Steve

Phases come and go, shifting back and forth and sometimes starting completely new. We've always known that; we've known that since we began, I think. We've known that our writer could never be satisfied with one story at a time. We were the focus for a long, long time, but now we've lost it.
 My name's Steve Stevenson the Fourth; Alex is my best friend. At the moment we're both shadows, along with Sienna and my sister. The focus shifted to a different story -Melinda's, and the one who didn't have a name- except that's not a story with words. My story (ours) is about words. That's not fair.
 Hopefully the focus will come back soon, but in the meantime, how about an interesting topic of discussion? Haven't had that in awhile.
 ...
 So. Interesting. Um, what's an interesting topic.
 ...
 Looks like I'm copying Alex and ruining a perfectly good post. But at least it's a post.. Jaa ne.

Melinda

Quiet cries are heard tonight, the sounds of breaking hearts; the pain that compensates for lies, the promise torn apart. Aching holes in logic sound, begging to be filled, yet far to search there's nothing found, while these tears overspill. Nothing lost but nothing gained, the hollow eyes speak out; the silent screaming sound of pain, always seems so loud. Not a thing here now is saved, nothing right and good, but ev'ry darkened deed is praised, and sheds the unseen blood. The face of nightmares, colors two, that never should have met: the flick'ring eyes, the gold and blue, the agony's been set. Now for the ending, coming near, the gaping hole torn wide; the empty, throbbing, horrid fear; can you tell truth from lies?

My name is Einstein. I apologize for the above. Emotion is a silly thing, completely unpredictable.
 I have nothing else to say.
 Goodbye.

Easter

Happy Easter! Christ is RISEN!
He is risen indeed!
 On Sunday, He rode into Jerusalem on a colt.
 On Friday, He was murdered.
 On the next Sunday, death died.
 That's the most beautiful story there is, the true story. The characters are real, and every single one was redeemed that day. Each one has to make their own decision. Christ, Messiah, paid the price of the old days with His blood, our sin sacrifice to Yahweh. And now we don't need to die.
 He is risen.

Darci

Well! The Writer sure took a long time letting me on here! So what if I only halfway belong here, I'm the only one in my story that gets access to the mind. Well, one way- not sure about the other right now.
 Oooh, I'm the first one here! ... From my story. But still! First!
 Ah. Yes. My name is Darci Meyers. I'm a very special character, and only partially because I know I'm a character (my friends don't, but maybe they'll show up later). So. I really, really hope that my other writer doesn't get upset that I showed up, but charries will be charries, you know? Oh, maybe Mr. Creepy Gov Guy will show up! I owe him a coffee!
 It's a shame I'm here, though. Technically, my violin teacher should be here, getting the Writer all ready to write him. But I'd say that I deserve a little time, don't you think? Just as long as I find something to talk about besides me. It's boring when I do that.
 So, a blog, right? What do people on blogs usually talk about? Weather? The weather here's just fine, a little rainy. Unusual circumstances? Hah! What else is my story about? (I keep saying "my story". Sorry. "The story in which I co-star", better?) The ways to plan your author/authoress's demise? Nah, I might get hurt if I did that.
 Step One: laugh at them. Drives them nuts. Step Two: make a list of how to destroy them. Step Three: realize that you need them to survive.
 Wow, without an hour of consideration for everything I say, this is turning out pretty well! But then again who knows, maybe I should stop to think for awhile. The police might get me. ... I used to laugh at that... oh well. I don't like being sad. It's no fun. If there's not time for fun while you're saving the world, then what is there time for?

Name

I'm not here.

