Posted in Writer's Craft



A short story by: Alicia Mooers

I hadn’t had a drink in nearly 10 years, however as soon as I got to my high school reunion I knew that was about to change.

I had bought an impeccable tweed suit for this occasion, the pairing of my palomino tweed with a raspberry button-up could not have looked better. I do hope it survives high school. The 3-hour production of a short, coiffed hairstyle I was sporting was looking mighty fine, if I do say so myself. I will need this suit for my sister’s wedding on Thursday as well. One last check and fluff of my pumpkin spice latte colored hair and I mumble “You got this, Willie” to my reflection in the trophy case adjacent to the circus doors, and I walk in.

As I entered, the old musty sock smell that seemed to take permanent residence in the “vintage” gymnasium instantly reminded me of my personal hell, P.E. class in freshman year. I haven’t run a mile collectively since those dark days.

The gym is decorated in maroon and gold. The faded colours of the same decorations that are brought out every occasion are stirring up the old memories of my high school graduation. I remember that my mom had bought me a suit and it was three sizes too big… bless her heart. The combination of my oversized suit and the too-small graduation gown I had ordered made me look a bit like an overstuffed turkey.

There are tables filling the room brandishing the same gaudy centerpieces used at my senior prom, and I watch my graduate class milling around having awkward conversations with their bored spouses in tow. I sit back and watch them struggle to remember all that was dear to them 20 years ago. The faces, I watch one of the head cheerleaders back in the day (who I may have had a giant crush on for the whole of high school – only because she had a “bangin’ bod” – ahh, to be young) as she tries to use her university-educated-with-daddy’s-money brain to identify her supposed best friend from the past. I can practically hear her two brain cells rubbing together from here. But, alas I think it is a lost cause – she just can’t get her perfect, pink fingernail on who is standing before her.

As I chuckle to myself at the sight, I hear an all too familiar screech that hits me like a bludger to the head. “OH. MY. GOD. – WILLIE MIKLET!?!” Instantly, I panic. It couldn’t be… no… I thought she moved out east! As I reluctantly turn around, my eyes land on the one thing I didn’t want to see here. The only high school girlfriend I ever had was standing about 6 feet away from me. The unparalleled existence of Margie Rynne, yes, as in sounds like margarine. Oh god. No. This can’t be. If there is anything in this whole world that will knock me off track… it would be Margie, 5 minutes would turn anyone to drink.

Wow, she looks exactly the same – and not in a good way, nothing has changed since our 6-week totally 80’s awkward-fest we called a relationship. First I see the long, matted blonde hair with her signature immaculate straight-across bangs… The only feature not radically 80’s on this girl. I always thought that hair of hers made her look like some sort of seriously abused Barbie doll. Like, “left in a mud puddle outside for weeks and then put in the dryer,” kind of abused. I also see that she still hadn’t figured out makeup. Now, I’m not saying that I am some sort of makeup guru of any sort, but I do know that mascara is not supposed to double as an eyeshadow. Yikes. I still remember having to clean clumps of thick, black, mascara clumps out of my mom’s good Christmas towels because Margie decided they made the perfect tissues on one self-conscious night. Everything about this hen made my sober brain crave a drink. I decided, sober or not, I would get through this night with Margie. I put on my best fake smile and yelled back “Margie! *sigh* Long time no see!” my best futile attempt at appearing excited.


The next thing I know she’s practically strangling me, I know she’s wearing those god-awful fake nails with some sort of rhinestone on the top because they are making tiny canyons in my flesh. Ow. I inhale the regrettably familiar scent of Margie, Cotton Candy and bad breath. Dear Lord, I think her breath actually got worse. As she squeezes, I feel like I am sinking deeper into an endless void of polyester and spandex. “O.M.G Willie.. You just went and became a little hottie-patottie didn’t you?!? I bet you have all the girls fawning after you dontcha?” I don’t even comprehend what this gluttonous mass standing in front of me said because I am too busy focusing on the repulsive slap of her chewing gum that might as well be hitting me in the face. She looks at me expectantly. Did she ask me something? Oh dear, what did she say? I decide on a slow nod accompanying a “Yeeess…” She looks content so I guess that was the right answer. I look past her enormous face and just beyond the large, neon enamel earring staring into my soul, I see an open bar. Yes! My salvation. I say “I think I’m going to go and get a drink…” and then, when I thought the coast was clear and I could happily avoid her for the rest of the night… “Oh, Willie! You always were such a sweetie, don’t tell me you’re still too nervous to ask me if I want a drink?” I stared at her. She stared back, a sickening grin bounding from ear to ear stretched across her face. I turned to go, defeated, and behind me I could hear the clicking of her heels as she followed me to the bar. I decided Margie was as good a reason as any to start drinking again. Otherwise, this was going to be a long night.

