That War of 1812 Writing Contest

So I joined a War of 1812 writing contest organized by Historica Dominion of Canada (I think this is the name), no surprises, this frankly happens a lot…This is harder than I accounted it for. My idea is a collection of letters by an American (this is “Canadia”, but something from an American POV would be slightly more original?)soldier to different people throughout the war. It’s not like I have a writer’s block or something, but it’s harder if you involve opinions on actual historical figures or the deep depression of war. I’ve only tried to expressed war in this glorious, government-propaganda light before (character point-of-view,NOT personal), and I’ve had ideas about a true, albeit too-much-feels viewpoint on war before, but it’s a tad hard. Huh, but I’ll endeavour anyways. But it’s not like I’ll win the grand prize or something–have you SEEN my Stalingrad story on this blog? Now I don’t even have enough confidence to go to Stalingrad/Volgograd or Russia any more. Ruined it too much.



And The World Keeps Turning (High Schools and Such)

I’m in a very rant-able mood right now. Studying for the science test and those Trig functions can wait. *turns If I Die Young louder* Alright.

This week and the following week are basically most of the high school open houses, and the High School Applications will be handed out next week. Well, I’ve got a problem. I don’t wanna go to high school. Reason? It’s like what some memes on the Internet say (or was it someone famous then the meme-maker: “I don’t want to go to heaven. None of my friends are there.” I do want to go to heaven, but you get my idea. None of my friends are going to the high school I’m going to. I sound like a snotty brat. I’m sorry. I apologize, I don’t usually do this. I’m usually as annoying as Spock would ever be.  I mean, the change is pretty big.  From this class of like, thirty people to this damn huge school. I do want to go to that school. I mean, I know what I want, and the high school is a part of it. But to think, in less than a day, from a group of normal, happy and slightly insane elementary/middle school (depends which country you live in) student to people who has to worry about their schools and their futures. I do think about all the big topics, but I’m just–you know what, I think there is a psychological term for it. Oh yeah. DENIAL.

I know everyone in the class is excited for their futures. But, I mean, can’t we just like, wait? To be the happy and carefree little kids again, not alone in this neighbourhood foreign to me with none of my friends there (thanks for leaving me with those idiots. No offence.), but huh, I guess I’ll have to snap back to Miervaldis or even Lemminkainen (…I’ll explain later. Or never) or something and be all logical and face this. I am not emotional about this, to be honest. IB is what I want, McGill’s what I want, also a large, quiet place facing the Gulf of Finland.

And I’m sure everyone else is having their wild, without-end dreams for their lives too.

Still, I wish there’s a uber important, or memorable thing before we graduate. Maybe the apocalypse, like the “Calamity” in the Hetalia fanfiction Gutters. Or the whole class could team together and defeat the titans trying to breach Wall Toronto (fine.) or something. Or we are actually timelords who can travel through time, or just freeze the time on one random day. I’m slightly crazy now, I know. Maybe in an alternate universe, we’re actually doing that. Or we’re immortal, and time is just a measuring scale for us. Then we can just sit on the roof and watch the apocalypse. No high school, no worries (Hakuna Matata indeed), no nothing. Just us and the whole big class.

Okay, I should probably shut up before someone decides to stick a rag in my mouth or cut my fingers off from annoying them or something. But at the end, let’s all raise our Nestea cans:

To our future.

To everything we’ve wanted.

To high schools and dreams.

To _____ ________. (Our School name)

To us.


You may drink  your Nestea now.

(Catherine, you may wack me on my head then drag me away now. This rant-box is all yours.)


  Heh. Hi, my name is Catherine. I think I was mentioned multiple times on this blog. I am here to give you poor souls a break from Jessica’s awful (just kidding don’t kill me Jezz) ranting. Somethimes I follow, and then she says something really complicated, and then I lose her completely. She is ranting right now how she doesn’t rant. Ironic.

Hi! I’m Vicky, but you can call me Victoria. Wait. Was that supposed to be the other way around?.. I definitely agree with Catering (Shhh! Don’t tell Jessie!). Ummm..I have no idea what to say now soo umm..back to Catherine!

