Hi everyone! It's twenty-seconth of the month today and because it's one of my favorite calendar digit, I decided to post something really eccentric.
After writing chapters of my novel Alf Shrub: The Blanchean Novel, it's time to share it with you guys! Hurray! It's about the story of a half human and half elf destined to protect the Midst and the Earth from the dark and evil plans of Lord Morven.
Intrigued? I do hope that you will like it just the way my cousins and I love the story. Enjoy and read on!
Chapter 1. Part 1. A Birthday Present
The soothing breeze of summer smoothly covered the summoning air of Arlequi Street at its best in April. A fair weather welcomes the twittering and soaring of the birds to the West and through the cloudiest blued sky of the East. Gray tinted rocks, sizable pebbles and the soft sand were tremendously rubbing each other in the backyard. The grass, leafy plants, sprouts that subsists over them and covered with dirty white dust as if they were put in ash will bewildered through their brittle thin stems. A number of blossoming flowers attach and attracts many small flying, buzzing and crawling beast around them will flourish to paling. The tall uneven rough trees of the nearby forest were confused of how they can be watered and swayed from the warmth of the sunshine, showing neither any signs of either a flash nor droplets of cold water. Thinking it was an exhilarating routine of how the summer heat walks in at Arlequi Street, Curvewalk. To where the two-story brick apartment of the Parsley's stood there about for not so less than forty two and a quarter years, gaining flexible cracks, lines of splinter and signs of demolition.
It was actually an early earthworm’s call, a bright side to wake up a ruddy boy from truth-to-behind; but for somehow, he doesn’t have at least a fistful idea and it was only his mother who knew much about a delightful trail of the past, them both. He think perhaps the season, a sign to which school days were nearly over, for him, stressful assignments, thick looking books and ballpoint pens were out of devastation again and of using. For sure, he knew it, he's glad for a vacation venture to rise over him
It was about sixth fifteen when he heard the varnish teakettle shouts for an early breakfast. He was a slight skinny, hazel-eyed boy, mystify by his chocolate colored shaggy hair who knows a living with so much apprehension.
After doing a packed of his rugged item, his abound and scattered notes and books in review, from the attics’ atone old wooden bed, he remind himself of giving the day an ear-of-smile. That for months of burning mind for lessons, the morning was not a mere usual day to hung-up around. It was actually, the second and last day of practical exams, the last day of school because it’s Friday and of course it's his special day. He thinks perchance for a new birthday present, a gift made or bought by his affectionate mother.
The apartment’s attic was best described as the chimney of old boxes, grimy broken furnitures and hoard mount of old porcelains. It was a small dark place for hiding, has only one bulb fixed at the baluster of the roof. The wooden and Spanish inspired bed was fixedly place beside the window pane illuminating the vista of the green clutches of the forest, the ceil de boeuf, to where, from the front of the only window of the attic, situated there about was a dirty black colored telescope facing afar not from the sky but of the forest. The only figure that were present from the cornered drawer, from beside his bed, was his own picture and his mother when he was in grade school, an empty sunburned cup and of a lamp that doesn't seem to light again.
Ransacking through the empty staircase of the room that's connected horizontally, from behind and to the other side of their kitchen, passing an eight silent steps on the staircases and keeping a glance to his mother’s back-end figure, Alf Shrub was quite as keen, founding out what his gentle mother was doing. He then reached the last few steps, with irregular beat on his chest, silent as he was then. Other than, as he glance back with his right foot from the wall behind to camouflage, his mother guess aback, revealing a lovely face, just-looking woman with a black long straight hair that was not inherited by him but of his hazel eyes that was to deal with it.
“I know you were there, get ‘bout Mr. Alf, let’s take some fresh bits of the morning and catch your fav veggie sandwich. I made it myself special, nesting fresh bake mayo and crunchy slender chicken fillet place unto it!”
Lereille Shrub reckoned with a smile, holding a tray of five apiece of gulp sandwich, one of which wrapped in a table pink napkins placed on the round-shape table.
“Oh mom, you sense it once again! I was truly silent then like Tart. But you ma..” Standing upon affront Tart’s glass cage with a pause, “By the way, happy second year tiny lit’ Tarty.” Alf added, facing a reason to accompany his mother on the other side and getting Tart a hold with his right hand to the table.
Tart the Turtle was Alf’s last year birthday gift, a pet he loves the most 'coz of the tart-like shape imprinted naturally on its greenish pigment upper shell. His mother bought it from the small, the only just pity pet shop strongly stood there about from Maine Town.
“I’m quite as keen as you, do we have to argue about this? How’s your book review and have you been doing find for the term-end exams?” Lereille Shrub inquired his son after doing a pot of cocoa oats to his son's bright cup with the stout varnish teakettle.
“Doing so well, like your gulp veggie sandwich doing so good.” He replied hanging a mouthful gulp of the food while taking a piece of freshly cut lettuce from his bread to Tart’s kinny-tidy-tiny mouth on the round table as a birthday gift and as if reminding his mother that the day was actually his.
“Complements say, a just, a second year to you Tart and that not forgetting time and calendar.” Lereille smiled affront and continue. “Happy fourteenth to you.” His mother kissed him on his forehead with a smile, lending him a small box covered with brown pineapple fiber cloth tied with a pale green lace on it. The box he had not notice at least a second on the chair near and beside his mothers’.
“Thanks mom! Can I open it now, at the least?" Alf requested eying not on his mother's face but of the brown box presently seen from beside Tart’s on the table.
“Definitely it’s all yours! Open it up, hope you’ll find it very interesting. It’s been a couple of days now, since I bought it from Mister Cutlass Shop.
“Assure you, this won’t.. from Mister Cutlass!” Taking a pause. “This won’t be, but I’ll be glad with all of that.” To be continued..
Plagiarism, as defined in the 1995, Random House Compact Unabridged Dictionary, is the "use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one's own original work." Within, plagiarism by students, professors, or researchers is considered academic dishonesty or academic fraud and offenders are subject to academic censure, up to and including.In journalism, plagiarism is considered a breach of journalistic ethics, and reporters caught plagiarizing typically face disciplinary measures ranging from suspension to termination. Some individuals caught plagiarizing in academic or journalistic contexts claim that they plagiarized unintentionally, by failing to include quotations or give the appropriate. While plagiarism in scholarship and journalism has a centuries-old history, the development of the Internet, where articles appear as electronic text, has made the physical act of copying the work of others much easier.Plagiarism is not copyright infringement. While both terms may apply to a particular act, they are different transgressions. Copyright infringement is a violation of the rights of a copyright holder, when material protected by copyright is used without consent. On the other hand, plagiarism is concerned with the unearned increment to the plagiarizing author's that is achieved through false claims of authorship. As defined by Wikipedia.
The second part of chapter one, Alf Shrub: Mister Cutlass Watch will be posted next month. So stay shrubbish every the twenty-seconth day of every month!
Photo credit to Flickr
New Baby Elf Sorrel by Pixie Path