the mira hour

this the intro to a book i am contemplating writing, please tell me what you think!


I was never a brave man, or rather I had enough sense to be a coward. I thought that it whole protect me, and to some extent it did. I never got in trouble, I sat in the back of a class room, and most of all I never, ever talked to Mira three. But in the end it did not matter at all, Mira talked to me.
Lets start with an introduction. I am annoyingly short with brown hair and dull eyes, just an average drone going about his business. I am a well respected man, or was one short hour ago. I had a good, albite monotones job in teach support and a plastic plack on my desk that proudly stated my name as phill R miller. Everyday I drove the two miles to work in my freshly ironed suite. On this particular day however I was running late because of a traffic jam and so was a bit frazzled, hair no longer combed to perfection, but sticking up in strange gravity deifying feats. I had just retrieved a warm cup of english tea from the employees lounge at work, yes tea not coffee, I have a refined palette unlike you caffeine lusting savages! On any account the day started out fine with me typing away at my computer and it continued that way until exactly 2 in afternoon, that was when Mira three arrived…


on spelling {or not}

to anyone who has ever thought that they could not learn [and then been proven wrong]:

i have always had a bit of an obsession with stories, and by the first grade my greatest dream was to become an author, i spent hours coming up with plots and characters, and i loved it. but i have a learning disability by the name of dyslexia witch makes it difficult for me to spell words.after years of being told by my teachers that they could not read my writing because of the mistakes i gave up on the the whole author thing. however finally after all of that some one told me something that changed everything.’the story is in yore mind, and the spelling is just the translation.”