Okay. After all this writing, I'm starting to get back into my groove here. Now, as you know, I've written 2 other stories and posted them on this website. I also know that just about 99% of the board doesn't want to bother commenting on them, because it's blocks of text and it involves... Well... Taking time to read.

Now, I've got one short story idea called "Frozen Stars" which will be another mystery--- This one involves the following:
Summary:
There's a killer on the loose, and the most massive problem is it's someone close--- But the question is, Who? This murderer patrols at night, but only when there's a crescent moon and only on frigid nights where he slays his victims below the starry sky. Each victim has a number slashed into a body part, such as a limb or their stomach. And, as the numbers climb, the suspicion grows deeply--- But the thing is, the killer will be someone who seems to have absolutely no motive to kill any of these people.... Which constitutes as everyone ...

The short story begins May 14th.

The second story is not a short story at all--- It's a novel entitled, "Sky Child".
Summary:
This novel revolves around the imaginary world of Harold Marx. He's a senior in high school but he feels as if there's something missing in his life. It's not his search for a career--- he's already a writer--- But more of something metaphysical, something not able to be seen by the human eye. Whenever he feels lonely, he turns to the sky and gazes at the clouds--- Every single one of them unique--- the polar opposite of the kids in his school.

This is his escape from the Emo-clone-filled world, the giant supermarket of labels that is Lamton High school. He's fascinated at the beauty of the clouds, the uniqueness, the style. And most importantly, the sheer simple genius of the entire world around him.

Don't miss this, I promise it'll be at least somewhat decent .


So anyway, I've got to warn all of you--- It's not a threat, but after seriously thinking, A LOT, I've come up with many different stories and many different ideas and I would appreciate it if you would steer clear of paraphrasing my work without giving me credit. I hate it when people try to steal my stories, and I've seen it happen once before. It's no one on this board, but let me assure you, I write books with my aunt, who is a famous authoress herself. She knows many lawyers and she's studied law along with her husband Aaron, and I've also studied copyright law. Don't try anything sneaky, okay? Just be creative when writing or doing whatever you do, don't look for other people to mooch off of.

Discuss, if you like.

The second story seems EXTREMELY appealing to me.
*Can't wait for it*

The first one is good, but I'm not a fan of murder books.
Stopped watching murderous anime, too.

I wish I could start "Sky Child" right now, but it's late

I'd change the kid's last name though...
...someone may think of a reference to Karl Marx.

MARXISM?! MARXSIST?! WHERE?! WHERE?!

o.0"
I shouldn't have said that...

I have finished the Prologue, Acknowledgments, and Foreword of the story.

Alek Vincent Bock
Sky Child
FOREWORD
When I wrote this book, I focused a ton of things in my world and placed it into the white sheets of each chapter; Many of the people in this book are based on real people, but with their names changed. All the locations are real, and most of the events are as well. All of the most crucial, passionate, and exciting moments that happened within these memorable years of drama, lost friendships, and new ones. Lost loves and crushes… They’re all here. Harold Marx’s world is yours to explore, and it’s anything but boring.

High school is one of the more ridiculously difficult things to overcome. You’re a walking contradiction; You are still legally below the adult age, meaning you’re a child, but you are expected to act completely mature like an adult. It’s a hard thing to break free from, and when you ask your elders--- your mother, father, or grand parents--- they will most likely say the same thing,
“If I had the opportunity to live my teenage years again, I would have to turn down the offer.” and when they tell you that they expect you to act mature, to not drink and drive, to not do drugs, it’s because they all made those mistakes; The mistakes they don’t want you to repeat for them.
Harold is you, Harold is every teen who’s felt insecure, every teen who’s felt left out, abandoned, and unaccepted. Harold Marx is a teenager like no other, yet a teenager like you, your friends, and your fellow classmates.
When I was writing this, I put my soul into it; I didn’t want this novel to just be another stack of pages that you would skim through, and then leave at the back of your bookshelf to gather dust. I wanted this to make an impact on you, your friends, your family; All of you, everyone around you. Anyone who’s felt out of place, different, unwanted or unaccepted.


This is my ode to you all.

Never give up, even when it seems like nothing will click into place.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS & DEDICATIONS
This book is dedicated to everyone I know. Anyone who’s inspired me. And these people are going to be listed on this page. While I was writing this, I was thinking of everyone who encouraged me to keep moving on, even when my ideas were fading and when my mind told me to stop writing and to give up. I thank Robin Lensing, for always helping me, and encouraging me to always use words to shape a story that would mean something; That would change at least one person’s life. Thanks to Eugene Jeffers, for being the wise guy librarian who trudges on the basement floor in the cold middle office. I deeply thank Laura Bock, my mother, for accepting me for who I was, and my father Stephen for providing unconditional love to everyone. I dedicate this book to Judi Kolenda and her husband Aaron, who read my other stories, critiqued them, and gave me that extra push to never let anyone change my ways of writing.

