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href="http://www.flurry.com/pushRssFeed.do?r=fb&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Ffeeds.feedburner.com%2FFictionalMoments" src="http://www.flurry.com/images/flurry_rss_logo2.gif">Subscribe with Flurry</feedburner:feedFlare><feedburner:feedFlare href="http://www.wikio.com/subscribe?url=http%3A%2F%2Ffeeds.feedburner.com%2FFictionalMoments" src="http://www.wikio.com/shared/img/add2wikio.gif">Subscribe with Wikio</feedburner:feedFlare><feedburner:feedFlare href="http://www.dailyrotation.com/index.php?feed=http%3A%2F%2Ffeeds.feedburner.com%2FFictionalMoments" src="http://www.dailyrotation.com/rss-dr2.gif">Subscribe with Daily Rotation</feedburner:feedFlare><item><title>costume</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/f2MGEmbtwOk/costume.html</link><category>kidnap</category><category>3rd person</category><category>superhero</category><category>anti hero</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Fri, 04 Jun 2010 23:24:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-4378114915480918965</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2010-06-04T23:24:34.385-07:00</atom:updated><description>"That's a pretty good costume you got there." The voice in his ear crackled through the tiny ear piece.
"Well, I can't have anyone recognizing me." He grumbled back angrily. "Our terms, remember?"
"Of course, I remember Mr. Dyer. It was in fact, I that came up with such terms." The voice chuckled. "Or do you need me to remind you."
"No, I don't need another reminder."
"If you save the city from the vermin that rule the city, I'll give you your pretty, picture-perfect family...&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/f2MGEmbtwOk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2010/06/costume.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>(untitled)</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/f-YBBtQFEjc/untitled.html</link><category>creature feature</category><category>third person</category><category>horror</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Tue, 25 May 2010 23:21:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-8129835263189275780</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2010-05-25T23:33:22.835-07:00</atom:updated><description>It came while Annie was asleep. It crawled up her bedpost and scampered across her pillow. It twitched and &amp;nbsp;then rotated around as if looking around. Which was an odd thing for this creature, as it had no eyes. Nor did it have any antennas of any formHow it was able to sense Annie's mouth is a mystery. This creature has never been discovered by the scientific community And the chances for its discovery are very very slim.Posted via email   from Fuffy's posterous  Remember: this post is...&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/f-YBBtQFEjc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2010/05/untitled.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>This is messed up</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/jHaWxSq0v-c/this-is-messed-up.html</link><category>mystery</category><category>amnesia</category><category>first person</category><category>post-apocalyptic</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Tue, 19 Jan 2010 15:51:00 PST</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-8714051002024065020</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2010-01-20T00:01:47.470-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>The world as we know it ceased to exist at 8:34. Or at least that's what it appeared to be. There doesn't seem to be anyone here that will tell me. Anyone friendly, that is. Because there does seem to be people, shooting at me every once in a while. couldn't tell you why, on account of waking up with no memory of what happened.