I lumbered up to the bar, with the clicking not far behind and ordered a gin and tonic. As the bartender handed me my drink, I heard an “ahem” on my left. Margie was standing there with her enormous cow eyes flitting between me, my drink and the bar. Another “ahem” and I caught on. This narwhal beside me wanted to order her a drink. Seriously. By this time the bartender asks “… and for the lady?” looking straight at me. I grumbled “Whatever will get her drunk…” and left.

I found a nearby table covered in “Congrats Grad!” confetti and a faded maroon tablecloth. Settling into a hard, plastic chair that is decorated with multiple carvings, one of which is a rather large engraving of a lopsided heart with a “Jace” professing his love for a “Madi” … “Jace and Madi 4 Eva!”

As I am getting comfortable and lifting the glorious gin and tonic to my mouth, I hear the clicking again. Before she can get any closer, I take a big gulp of my drink. The intoxicating buzz of bubbles on my tongue sets off a rush of instant gratification and I started to remember less and less why I quit drinking in the first place. The clicking gets closer and then is beside me. Then the pecking begins. “Sooo when did you get a little chunky in the trunky?” or “Why did we even break up in da first place?” her voice is reminiscent of a dog toy. I keep sipping and nodding.

After what feels like an eternity of meaningless questions, and about 6 gin and tonics later, she starts with “Willie, you think *hiccup* we could *hiccup* reconnect?” when I say nothing back, she inches all 200 pounds of pleather and cheetah print closer and hisses the words that are only ever brought up after eight vodka shots and ten years “Like in an intimate way”. I struggle to keep the gin and tonic down. I may be drunk but all the alcohol in the world could not make me get with Margie ever again. I say “no Margie, we had our times… you’re very drunk, and I don’t think you wouldn’t be saying that sober.” Her grey eyes burn into mine. They start to puff up. Crap, she’s about to push me down a waterslide I did NOT sign up for.

“How could you!?” *hiccup* she continued with “I am NAAAT drunk…! I still love you Willie! Why do ya think I came back to this hellhole?” *hiccup* “The thought that I would’ve have a chance with you again is the only thing that keeps me …”


Yes, Margie Rynne vomited on my new tweed pants. Wonderful. I guess I’m going to need a new suit for my sister’s wedding on Thursday after all. I stare up at the leopard print porpoise that ruined them. Behind her matted yellow head of hair, I see the whole reunion laughing. A couple of them have big lumps of the Welcome Back Class of 1987 cake in their hands, others are in the corner holding handfuls of confetti and chips near the industrial fans. What in the world is about to happen?


Now I understand all the food in people’s hands. I stand up, unzip my smelly, soggy pants and add to the noise of by yelling “STRIP FOOD FIGHT” – don’t ask what possessed me to do this, because I don’t know – but to my surprise everyone actually listens. I grab a chunk of cake from the table nearby, I ball it up in my once beautiful tweed pants and chuck it at a previous football quarterback who, upon impact, squeals like a girl I once dated at the sight of a bumblebee. A miraculous thing happens next, he turns and right when I think he’s going to charge, yells across the madness “nice shot!” and continues to pelt people with napkin-made spitballs.

I hear clicking behind me and for the first time all night I don’t care if it’s Margie. As I turn, it’s the brainless cheerleader I had observed earlier, now pants-less and standing right in front of me. She says nothing except – “You’re actually pretty cool” and plants a highly intoxicated kiss on me right in the middle of the chaos. Better than Margie I guess.

When the drunken cheerleader becomes bored with me and goes back to her football-star husband, I decide this has been enough fun for one night. As I turn to leave the chaos I started behind me, I see a half of a cheetah print ball laying facedown under one of the tables. Margie must have either died or it couldn’t handle all the physical activity and liquor, and so it passed out. I walk over to the large spandex covered gluteus-maximus and poke it with my shoe. The mass of Margie Rynne grunts, well she is at least alive. I turn to leave.