  Please, welcome me back with thunderous applause. Yes, yes, I appreciate your devotion. I think I have some kind of complex with trimming/cutting bangs, because whenever I get my bangs trimmed/cut, then I get all sad and moody like I’m on my cycle or something of that sort. It confuses my emotionally repressed mother, I think (no, she’s not actually emotionally repressed. I just like to mock-insult people). A few weeks ago, my mom confessed that my mood swings that have to do with my bangs/hair confuse her and that I should stop as soon as possible. Not happening.

  And one more thing. Today, Jessica challenged me to name all of the Harry Potter books. I am obsessed with Harry Potter and its huge fandom. I’m not even going to deny it. But I am ashamed to admit that I could name every one except for the third book. It was like there was a bloody MEMORY BLANK there. I could remember practically every detail from the books except for the Prisoner of Azkaban. I feel so bad, because Sirius is one of my most favourite characters. So I wrote his name on my wrist because I was informed by an anonymous source that writing something in the inside of your wrist makes it incredibly important. Is that how you spell incredibly? I can’t remeber how to spell anything. Yeah.

  I’m sorry to say that your break is over. Welcome back Jessica however you want, be it applause or tomatoes (don’t waste them. Eat them instead, they are surprisingly tasty) or paint or grapes or socks (then she will be a free elf) or rocks (preferably ant-sized pebbles that aren’t aimed at her face). I think Vicky is very impatient and wants me to stop ranting. ‘But I don’t want them to get mad at ME, for ending the break!’ she says. “HEY”. Yeah, I don’t think I was supposed to say that. She’s making these strange gorilla/constipated/giving birth noises right now. And denying it agressively. She says ‘NO, just FINISH IT ALREADY.’

ENJOY YOUR LIFE AND HARRY POTTER. Yes, I’m done now. Gosh, don’t get your knickers in a twist.

My Goal in Life

Life goal:

One day, I’ll grow up and go to university and leave Toronto (don’t get me wrong, I like Toronto fine). I’ll go study at McGill. and major in Life Science. After I graduate for university, I’ll go to medical school. After that I’ll take up a residency, and/or a fellowship.After, I’ll get a job and try to accumulate a large amount of money–I am a financially destitute student and would like nice things .

Then maybe ten, fifteen years later, I will move to  a place where most people I know wouldn’t know that I’m there. They wouldn’t even think that I’m there. Maybe they think I’m a Megalopolis-Oriented person?Only my closest friends will know where I am. Tallinn, Estonia seems like a good place for that plan, although I’m always taking suggestions.

How might that play out? A flight from Toronto to Stockholm, then a ferry from Stockholm to Helsinki, then train from Helsinki to Tallinn would be fine (yes, I’m aware–thank you  Google–that there are ferries straight from Stockholm to Tallinn, but YOLO).

Then maybe I’ll travel through Europe. From Reykjavik to Santorini, and Lisbon to Istanbul. Why not? My friends could join us,then we’ll have a party at 2 a.m. on a remote Northern European island in the dead of winter or something.

Then I’ll go to the closest Arby’s, and buy five cats for five Deutsch marks.

(At this point I’m no longer certain that this plan is not serious.)

WWII Post-Stalingrad Eastern Front Story

“Расцветали яблони и груши,
What was left of the once-powerful convoy of machines marched across the froze steppes, farther and farther away from the Volga, directly west. The fields were completely covered in snow, the flat landscape making them look boundless. The sky was a shade of grey, looking incredibly close to the land. Only a few cypresses appeared on the horizon, the only things that weren’t a part of this monotonous blankness.

