Unicorn and Dragon Egg Mushroom Omelette

Ingredients:

7 ounces unicorn flank, diced

1 dragon egg, large

4 mushrooms of choice, large and diced

½ tablespoon toadstool extract

1 cup werewolf blood

2 ground phoenix feathers (for spice, optional)

1. Break the egg in a large bowl and whisk until completely combined.

2. Fry the diced unicorn over high heat.

3. Add the werewolf blood, toadstool extract, and phoenix feathers (if desired, to taste). Stir for sixteen seconds exactly, turn the heat down to medium, and cover for thirty-nine seconds exactly.

4. Fry the diced mushrooms with the unicorn flank for another thiry-nine seconds exactly.

5. Pour the egg into a different, small frying pan. Tilt the pan so that the egg covers the flat part of the pan entirely and cook for sixty-one seconds or until the bottom is set and the edges are golden-brown.

6. Add the unicorn and mushrooms down the center. Take extra precaution if using phoenix feathers as the mixture is likely to explode.

7. Fold the outer thirds of the egg into the center, or fold the egg in half.

8. Turn fire off, let sit for sixteen seconds exactly, and serve promptly.



Serves one person, twelve fairies, or one troll. If serving troll, the one who presents the food may be eaten.



Caution: Angry mother dragon may attack at any time during cooking or consumption. Phoenix feathers may explode at any time during cooking or consumption. Unicorn may or may not be friendly. Toadstool extract may be deadly. Werewolf will definitely be deadly. Regardless of whether mushrooms are poisonous, the consumer will die. If against all odds, eating is acheived without death of victim(s)- I mean, consumer(s), he, she, or they will promptly turn into a zombie. Effects do not affect fairies, elves, and dwarves. The author does not take responsibility for any injuries, deaths, damage, and/or expellees that have completed (or not) this recipe.

June

AH.
This isn't late.

June is the season of curls and frays,
The start of the summer where children are free.
June is the season of relaxing beach days,
where bodies and minds can finally be.

However
June is the season of SATs,
where students study and die.
They write about honors and APs
And hope for the best with a sigh.

Wanderers

A wanderer- held down by nothing. The outcasts of society. Or are they?

A wanderer's thoughts:

   A lonely wanderer doesn't wish to continue on his journey. He wants to become connected, create bonds, and settle down. However, no matter how much he tries, something odd always happens. When he feels close, almost all the way to a calm state, he ends up floating on. It's not him who wishes to be a wanderer. The others around him push him away, and he flies in the wind, rejected by those who he thought were the closest, He doesn't always understand their thoughts. But, alas, his greatest wish will never be fulfilled. He is cursed, as he was borne to die alone.
  And that is the life of a wanderer.


Years will go by
and time will fly
yes, he will try
but alone he shall die.

A wanderer's habits:

   Sometimes words are wasted. However, no matter what, they almost always reach the wanderer. He strains for more, listening to the hidden depth that may live in them. Most of the time, there is none. Others don't understand why the wanderer seems to be reclusive at first. It's because he's listening to others. Who would be a good friend? Who would be able to stay with him? But when he realizes that someone is his friend, he clings like no tomorrow. He clutches onto this temporary relief, seeming to never let go. When conversation is engaged, he still prowls around in the silence, ready to pounce on and slight change of tone or word choice. The wanderer is constantly afraid of being betrayed, and so he listens for malice, regret, reproach, anger, and belittlement. The wanderer most always feels that his companion is talking about him when they complain, He asks if it is about him, but never receives a yes. However, he is certainly never satisfied with this answer and always swears that it is an innuendo. But is that always true?

Words for a wanderer:

   He yearns for an anchor. Something to ground himself in the world around him. There seems to be nothing. As soon as the rope is tied on the anchor, it is dropped into the ocean, not yet fastened to the ship. He swears each time that it isn't his fault. Every time he thinks that others are just not compatible. They want adventure, a move on. He continues on his lonely seas, waiting for someone to rescue him.
   However, he doesn't notice one single thing. Every person should have at least one friend, that friend starting with themself. With continuous blows to his self-confidence, and most importantly, his pride, he feels like an empty cask, a shell that needs to be filled with something else. He has no character, integrity, or independence, He rambles to fill his empty void. But, for opposites to attract, one must be positive or negative, not neutral. Not mindlessly agreeing without any other thought or ideas. The wanderer realizes this and makes a move on, one more time, but instead to follow a path where he can build himself into a notable individual.
   There will always be bumps in the road, obstacles, and divergences. The confusion that will present you will never leave. However, without being a person yourself, you will eventually become like a wanderer yourself. They follow down the road no matter what, but have no goal in mind.
   Do you act differently with your friends, family, and strangers? Different at school and at home? It's almost like a disease, a form of schizophrenia because you do not know what do be. Instead of acting, putting on that outer shell to please others, take it off and show what you really are. Those who leave will not be a real anchor. They'll be unreliable, cracked and damaged. Find one person who you can trust wholeheartedly, and that person will save you, even in your stormiest days at sea.