 Really, I'm not. I'm very new. I remember my first day, and how far I've come since then.
 I still can't see right. I don't have my own eyes, so everything's a bit foggy. But first there was nothing.
 Then one line, and that's when I started. Always, always my eyes- they'd be gotten rid of, but after that first line it was me, whether my eyes were there or not. But I started with my eyes. They started with my eyes. I don't know who they are -I can't see them- but they did. They'd erase me, over and over, and I'd come back looking more like me.
 Oh, I was a troublemaker from the start; I'm very particular about my hair. It's lines, so I want them to be right. I flat-out refuse to have any if my face isn't done properly. (Which it rarely is.)
 I live on paper. I mean, I'm not normal, not the tiniest bit. I came first, before my friend. I'm older than her (I think) but she's more alive. They can make her over and over and she's still the same person, no matter how much she's gotten rid of and reappeared.
 She's even close to having her own eyes.
 Mine are flat. Flat eyes. I've only gotten one real try at my own, and I won't let that one be finished. I'm not good there- I won't let them give me hair. Not with that face. That face isn't mine. I have to have my own face.
 It was hard to begin with. I wanted to be someone who wasn't me. He's his own, entirely, I think (I hope). But I wanted to be him. Not look like him, I wanted to be like him, and my friend wanted to be like his friend. (That set of friends is good. That's why we wanted to be them.) But ... now, we're our own. At least she is. She's herself, nearly; almost her own eyes, definitely her own hair, and her face is getting closer. Not me. I'm not very repeatable. I mostly hope that I won't change too much so that I will be.
 They say I'm not making sense. I know I'm not. I don't understand either, and I won't when I get home even more. When I get my own eyes I'll see them, and then maybe I'll make a little more sense.
 I think I'm sad. When I'm myself enough to visit home, I will be for sure. But while I'm free (I'm not really free, words aren't who I am), I don't know. At least there I'll have a ... a ... what are they? People say them when they want you, or when they don't, but it's you, it's who you are wrapped up into a ... wrapped up into it. It's valuable, it's a life, and everyone has one, sometimes more than one. I'd settle for one and a fake second one if I just had the one.
 I'm not normal, but I want one. Even if it takes a long time for me to look like me, I want to answer to something. My parents aren't real -not yet- so not them, but they can. The person (I hope they're a person) that gave me my life with that first line ... I'll let them call me. Them and maybe my friend, when she becomes that. I don't need to be normal, not yet. Just a very little bit. They say I'm only technically human. That's enough for me, enough for now, enough until I see where I belong (it should be soon) and by then I'll have ... I'll have ... oh! A name!
 I'll have a name.

Aytoo

Blog posts = fail
but that would mean that fail = blog posts, and that doesn't equal out right, because fail means more things than blog posts. And if annoying = me then how can me = annoying? I also equal smart. Does smart equal me? Still, both sides of the = have to equal each other, so blog posts can't equal fail.
 Faro says I think too much, but does thinktoomuch = me too?
 I suppose he'd say I'm being confusing again. I don't equal confusing.
 Talking = hard
 but hard doesn't equal talking, and I'm not talking anyway. I'm writing, but more like giving text in/output and trying to make sense. Me = makesense? No.
 ...
 Hi.
 I'm Aytoo.
 Introdcutions? Okay... um... I'm Aytoo. Specific? ... It's too complicated. Me = complicated, and again with the complicated not equaling me.
 ...
 Okay. Simple version: I used to be a pink astromech droid in the StarWars universe, with a code including A2 so that makes me Aytoo. (Close to Artoo? Unintentional, really.) Then I became human, don't ask, and now I'm me but I can be a droid too.
 Maybe complicated does equal me. 
 I might not even be a SW character for long. (Yes, I know about characters. I have special privileges.) The Writer is considering moving all of us to our own place, so that we can be published -yay!- but that would mean that Duadi couldn't-
 Duadi says to stop talking now.
 I'll stop talking about her at least. Fair, right? So, I'm sort of hoping we move, but it'll be scary. I'll have to be something else before I can really be me, and a lot of things that happened can't because different writers were involved with us and Adi will need a new weapon. There's an idea for that -I call it mine- but it might not work and I'm not comfortable leaving Coruscant and
 ...
 blog posts = fail

Sienna

Hullo. What brings you thither, then and anon? Why do you stand afar, be you friend or foe?
 My apologies. The Writer has been reading The Lord of the Rings, and Tolkien has so deeply penetrated the way she's been thinking that it affects me, despite quoting incorrectly.
 Well, as the title indicates, my name is Sienna. The story behind that, while short, is not for telling unless a reader requests. For now, I will merely tell that I am an authoress (yes, I must insist on the ess) and that I am friends with Alex, who I believe has already introduced himself here.
 As to the real post. The title should have been "Happily Infuriated"; however, as this is my first time here, my name is more suitable. As such, I will leave the subject of being 'happily infuriated' for another time and possibly another person.
 I have been informed by the Writer that I spend too much time on formalities. So, I will do as a dear friend often tells me and, ah, 'loosen up'.
 Now that I'm free from talking like that, I can go ahead and say: the Writer reads too much.
 Whenever I'm not stuck waiting for another drabble to be read, I'm watching the pages of a book turn. As magical as that is, for someone like me, I'd like some writing to be done. Who's with me? ... Except I'm alone here. It's up to anyone who reads to decide whether or not the little people, peeking out from behind the daring strokes of letters, will be supported or cast down. It's up to them -you, really- whether or not we live.
 Be honest. If you're a writer, you know how it really works. You write what your characters do, and hope that they don't do it too fast for you to keep up. If that's not what's happening, then either you've imprisoned them too harshly or you have a writing style I've never seen before.
 Well.
 I'll be very honest: I did not expect my first post to look like that. Apparently, the Writer just let me talk and it filled up what's supposedly a 'quota' of length.
 Thank you very much, for reading and for ensuring that my little peeking self is really alive for awhile longer.