“Поплыли туманы над рекой.”
The commander of one tank stuck his head out, and surveyed the landscape around him. Although he was perfectly clear that he wasn’t supposed  to do so, but he was more than a tad excited inside. We’ll arrive in Smolensk in two days, he thought to himself. After it it’s not that far from Belarus. Once we cross Poland, we’ll be home. I guess it happens to everyone in this war, no? It’s like taking a train. When you see the sign of your city, or seeing the scenery outside the window becoming more and more familiar, you can hardly stop yourself from being giddy and wanting to dance on the spot. Clanker, Darwinist, German, Russian, Polish, that all happens to them.
    Still, I’m going home, and no one is here to stop me. 

“Выходила на берег Катюша,”
The sniper hid himself and his companion well in the trench along the side of the road. He changed his position to lying down on his   stomach, and took a drink of vodka. He was (un)surprisingly fond of it. Vodka always made him optimistic and happy, and in this case, completely overlooking the fact that he was in a frozen field with only his army-issued anti-tank gun and a genetically modified Siberian tiger. What is a sniper supposed to do with a tiger? The army is going bonkers. But you’ve got to admit, when they are young they are so fluffy and cute… 
He tried to offer his feline companion a drink from his flask.
Suddenly a humming sound pulled his attention away from his vodka and his tiger.The tiger with fur as white as the snow growled silently.  He attempted to shush his tiger, quietly  peered out of the trenches, clutching his gun tightly. He screwed his blue-grey eyes( under his exceptionally thick and black eyebrows that were threatening to become a uni brow) tight, and spotted the tank convoy marching on the road, closer and closer to his hiding spot.
Huh, the sniper decided as he got to his position, I’m screwing over this one convoy, then I’m going home. Where Nichole and Jen and all of his friends are. Screw war, I’m going home.

“На высокий берег на крутой.”
The commander was startled from his day-dreaming. Something was wrong–but what? We’re 500 kilometres away from Smolensk. Seriously, no one with a partly functioning mind would be here. Those Ivans with machine guns are saner than that(AN: I’m very sorry if you feel offended, but it’s just a part of this story..)
There was a loud explosion, and the first tank burst into flames. His tank was the fourth out of five. Below him, the rest of the crew of the tank barked commands to each other. He scrambled down to his position.
The operator was desperately trying to bring the tank to a halt. The frozen ice and snow crunched dangerously under the massive     metal box, but it was still moving , following the path of the remaining two tanks before it.

“Выходила на берег Катюша,”
The sniper hit the ground when the  first tank exploded just about a metre above him. Fire and debris rained over him while he was struggling to keep the tiger under control and the mouth guard on the tiger. A shell from machine gun from one of the following tanks hit the ground close to him, he reckoned from the sound that it must’ve created a large crater on the ground. Where’s the other sniper the control centre said will be somewhere in the field? He wondered. It’ll be utterly ridiculous if I die out here. I will not die now because I am someone of destiny, he quietly offered himself the maxim.
The tanks above him were still firing blindly, shells exploding around him. He crawled several metres to his left, a spot that he figured will be the blind  spot to the now first two tanks in the convoy, and the average designated  space between two tanks wouldn’t make him the target of the last two if they came up with the idea of stopping . He slowly rose up to peer at the two previous tanks, made sure that no crew of the tanks paid attention to him, took aim, and fired.
The now second tank burst into flames (he was quite proud of him this time because that shot had just triggered the fuel bunker), and the first burst into flames too due to the chain reaction.

The commander panicked. The snipers (or it could be sniper, but he refused to believe that there is someone that awesome) had just destroyed the two tanks ahead, according to the crew member  who was on the lookout. The operator had slowed the tank to just a skid, but it was still moving. He decided to just use his judgement and wished himself luck.
“55 degrees down!”
The gunner attempted to fire, but there were no explosions of the shell hitting the ground. It had somehow malfunctioned.
“Damn it!”
The gunner was still desperately trying to fix the problem, and the operator hand changed his mind to trying to get the tank to turn around or to escape. But he himself, who had given up on basically all of that, decided to get back to what he was doing before they got into all this rather-regular mess.
He poked his head out, and found the sniper not that far from him and his tank after all.
And he was sure that at the same time the sniper was staring at him too. He was a bit myopic, but he could still vaguely see his adversary’s features.
And strangely, he thought he looked a tad familiar. Like someone from his home town–his school, in fact, and he only had a fleeting thought to tell himself that he was crazy. Or was he someone that he cared about? His childhood friend? The kid from the next block who used to go down to the creek and catch fish with him?Anyhow, the sniper looked familiar in general,but it’s all because I’ve seen so many people during this ‘tireless’ war. Or before it–who knows?
The gunner cursed loudly inside the tank.
After that moment, the sniper aimed his gun at somewhere below the commander. And some short distances behind the commander,somewhere in his blind spot, the last tank fired a shell.
All of them knew that they won’t miss their targets.