This book wouldn’t be finished if it weren’t for John and Hank Green, who inspired me to not care what other people said of me or my literary works, no matter how negative some people are. I always remember the phrase, “Don’t Forget To Be Awesome” every time I wake up in the morning. It’s truly a gift to have such free-spirited fellow nerd friends, especially when they encourage you to write books.

This is also dedicated to Diane Truslow, my French teacher. She always told me never to give up on tasks that were difficult and seemed impossible at times: Like French, for example. She’s an old soul, but she’s also very wise and kind as well.

This novel is also dedicated to my aunt Amber, who was always helpful to me in all of my endeavors. And it’s also a novel dedicated to my late uncle Troy; I will always miss you, and I know you’re up there watching over us every day… I’ll bring you a copy of this as soon as I can.

I thank all of you, you’ve all inspired me to do my best, express my stories to their fullest, and to show the world what one single person can do to change one single thing, in one single way that could possibly enlighten or inspire, maybe, just maybe, one single person…. And that would all make the difference.

I also dedicate this book to all my friends at http://www.sipfans.com/ , they have been such an inspiration.

Inspiring one person could change the world, and I hope this novel does such.

Thank you all, you’ve been so amazingly helpful, and wonderful. I hope you enjoy the pages that follow.

PROLOGUE- THE MORNING SKY OF MEMORY
The sky was like a limitless canvas; Each day, eighteen year-young Harold Marx would jog at five A.M. and just stare up into the tinted crimson window pane of the universe. He had his whole future set out but he felt as if something was missing; a piece missing to the epic, ever-growing puzzle called life. The question he always tried to find the answer to was, ‘where was this piece hidden?’.
Harold was different from many of the other kids in his school; He was a nerd, a writer, a joker, but something else that set him apart even more. Harold was gay. He vowed to keep it a secret from everyone around him, especially his parents, and holding in the secret until everyone was out of his life was his main priority. It was an unrealistic idea, but he believed it for so long.
It was now six A.M. and it was time for his breakfast before school; Senior year of high school was almost at his end and college was so close he could almost shake hands with it.
At his house, Harold had the usual breakfast he did every morning; A grain bagel with an egg inside it; It was his treat, and it started every school day up for him.

Every morning he would follow the same routine; The running, the breakfast, then getting dressed and brushing his teeth. He felt like a robot, putting on black shirts with tan cargo pants, and his bronze-rimmed glasses. His long, brown curly hair usually was a mess around this time in the morning, and the brush was painful when his hair was dry.
He faced the many awkward things a teenager had to deal with: Acne, anxiety about the future, and most of all, paranoia about what everyone thought of him. The pimples were patchy red blots that smudged the paper white pale face on his head. The glasses didn’t help, either; He had to constantly adjust them so they didn’t fall off.
This particular year was the most boring of all; He remembered all the friends he made, all the ones who died, and all the ones who just plain left. They all left an impact on his life, whether negative, reinforcing, or in praise.
But something today would bring him all back; It would bring him back to all of this, and remind him of all those days where he felt welcome, sad, alone, or any other feeling that made him feel that his life wasn’t just a repetitive cycle.
His camouflage backpack was neatly placed on the cherry wood seat next to his computer desk; All the flaps were shut, and everything was neatly zipped and clipped together. His room was a box with two air holes for windows and four white walls. It seemed less of a room and more like a chamber where he messily stored all his journals, books, and other stacks of paper.
But when he entered this white box, this one particular day, a yellow notebook with a cheap metal spiral binding fell off the highest mountain of old books, and onto his head. Harold read the cover, and in thick marker were the words, “Journal, freshman year” scribbled in chicken scratch.
His heart raced and he felt as if he saw a ghostly stack of paper; This journal contained everything that happened almost four years ago… He always faithfully wrote in his journals up until senior year when he was emotionally crushed like a bug.
The chicken scratch on the pale yellow cover haunted him, mocked him, laughed at him. Under the surface of this ocean of a cover was all the memories that he used to hold so dear to him;
In his head, all of the events played in his head like a movie…
His friends who moved were, in a metaphysical sense, right back in his chamber with him so long as he read the words written in this journal… The most crucial journal…

…The journal about when it all began.

Your writing has improved, and you seem much more descriptive.
Good job!

Thanks!

Not a problem, now... GET WRITING, BOY!
Don't make me get the broom!

Bahaha. Yeah, I've been writing a lot of things lately. Sky Child's going really well, and Frozen Stars I'll start pretty soon.

Nice!
I can't wait to see how it all turns out.

Frozen Stars isn't going to be a murder story anymore; it's going to be a screenplay-style teenage drama. I might change the name to UPIR but I am going to start writing first.