&amp;nbsp;All I remember is my childhood. The last thing I remember is my 8th birthday. Then I woke up. In the hospital. With a wristband around my wrist. Ray Parks....&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/jHaWxSq0v-c" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2010/01/this-is-messed-up.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title></title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/hMbNtDfH870/this-blog-isnt-dead.html</link><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Tue, 06 Oct 2009 21:51:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-4063541292946179009</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2010-01-19T16:53:40.656-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>this blog isn't dead. It's coming back. I swear.Remember: this post is licensed under a 
Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Canada license.
 That means you can take it, change it, sell it, eat it, throw it in someone's face.
 Which ever one it is, make sure you give me credit. &lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/hMbNtDfH870" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2009/10/this-blog-isnt-dead.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Instinct</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/cTHhQtT0chM/instinct.html</link><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Mon, 02 Feb 2009 13:30:00 PST</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-1196654215621437654</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2010-01-19T16:53:11.163-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>That morning, there was something in the air that told him not to go. Normally he followed his instincts. So, normally, he wouldn't have gone. Instincts were everything in his line of work. Everything. It was the only way you qualified for what he did. Because if you didn't qualify, you'd be dead and gone. No one would ever find you. They were good at making people disappear. All those Missing Peoples cases that you hear about on tv? Most of them didn't qualify. David qualified. And David...&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/cTHhQtT0chM" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2009/02/instinct.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Cut Me Up Inside</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/Be40iKq1Z6Q/i-cant-see-you-anymore.html</link><category>first person</category><category>sci-fi</category><category>Supernatural</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Sun, 04 Jan 2009 23:19:00 PST</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-7771545877553597828</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2009-01-05T00:40:39.232-07:00</atom:updated><description>"I can't see you anymore." She was standing in my doorway, dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a leather jacket. 
"What are you talking about?" I asked, after clearing away the lump in my throat.
"I can't see you anymore. You keep hurting me." She looked to her left as she spoke these words. I stick my head out of the door to try and see what she's looking at. Nothing. She starts to turn away. I reach out and grab her by the wrist and pull her back towards me.
"What's that's supposed to mean?"...&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/Be40iKq1Z6Q" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2009/01/i-cant-see-you-anymore.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Alleyway and "Sara"</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/h8mBZDpTszw/alleyway-and-sara.html</link><category>fiction</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Thu, 25 Sep 2008 13:53:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-2399963655165866961</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-09-25T13:57:06.061-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>"Sara" watched the man that was half a block in front of her. Of course Sara wasn't her real name, it was just the name her client knew. She popped her gum. The man up ahead paused and looked around him. He looked around the dark alley way before continuing. When he started walking, Sara started walking. There was after all, no point in hiding herself. None at all. The client had made it very clear.Remember: this post is licensed under a 
Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Canada license.
 That...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/h8mBZDpTszw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/09/alleyway-and-sara.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Rain Delays</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/okCM_pC2g6E/rain-delays.html</link><category>fiction</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Fri, 29 Aug 2008 13:24:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-725435342619231948</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-08-29T13:41:42.144-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>The rain was coming down so hard, that Madison thought she was going to drown. Or freeze to death. She pulled her arms tighter around her chest, trying to stay warm. Not that it helped any. She closed her eyes and looked up in to the sky, silently asking it to stop the rain. It didn't listen to her. The rain continued to drive right into her bones, like millions of needles. She lowered her looked down again and rubbed her stinging eyes with one hand. The only good thing about her situation was...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/okCM_pC2g6E" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/08/rain-delays.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Soul Sucker</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/rOmrl4X1cXs/soul-sucker.html</link><category>first person</category><category>Supernatural</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Fri, 11 Jul 2008 15:45:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-8903617824498686649</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-11T15:45:01.096-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>Have you ever seen a demon? No? What about a vampire? No? I bet you've never heard about this sort of supernatural creatures as well. I mean in credible newspapers and the like. Movies and books and podcasts don't count. I'm talking about real life. Like how in real life, if I were to punch you in the face it would hurt alot. You'd probably die. Die painfully. But if you were reading one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books and "you" got punched, it wouldn't hurt, would it? Unless you...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/rOmrl4X1cXs" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/soul-sucker.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Grandpa Killer</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/SSBlPum_0tQ/grandpa-killer.html</link><category>serial killer</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Thu, 10 Jul 2008 22:21:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-5850466632744187193</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-10T22:22:57.933-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>Tyce and Owen were sitting on his front porch, reading the paper.

"Did you hear about this Grandpa Killer fellow?" Tyce asked him, not looking up from the paper. Owen was doing the crossword puzzle. He had be seething since he had turned on the tv and saw the TV anchorman dub him the Grandpa Killer.

"No." Owen answered, trying to sound like he wasn't really paying attention.