“На высокий берег на крутой.”
The fire was still burning silently. The explosion has upturned the layers of snow and the frozen brown earth under.
The winter sky slowly shifted to a cold, dark tone of indigo as the night  descended on the fields outside Smolensk.

I can’t believe I frigging did this. Although it’s a Catherine and Stephen fiction, why the heck did I do this?

This was originally supposed to be a part of a fiction collection centred around the six (or more) of my allies (allies are more awesome that friends). It was originally planned to be around 250 words, but I figured there isn’t enough plot line, so, this happened. Total word count: 1, 168..

Aww, man. So much for historical fiction, and Siege of Stalingrad and Leviathan crossover.

Note: I don’t really know anything about tanks. So if I make any mistake, I’m sincerely sorry.

  (Edit: Someone think of a title for this, please.)


  Hi. This is Jessica Courland speaking from the Enterprise about two hundred years into the future. Lol, kidding. I’m an anthropomorphic personification of a nation–believe that if you will. I also went through the Armageddon countless times( more than I ever needed to),and have successfully survived every single one of them, and I used dark magic to turn Catherine, my dear minion friend here, into a cubical mochi that isn’t even edible (that isn’t even funny. The “Catherine mochi is not edible”thing. It’s not funny cuz it’s technically not edible).


    I do not lie. I have made an Unbreakable Vow with myself (…I’ll just…) that I’m too epic to lie. But since you are already here to start a thunderstorm on my parade, Catherine, talk. Or–I’ll flay you and slaughter your direwolf. Fray-style (yes, I just made a Game of Thrones reference). Alright, I sincerely swear I will not kill direwolves. They are nice. 

What is a direwolf? Are they those wolves Stephen was talking about? (Daily Harry Potter comment: POTTERHEADS UNITE) Bye. Sorry Jezz for messing up your blog. Your fault though.

    Direwolves are those INCREDIBLY CUTE wolves from Westeros, aka Game of Thrones–yeah, they are the wolves Stephen was talking about. YEAH POTTERHE–wait. Harry Potter is awesome, but–nothing beats Game of Thrones! Dracarys! Hear Me Roar people (Lannister and Targaryen–okay, add Tyrell too), yeah!

Alright…I’ll leave you (if there’s anyone) to your own lives now…and note: I like ice cream. 

Ah, Just Testing…

Well, uh, the first thing I want to say is that I like blogs. They are like diaries, but instead of being entirely private and emotional one chooses the best of oneself to present. At least that’s the way I’m going

Introducing my dear friend Lucy. Lucy, I hope that you will get a blog too ( you are free to fangirl over your…Japanese arts pursuits), although you’ve promised to. Introducing Trashween… no, Catherine, my other friend. Catherine, you should, too, although I cannot force or command you to do it, so I’ll bug you until you break down. Amy and David, you guys should too! Amy, this is like QZone, only that it’s not QZone…well, blame the fact that QZone is in Chinese only. So much for being an international social media platform. And Vicki, Stephen, Leila and whoever I may have forgotten to mention, you guys should too! Although as I’ve stated before, most people don’t blog any more (and the Earth doesn’t stop spinning).

    “And one day, no matter what, we’ll win!”

Gotta start to persuade Lucy first, and so much for the quote.

P.S. “This WordPress site is the cat’s pajamas”? This is the best ad ever.