In which Delilah Weaver tags along on a trip to a mysterious island in the Pacific with her Aunt Mason, where she meets a young soldier named Reg Slivko, and a giant 316,000 pound gorilla called Kong.
Started: March 2017
Status: Ongoing
Highest Rank...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
DELILAH
The year is 1973..
"No."
In 1973..
"No."
In the year 1973, a..
"Oh God. I'm awful," I tell my typewriter, ceasing to clack the keys.
"No you're not, Del," Mason says, coming up behind me, placing her hands on the back of my chair.
"You're a brilliant writer. Ideas for good beginnings sometimes come from unexpected places."
I whip my head around in dread, not realizing Mason had entered the room.
"Aww man, how long have you been in here?"
"Ten minutes," she grinned.
I facepalm, groaning into my wrist.
"I like watching my favorite niece perfect her art, what's wrong with that?"
"Maaason, I'm your only niece. I feel so special."
She chuckles and ruffles my fluffy, wavy hair. I usually tie it up because I can't stand it in my face, but when I write I like it down. I like to be comfortable. It helps me slip into my writing, my words, the worlds I create.
"You are special."
"Pfft, I can't even finish one good sentence. I have ideas, they just don't fit together, you know?"
"You'll get it," Mason reassures me, walking into the kitchen to prepare our dinner.
"I hope so," I mumble, slipping the piece of ink-littered paper out of the typewriter. I crumple it and open it again, smoothing it. I crumple it again into a ball and toss it.
Don't be a bother Del, Mason doesn't need to deal with your whining all the time. She's done enough for you – for life.
I stand up from the chair I'd been sitting in for the past two hours only to straddle it backwards facing the kitchen. "How'd your day go?" I ask, changing the subject from my failure of a story.
Mason grinned again, her playful smile revealing that she'd been waiting all day to tell me something.
"Actually, I got a job."
"But you have a job."
"This is different," she says, her eyes lighting up the way they do when she's plotting something crazy. "It's not just for pictures. I think I could learn something to help you write a story– an exposé, per say." She waved jazz hands when she said the word "exposé."