-Words from a wanderer to another

The Hotel Of Gods

The receptionist at the hotel of gods, Scandinavian branch, was called Svanalf. She had thick, horn-rimmed glasses framed in crimson, red-dyed hair, a red dress, and sanguine lipstick. And she was bored.

The group of gods came in, carrying their old gray suitcases and blue suitcases and duct-taped suitcases and eagle.

“Hello,” Svanalf said, dropping her fingers to a keyboard. “Reservation?”

The guy at the front of the queue shook his head. He had a pointy gray hat and long gray beard and gray robes. And he had a staff.

Svanalf sighed. “How many?”

He did a quick head count. “Seven.”

“One for the eagle, too?” Svanalf arched a brow.

The eagle fixed its yellow, one-eyed gaze on her, and she hurriedly booked the rooms. “For whom?” she asked.

“Odin, Odin, Woden, Woden, Wednesday, Wedding, and Gandalf.”

“Gandalf isn’t a god,” Svanalf said. Her brow went up again.

Gandalf pounded his staff on the ground. “I’m the tour guide. Book the rooms. Three days.”

She lowered her gaze to the computer screen. “Rooms 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107.” Picking up a stack of cards, she slid them over the counter. “Room cards. Four hundred twenty krone, pay by cash, check, or credit cards. No unconventional forms of payment accepted, including blood sacrifice.”

The eagle deposited a dead mouse on her desk. Gandalf briefly had a conversation with the other Odins and, after a fair amount of scuffling, dropped a wad of bills on the counter.

Svanalf counted, slipped the bills into a drawer, and handed Gandalf the change. “No stealing, fighting, cannibalism, or unnecessary destruction. Checkout at eleven in the morning, Norwegian time. Breakfast will be provided in the lobby from seven in the morning to ten in the morning, Norwegian time.” She rapped the desk. “Your rooms are down the hall. Have a nice stay.”

They left, a group of ragged shadows.

The eagle remained on the counter, talons scraping the granite.

“What is it?” Svanalf asked.

It opened its wings and soared up and through the ceiling.

~ ~ ~
Svanalf drummed her fingers on the desk, absently eavesdropping on the group in the lobby. They were a traveling troupe, performing nearby, which was probably why they’d booked the rooms here, and they were practicing. Handsprings, backflips, cartwheels, human pyramids.

A man with black hair and a green cape and gold armor sat on an armchair nearby, watching, one hand reaching across his chin. A horned, golden helmet rested at his feet.

A fox slunk over the counter.

“Hi,” Svanalf said.

“Hi.” The fox sat, curled up, and started licking its fur. It had a strong Norwegian accent.

“That’s very impressive, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen better,” said the fox in between licks of its fur. “When I was a human, I could pretty much anything I liked-”

“Stop it,” the eagle screeched, swooping down on it and fixing it with its fierce yellow one-eyed gaze.

The fox glared back. “I was simply correcting an incorrect statement. Never let it be said that Loki the Skywalker was not impressive.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Svanalf with a sigh. Gods inevitably got into arguments.

The eagle glared and left through the ceiling.

“How does he even do that?” Svanalf asked.

The fox shrugged. “He’s Odin. Pretty much does what he likes.” It licked its fur again, tail flicking. “Man of few words. It’s a bit annoying.”

“Ah,” said Svanalf. “Well. There are worse persons.”

“Yes.” The fox flicked its tail at the man in the armchair. “That’s the other Loki. Loki Laufeyson. Ugh. The grammar. Anyway, HE’s probably worse. Been in therapy for trying to take over Earth. Honestly, why would anyone want to take over Earth? There’s Asgard, Vanaheim, Svartalfheim, Alfheim-”

“Oh,” Svanalf said.

