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Something that we started in creative writing– it doesn’t have a name yet, but anyway, enjoy!


I reached out and touched the thick glass of the cryogenic case, which was rimed with cold save for a small patch where it’s occupant’s breath had melted it clear. My double, my twin, my clone— like a daughter and a sister and a stranger all at once. Her eyes were closed— she still slept her artificial sleep.
“When did this happen?” I asked, turning to her handler.

“About six years ago, when you were arrested. You remember? They took blood samples—”

“Of course I remember.” Arrested for hacking a company’s records, to find evidence of stolen DNA— the irony. “Do you think I could ever forget that?” My hands closed against the class, my nails scratching streaks into the frost. “Wake her up.”

Her handler blinked in surprise. “She’s not finished yet, her heart and lungs are still—”

“I said, wake her up.” I stepped back from the case and waited. He was probably right— the clone had likely been frozen as a temporary travelling solution, and her creators had not expected their experiment to go mysteriously missing. Unfreezing her could kill her. But as the handler had explained earlier, she had wanted this. She had wanted to meet me, so let her.

The man didn’t know me, but he had heard of me, and knew better than to argue. Shaking his head, he reached out and tapped a series of keys on the side of the case. A bright orange light pulsed inside, bathing the clone’s ice-blurred face in amber. He pressed his thumb against the lockpad and the door swung open.

She fell forward, barely conscious enough to stop herself with her hands instead of her face. She coughed, her entire body convulsing, as if her lungs were trying to crawl out through her mouth, and for a moment I thought she would choke and die and leave all my questions unanswered. But then she went silent, curling into herself on the hard concrete as the hairs on her body stood on end in the chilly air.

I crouched beside her. “Do you know where you are?”

For a moment she was still; then, slowly, carefully, she pushed herself up on shaking arms and looked around. “I’m not in the lab,” she said, voice hoarse. “I’m not in the case, and you’re here. So I must be in the underground.”

“And how exactly did you know about us?” I stood and walked away. “Did your creators find out? Do you have my memories as well as my genes?”

She shook her head. “No, I found out on my own. Your people on the inside, actually. And Robb helped, too.” She gestured to her handler. “Do you have a blanket or a towel or something? It’s cold in here.”

I grabbed my coat from the chair and tossed it to her. She wrapped it around herself and stood, clutching the fabric close. I stared, fascinated, at her face. “I’d thought you would look more like me,” I said. Her hair was darker, though of course I’d dyed mine, her eyes greener than my hazel. She was thin and wiry like me, but soft— the body of someone kept in stasis for far too long.

But when she smiled, it was my smile on her face. “I haven’t had your broken nose, you haven’t had my genetic mutations. I’m a clone, not a copy.” She reached out to touch my arm and I stepped back, glaring at her. She nodded to Robb, who left the room reluctantly. “Anna, I know this is difficult—”

“No. Don’t pretend you know what I’ve been through, what I’ve done. You share my genes— it’s nothing more than that, and you do not know me.”

“I wasn’t trying to say I do.” Her arms tightened across her chest. “How old do you think I am?”

“You’ve been alive for six years.”

She shook her head. “No, you were cloned six years ago. That one died, and so did the next, but I survived. I am the clone of a clone of a clone, who was made from genetic material harvested from a twenty-five-year-old woman. I am six, twenty-five, a year and a half, all at once. If I can’t answer the simplest of questions, do you think that I can pretend to understand myself— let alone you?” She started to step forward, then stopped short. “You want the gene corporations to stop stealing genetic material. You want to know why they do it, and you want to stop unauthorised clones like myself from being made. Do you think I don’t?”

I raised an eyebrow. “If I’d succeeded six years ago, you wouldn’t exist.”

“That’s in the past. I’m talking about the future.” She seemed to relax a little, a resigned droop curving her shoulders. “I escaped because I wanted answers, just like you. That’s all. And maybe, with my help, you can actually get something done for a change.”

I scratched my cheek, thinking. I still could barely believe that she existed, let alone that she might want the same things as me. Clone or not, she wasn’t me, never could be me— but perhaps there were more similarities than I’d thought. That look in her eyes, for example— earnest, eager and hopeful, it reminded me of myself six years ago. The people who arrested me had taken my blood and my optimism, yet here they were again, waiting for an answer.

I sighed and dropped my arms to my sides. “What’s your name?”

She grinned. “Evie,” she said. “My name’s Evie.”



A Poll for Thee



Taking creative writing was clearly a good idea.


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We worked on writing exercises today, focussing specifically on character development. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the gist of our prompt was “Write a story about a character who obsessively collects things, and an event where this obsession gets them in trouble.” Our teacher then guided us by asking questions such as, “what do they collect?” “Why do they collect it?” and my favourite, “What would they do if someone stole from their collection?” And then we had about fifteen minutes to sit and write.

Long story short, I think I’ve found the narrator for the historical treatises I want to write as part of my worldbuilding, and possibly a main character for a future novel. Her name is Katria Bala; she’s a priestess at a Temple of Knowledge– an archaeist, essentially an archaeologist and museum curator rolled into one. She collects ancient magical artefacts as a way of proving a long-held, academically-unacceptable theory. Confident in her own knowledge, sometimes bordering on arrogant. Also she has a dog.

The other excellent thing was that I was working on a really neat map all through class, so I have a pretty good idea of the basic politics of the world– at least something to go on. And over the course of the writing exercise, I had to start coming up with bits of culture, so I have a foundation there as well.

For a day that started out with me sitting in my car playing The Sims, it’s turned out pretty productive.

About this blog



About daniellewritesthings:

Hi, everyone! My name is Danielle. I’m a writer, or I’m trying to be. I started this blog in case anyone was curious about the process of writing a book from the ground up. More honestly, I started this blog in the hopes that people actively watching me write would guilt me into finishing something for a change.

I’m currently creating a world. It doesn’t have a name yet, or a story, but I believe that creating a world will suggest a story. It worked for Tolkien, so I’m hoping it works for me!

About me:

Like I said, my name is Danielle. I’m a college student, about to graduate from junior college with my associate’s degree of arts, and then on to a university for more degrees. I’m majoring in history, but I also love languages and I have a burning love for fantasy books. I’m not writing to make a living; I’m writing because I love it. I love cats, Battlestar Galactica, long walks on the beach… seriously, I do. Expect the first two to show up here occasionally as well, though I promise to try and keep it to writing.

I’m also on Tumblr. My url is (currently) It is NOT a writing blog; it is mostly shrill fangirling, so if you’re curious what I’m like in person with too much sugar in my system, feel free to check it out.

Beyond that, thanks for visiting my blog, and I hope you like what you see!