"You know that serial killer that's been killing people in town lately?" Tyce put down the paper. Owen sighed...&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/SSBlPum_0tQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/grandpa-killer.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Labyrinth Riddle Twist</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/8AwPkmhAfNo/labyrinth-riddle-twist.html</link><category>first person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Wed, 09 Jul 2008 22:02:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-7254428160986205273</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-10T08:13:30.980-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>I have a friend that professionally runs ultras. Ultras are ultra marathons, for those of you not savy enough to know. Meaning that they are races that have a longer distance than your run of the mill marathons. If you think it's crazy to run several hours in an urban environment, then try running for serveral days, in the some of the world's most extreme environments (ie the desert). Add to that the 60 or so pounds you have to carry around with you (food, water, tent ect.). People that run...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/8AwPkmhAfNo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/labyrinth-riddle-twist.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Countdown and Chances</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/t-i62GIiL_Y/countdown-and-chances.html</link><category>bank</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Tue, 08 Jul 2008 21:14:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-7204139819069834965</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-08T21:21:19.130-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>"Please God, make me a stone." He mumbled as he followed the women and her kid. He glanced at his watch. 1500h. He watched the two in front of him. He was 95.6% sure that they were heading in. 

"Where are we going?" The little girl turned to her mom. 

"Mommy needs to get some money out." The women told the little girl, patting her on her hair.

Correction- 100% chance of them entering a bank. 

"How much are you going to take out?" The two had reached the doors or the bank.

"Just a little...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/t-i62GIiL_Y" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/countdown-and-chances.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Whispered Night</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/dkhxMjSzULc/whispered-night.html</link><category>first person</category><category>horror</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Mon, 07 Jul 2008 21:46:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-5266400663231794272</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2009-09-06T14:00:02.264-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>"Kill!" A voice hissed in my ear. It wasn't human, the voice. It wasn't human. I squeezed my eyes shut. I clapped my hands over my ear.



"Go away!" I whispered. I was so scared. But mommy and daddy didn't understand it, so I stopped calling out to them. It felt like I was losing control. Something was creeping into me.



"Kill!" The same voice again. I whimpered. The voice chuckled. It sounded like 2 really really bad people talking at the same time. Saying the same words. 



"Go away....&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/dkhxMjSzULc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/whispered-night.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Sister</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/s8bFUv-1hcA/sister.html</link><category>drugs</category><category>first person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Sun, 06 Jul 2008 21:54:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-5974128719619235478</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-06T21:57:45.481-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>I stared at the girl before me. Her face, which was blackened by dirt was now streaked with tears. I could see her pale skin in the tear steaks. She was shaking all over. It was from withdrawal. I looked away from her, disgusted.

"Please, I just need more money. It'll be the last one I ever buy." She grabbed my arm. I pushed her off me.

"I don't know you." I told her, rubbing the spot on my arm where she had grabbed me. 

