinced a ghost is eating/hiding my food...and stealing my socks.
Somewhere out there there is a ghost who is very frustrated because he cannot put on jewpin's socks.
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Old 01-22-2006, 12:29 PM   #7
MalReynolds
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Default RE: Re: RE: My Story

After a few weeks of resettling, after the ghost left, the gang violence took a bad turn and ended up right outside of our house. Some bullets passed through one of our windows and put the chandalier out of comission for good this time.

It was at this point that my father called the police and my mother called a real-estate agent. The next week, we began looking at new houses in a much more liveable area, a small burg named "Midlothian." At the time, it was mostly trees, and the neighborhood we were looking at was a nice little place with about ten houses called "Cross Creek."

The only problem with the equation was this: My mother was a radio personality (as was my father) and the radio station was in Richmond. That was the primary reason we were living in the slums; job proximity. But, they sucked it up and we bought the house with a little help from my grandmother, who we call "Gaga" for various reasons. One of them is, she's crazy. Literally, admitted and cleared twice.

She helped us by the house, and in turn, she got to re-furnish the basement and live in it. It had a half-bath, a kitchen a living room and a bedroom. It was an incredibly nice basement, to say the least. Of course, one of the rules was, she had to knock before coming upstairs because we were treating it like it was: An apartment.

Naturally, she made herself at home upstairs, coming up to ask the silliest and most inane of questions, usually pertaining to a crossword puzzle or to ask if Bentley and I wanted a piece of candy.

For my third birthday, she got me a My Little Pony Tale doll. To people unfamiliar, these are toy horses with real hair. The main draw is that you can brush it and be gay. These were toys for girls that my grandmother had given me for my birthday.

My brother was five and ready to start school, which means that I was three and not. My mother worked mornings at the radio station and my dad went in at 12:30 in the afternoon. He would nap on the sofa and I would watch Nick for Kids, because at the time, Nick Jr. wasn't around.

The shows I would watch were typically David the Gnome and The Little Bits. After The Little Bits had ended, I was allowed to get five jellybeans for an afternoon snack, under the stipulation that I woke Dad up. And I did. The Jellybeans were in a cabinet right next to our piece of the broken Berlin wall.

I have several home-movies of me dancing to various songs, although I don't quite remember that. The next two years were kind of a blur. When I was four, I was a tag-along, although there were only two other kids in the neighborhood and they were thankful to have friends.

Soon enough, it was time for me to start school. School/Acting career. Both kind of started at the same time.

Part III later.
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"A new take on the epic fantasy genre... Darkly comic, relatable characters... twisted storyline."

"Readers who prefer tension and romance, Maledictions: The Offering, delivers... As serious YA fiction, I’ll give it five stars out of five. As a novel? Four and a half." - Liz Ellor


My new novel:

Maledictions: The Offering.

Now in Paperback!
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Old 01-22-2006, 12:48 PM   #8
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Default RE: Re: RE: My Story

That's kinda how my life is. Minus the ghost, and the east coast,
and the radio-persona parents, and ghosts, and moving at tree,
and getteing jelly beans for a snack, and not watching nick Jr.,
and finding mucket balls in the back yard and some other stuff.
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Old 01-22-2006, 01:41 PM   #9
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Everytime that i am alone in the house i hear my piano playing downstairs (basement, my room) =(

Maybe it's because we never rebuilted it =/
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בקצה השמיים, ובסוף המדבר, יש מקום רחוק מלא פרחי בר
מקום קטן, עלוב ומשוגע, מקום רחוק מקום לדאגה
יש אומרים שם שמשיקרה וחושבים אל כל מה שקרה
אלוהים שם יושב ורואה ושומר אל כל משברא
אסור לקטוף את פרחי הגן
אסור לקטוף את פרחי הגן
ודואג ודואג נורא
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Old 01-22-2006, 02:50 PM   #10
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nice stuff mal!
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Old 01-24-2006, 10:30 PM   #11
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Before I could start school, they put the potential JK (Junior Kindergarteners) through some testing to see if they would have to go through a year of JK or just straight to Kindergarten. There were several tests to see if we could determine color, and various other things. I missed one question (I swear, my shoulder is my elbow and there's no debating that point) so I was put into Kindergarten. You miss 2, it's JK for you. That's the rhyme they taught you.

Within a week, I was enamored with the school setting. I was slowly learning to read at home, and I had a very Miracle Worker breakthrough where all of a sudden I could read. I could read well, and children's books no longer satisfied me. In Kindergarten, I began to read all of RL Steins library, including Fear Street and the bizarre erotic vampire stories he wrote about his son.

Naturally, it came time for us to read a story about an indian in a canoe in our Kindergarten class. It was a good story with confused morals, but in the process of reading the picture book, we made indian shirts. Brown shirts with the bottom cut into tatters and a headband made out of a grocery bag with construction paper feathers.

One of the defining moments of my life was coming up:

My teacher said, "Who wants to be the indian in the production of this story?"

Everyone's hand shot up. Mine shot up fastest, and I got the part. This was the most ruthless audition I had ever been to at the time.

We weren't a group for rehersal, so after reading the story twice, my teacher took the actors out to the communal area and showed us how the canoe was going to be set up. In all of my wisdom, I examined the main set piece, which was a large piece of construction paper that spanned the length of the "Octagon," the communal area. It was okay.

Two hours later, our parents filed in and the play began. The teacher gave us our line readings by sitting next to the canoe, narrating, and telling us what to say in a whisper. I'm partially deaf, so I may have fucked my lines up, but I'm an incredible actor so I did it well.

In the show, the canoe is supposed to break because the indian lets too many animals in. When it happens, we were to lean forward and break the construction paper.

First techincal snafu ever: The canoe didn't break. Well, fuck balls fucking fuck balls fuck fuck tits.

The moral of the story was completley lost without the canoe breaking, but my teacher took it in stride and pretended like the canoe not breaking didn't happen. She continued business as usual. As did we.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!

And it ended. We were supposed to be in front of the broken canoe to take our bow, but it hadn't broken, so half of us took our bow behind the canoe while the other half hit their heads against the edge of the construction paper.

All in all, good show. I had established myself as an actor and that was the important thing about that day.

Of course, Kindergarten consisted of many other days. Since I can't remember them all, and I doubt you'd want to read them all in such boring detal, I'll sum them up:

- A kid named Robby threw up on my math book
- A kid named Jabaree got in trouble for fighting and his bathing suit fell off during Fun-Day
- I was pantsed
- I found out you can't apply tape to sand
- I had a crush on a girl who had a crush back. We got 'married' and she married someone else who had found a frog on the playground.
- I wrote a macabre version of Old McDonald.
- I made my teacher a necklace that she wore in class, but took off every day before recess "for safe keeping" (really, it was because she didn't wear it in front of her friends)

And various other assorted days.

Well, I'm too tired to continue writing right now about my past, so I'll leave you with this juicy tidbit to look forward to in the next chapter:

My first criminal offense!

Mal
__________________
"A new take on the epic fantasy genre... Darkly comic, relatable characters... twisted storyline."

"Readers who prefer tension and romance, Maledictions: The Offering, delivers... As serious YA fiction, I’ll give it five stars out of five. As a novel? Four and a half." - Liz Ellor


My new novel:

Maledictions: The Offering.

Now in Paperback!
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Old 01-24-2006, 10:38 PM   #12
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I'm enthralled!
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Old 01-24-2006, 10:53 PM   #13
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Yesssssssss.
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