Through the living jeff

“Yeah, but still. I think practically everyone in this room has one.” Silas said, gesturing around the room

1 I dont really have one. 2 probably an Axehound 3 I’d say the Blackthorn Key 4 being way way way too old 5 Chick-fil-a sauce 6 cheese whips 7 I’d say 8-10 hours 8 orange with a little red in it 9 whats a taynix?

Silas sighs very slowly. Was everybody expecting an assassin to show up, or were they all paranoid? ”I believe we’re all ready” he says

We appear to be at a stalemate Silas thinks, looking at the tense people all around. One woman, notably, seemed to be reaching for her waist. Who will make the first move?

“No, I think I’ll stay” Silas says, reaching for his boot (This is the servant)

Can I try to stop you?

“Who is that?” Silas thinks, staring at the man with the blade.

“Oh, I rather think it is…”

Silas bursts back into the room with lots of tea ”what is goin on?” He shouts (sorry I wasnt here)

Are you sure about that?

Silas softened toward this noblewoman- what was her name? ”Is there anything else I can get you…” he let his voice trail off

Silas returns with a steaming cup of tea, and a shortbread biscuit.

Granted. It’s got faulty jet boosters. I wish for unlimited pencils

Silas lets out a long, drawn out sigh. As he heads back into the kitchen, he thinks, I need a new job.

“Why does everyone want tea all of a sudden?” Silas mutters, he heads into the kitchen to fetch some tea.

Once. Thanks by the way!

Silas grumbles something unintelligible, but complies.

Silas Fordcroft, the tea server thinks “that was a complete waste of tea!”

This is great!

I dont personally feel like any of my writing is particularly good, but here is one I did for school… (first paragraph) Petersen awoke to the sound of persistent hammering on his front door. Groaning, he sat up. It must be those stupid reporters again. Didn’t they know that they weren’t going to get him to talk about it? Petersen slipped a bathrobe on as he walked to the front door. He shoved the door open and prepared to yell at whoever had awakened him in such a rude manner. His-half formed reprimand died on his lips as he realized that there was nobody there. He stuck his head further out the door and looked to either side. He glanced down as a white something caught his eye. It was a letter tucked into the folds of a small package wrapped in wrinkled brown paper. Now, you are likely imagining somewhere like you probably live. A suburban street or a city apartment. Or somewhere completely different. This is completely wrong, because you probably don’t live in a subterranean city with a glowing lichen growing on the ceiling, but with no sunlight. And if you somehow fit this description, then you probably won’t be reading this particular book. Anyway, lets help you piece together this story. Petersen Haystaver is some guy who only ever gained any notoriety when his brother, Jack, died in a blaze last year. Petersen was approached to describe his emotions after his brother’s death. Petersen rudely told them that he “has no interest whatsoever in talking to the public about him or anybody.” Petersen was a learned fellow who was nearing the end of his prime. Hopefully this is enough background knowledge to help you piece together this story. Grumbling about the impertinent neighbors, Petersen stomped into the living room, plopped down onto the couch, and tore the letter open.

As I was typing this, I briefly forgot my username… so… yeah. Ask me anything, I guess.

Nope.

Granted, whenever your grades changed a giant mouth will shout what it is I wish for my own cello with one of those really fancy bows.

How about four? Oh wait. I get it.