“And Freya! You could get her, but no! She doesn’t exist to him!”

~ ~ ~
Eight o’clock in the morning. Breakfast was commencing.

Svanalf already had eaten, naturally. She had a mostly normal diet and had no intention of eating while the gods discovered breakfast meats. Laufeyson, for example, had just discovered them the day before and was piling his plate with turkey sausage and bacon. Also, especially in the Scandinavian division, conversation was capable of destroying appetites.

(Svanalf hated bacon.)

The extremely muscular redhead shouldered through the tables, balancing a multitude of plates heaped with roasted chicken (Svanalf had a very bad feeling about where it was from) and sat down next to one of the Lokis (she wasn’t sure which one).

“Hi,” he said.

The Loki sighed. (Svanalf thought they weren't from matching stories. The Thor was actually a Donner, she remembered. Germanic, not Norse, and the Loki wore leg warmers.) “Hi,” he said back. That was pretty much the entire conversation. Thor ate the chicken (Svanalf realized, with a sinking feeling, that she’d forgotten to check on her chickens), stood, and left. The Loki followed.

Another Thor came in, hefting an axe-like hammer, fair-haired and grinning. He sat down next to a boy called Luke, who immediately turned and started discussing quantum physics.

The room slowly filled with Odins, Lokis, Thors, and a few others: Freys, Freyas, Friggs, a Skadi, a Ullr, a few Heimdalls, a few Baldurs, a few Tyrs.

Then a very blond, very tall, somewhat muscular, wing-helmeted guy walked into the room, and the room fell silent.

Laufeyson stood, slowly, still chewing a slice of bacon.

“Was this a bad time?” the Thor asked. He had an Australian accent.

“No,” Laufeyson said, reaching out a hand and plucking a scepter from thin air. “In fact, there is no better time.” He swallowed very visibly. Svanalf hoped that he wouldn’t choke on the food.

“Oh,” said Thor, putting a hand out. A hammer flew into it, a parallelepiped of metal. (Math terms! Yay!)

“No unnecessary violence,” Svanalf called. The two ignored her, and Laufeyson rushed at Thor, scepter raised. The mass of people cleared away a circle, forming the ring for their fight.

Gandalf strode into the room, staff raised, and pointed it at the two fighters, shouting a spell. Light flashed, blue fire erupted, they continued fighting.

Another Thor strode into the room, wearing only a pair of undies. Svanalf frowned at him.

Using íslenskt táknamál, Icelandic sign language, he motioned that no one ever imagined him with a shirt on, then fingerspelled a few choice words. Svanalf sighed and fingerspelled Sorry. (Her sign language was rusty.) The Thor shrugged and left.

A bear bounded into the room, sniffed, and attacked the breakfast buffet, officially ending breakfast as the eagle watched it from the chandelier, screeching in protest. The fox, sitting under the eagle with tail swept over paws, looked at Svanalf and grinned foxily.

“How amusing,” it said.

~ ~ ~
For reference:

Odins:
Eagle, a.k.a. Odin 1: Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman
Odin 2: Marvel
Woden 1: How to Train Your Dragon, Cressida Cowell
Woden 2: Der Ring des Nibelung, Wagner (It's a German opera)
Wednesday: American Gods, Neil Gaiman
Wedding: Eight Days of Luke, Diana Wynne Jones

Gandalf: The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, J. R. R. Tolkien

Lokis:
Fox: Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman
Loki Laufeyson: Marvel
Loki with leg warmers: How to Train Your Dragon, Cressida Cowell
Luke: Eight Days of Luke, Diana Wynne Jones

Thors:
Bear: Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman
Aussie Thor: Marvel

Undie-wearing Thor: How to Train Your Dragon, Cressida Cowell

Donner: Der Ring des Nibelung, Wagner

Fair-haired Thor: Eight Days of Luke, Diana Wynne Jones

Dreams

If I wrote all my dreams on this blog, you guys would die. You seriously wouldn't believe the number of nightmares I have on a regular basis. Some aren't as bad, but others scare me to death.
However, most of them are good writing pieces. Eyes and A Boat, a Man, and a Laugh are both FRAGMENTS of some dreams I've had. Sometimes I think that since I've had these so many times, they're not that scary anymore. My nightmares are good, because they're always bizarre. And sometimes I get to fly in my dreams, which is the one thing I really look forward to.

I dreamt of chewing dead fish bodies as gum last night.

Sweet dreams.