"Please, Morgan." Her voice was muffled by her hands. I could tell she...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/s8bFUv-1hcA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/sister.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>How to Beat a Wizard</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/rw7nRC8P6ck/how-to-beat-wizard.html</link><category>war</category><category>magic</category><category>Fantasy</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Sat, 05 Jul 2008 22:54:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-3379066237639534673</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-05T23:12:23.950-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>The ugly guy was standing before her, beginning the words to some spell that she didn't know. The guy was actually a wizard. Or a witch. Or a mage. Or a war lord. Or a warlock, even. She didn't know the difference between them all, after all, she had just begun to learn the Craft. Which also meant that she shouldn't be here, standing before someone who was clearly more skilled at Craft than she was. But their enemies were winning. And they had a serious shortage of Craft workers due to them...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/rw7nRC8P6ck" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/how-to-beat-wizard.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Fall of Berlin</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/pIIawbGE2Bw/fall-of-berlin.html</link><category>World War II</category><category>Historical</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Fri, 04 Jul 2008 23:29:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-6823851637935995933</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-05T00:09:13.098-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>Adelaide had to run to keep up with her mamma. Mamma was terrified, and she screamed for Adelaide to hurry up. There was a screaming whistle. Everyone on the street scattered. Adelaide turned and ran to one of the few remaining buildings with doorway arches. Her mamma was right beside her. Adelaide buried her face into her mamma's dusty, old, scratchy jacket. It was also smelly. There was no more heat in the city, and so mamma and Adelaide had started wearing their jackets during the day. It...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/pIIawbGE2Bw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/fall-of-berlin.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Panic Button, Among Other Things</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/_GmKBLwM_H8/panic-button-among-other-things.html</link><category>first person</category><category>kidnapping</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Thu, 03 Jul 2008 15:45:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-7655875365277707222</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-03T15:47:19.513-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>"The panic button alarm is an amusing sound," my mother was squaking on the other end of the line. "If you like nails on a chalk board." She continued. "If you like to eat stringy cheese." My mother hated that stuff. I never bothered to find out why. "Like that kidnapper that kidnapped those three kids, he must think that that the panic button alarm is an amusing sound." Honestly I wouldn't know. I don't even know what sound she was refering to. That and I had only kidnapped 1. I don't know who...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/_GmKBLwM_H8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/panic-button-among-other-things.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>IV of Caffeine</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/zAxxXKA8l8w/iv-of-caffeine.html</link><category>first person</category><category>sci-fi</category><category>apcolyspe</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Wed, 02 Jul 2008 23:14:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-5493167482151287502</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-02T22:20:03.290-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>Every once in a while, I wonder if I'm actually insane. But in this moment, I'm not wondering that. I'm already suffering from withdrawal symptoms. A headache that won't go away. Parker, my pet pig follows me silently. Since the event, everyone started bringing their dog with them everywhere, among other essential items; such as phone, and a weapon.  I stumble up a large pile of rocks. Parker grunts and looks at the rocks before him. With my free hand, I rub my face. I forgot briefly, while I...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/zAxxXKA8l8w" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/06/iv-of-caffeine.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>Chipotle Dressing</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/kbbWpQJNhuo/there-was-chipotle-dressing-all-down.html</link><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Tue, 01 Jul 2008 11:31:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-6061672955110795338</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-02T22:15:29.866-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>There was chipotle dressing all down the front of her dress. And she was storming down the street because of it. Well, more like what caused the dressing to be all down her dress. Her boyfriend. She muttered quietly to herself, and almost ran over an elderly man. She started to apologize, but stopped when she heard the swears coming out of his mouth. Apparently, the man thought that she didn't understand Cantonese. She ignored the man and headed up to her apartment. 

As she was ruffling around...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~4/kbbWpQJNhuo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</description><feedburner:origLink>http://fictionalmoments.blogspot.com/2008/07/there-was-chipotle-dressing-all-down.html</feedburner:origLink></item><item><title>The Unitary Scout</title><link>http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/FictionalMoments/~3/dUT5gWAu-S8/unitary-scout.html</link><category>sci-fi</category><category>third person</category><author>noreply@blogger.com (Kristina)</author><pubDate>Mon, 30 Jun 2008 13:14:00 PDT</pubDate><guid isPermaLink="false">tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4834699915953806634.post-7004934938403806805</guid><atom:updated xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">2008-07-02T22:15:29.866-07:00</atom:updated><thr:total xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0">0</thr:total><description>"Wishes are like stars that you hold in your hands." The old lady was telling her. Kim fought the urge to roll her eyes. Everyone knew that stars were really just enormous balls of burning gases. Secondly, that sentence made no sense. Everyone also knew that. Everyone, but the old lady, apparently. Kim looked down the dusty road. Then she looked back at the old lady. The old lady was reaching out a gnarly, twisted hand. Kim instinctively jerked away from her. The old lady didn't seem to notice...&lt;br/&gt;
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