One last look at the chaos that my high school reunion and I see “nerds” fighting alongside “jocks” – something that would’ve never happened all those years ago. I see Margie’s rump sticking out from under that table. Banners are being ripped down and being used as shelter. There’s chip shrapnel flying and cake-confetti mixture splattering on nearby walls, various items of clothing decorating the floors but still the gym sock smell remains.

I walk through the doors and out into the hallway. The same trophy case that self-selected its own glory is staring me in the face and my once perfect hair is misshapen and cake bits are doubling as styling gel. I now have a quite literally raspberry coloured shirt, as I am coated in berry juice. My tweed jacket has seen better and I sigh for my missing tweed pants.

I would get them cleaned, if only I could remember where they ended up.

Posted in Writer's Craft

I am Number 4 Movie “Review”

Hello peeps. I wrote this movie review for my Writers Craft class and now I am going to share it with you because I think it’s pretty funny.

I am Number Four (IMDB)  – In case you don’t know what movie I am talking about.

I am Number Four Movie review. 

Alicia Mooers

Okay. Let’s start by addressing the fact that the only way this movie would get more than 3 stars from any self-respecting critic is if they were judging solely on abs. There are a lot of alien-boy abs seen in this movie, and that is about the only good thing it is useful for.

Now to move onto the other aspects of this less than satisfactory movie. One thing that should be known is that this movie was adapted from the book series originally written by Pittacus Lore. This is the first and last movie made in the series I hope. For the love of all that is good and holy please do not make any more of these movies, DreamWorks. I am begging you. And, if you absolutely have to make another, may I suggest dropping all the things like dialogue and plot and switch genres to something more fitting for this amount of alien abs… Maybe more of an “Adult Film”. I think you could really have something there.

As with all badly made books-turned-movies; this one was no different. It had an angry, angst-filled teen alien dude who moves around a lot and hates his guardian because of it (but secretly loves him all the same and when he dies in the end, angry alien dude cries), an innocent artsy girl who is somehow not freaked out by the fact that her soon to be boyfriend’s hands glow; and a shady ass lizard-turned faithful dog- turned demon protector dog that is the size of an elephant (which obviously gets injured in battle and I honestly don’t remember if he dies or not. Frankly, I don’t care.)

In the end, all the abs in the world could not fix this preteen wet dream of a movie.


Posted in idk., Writer's Craft

This is not a funny one. Sorry :/

Hey guys, I’ve really missed writing. My life has been so crazy busy lately I just don’t have the time. But tonight I was laying in my bed, scanning Buzzfeed as one does on a Sunday evening, and I came across this heart-wrenching article. Prepare to Cry.

There is an article within this article talking about Dear My Blank, a tumblr blog that lets people write a letter to their exes, the deceased, anybody. Then, they are posted on the blog.

I thought this was a brilliant idea and wrote one to Link.

So here goes.

Hey. I don’t know if you will ever see this but I kind of hope you do. It’s your birthday today, and I have pretended to forget. It makes it less painful. Last year at this time you were mine, I was happy. Oh, you made me so happy. If you somehow are reading this, I still want to have my face on a lunchbox with yours. I want to rule the world with you. I want to talk about nothing for hours again. I would love to make plans to control the world’s minds using our quick wit. I miss you. Last year at this time we were awkward and beautiful. Our whole relationship was awkwardly beautiful. You are awkwardly beautiful. I remember that dimple on your temple every time I smile in the mirror and see two of my own staring back at me. There are so many things I miss about you. That bothers me.
Obvious I know. I don’t think anybody particularly likes missing someone, but what bothers me is not the missing, it’s that I know I don’t still love you but I still miss you. As a friend. I just miss talking. 
You know?
Oh R, you know that every time I look down that bike trail we walked when we were still friends? I look at it and it makes me both sad and happy. I am sad because you aren’t with me anymore, but I am happy because I can still feel your laugh rippling through me and the sun beating down on my neck.
It hurts when I remember that you still talked to some of your other old girlfriends while we were dating. I hoped that if we ever did break up, I’d be one of those girls. Clearly I’m not. It’s been almost a year.
Sometimes I think of texting you. I’ve tried to talk, but you blocked me on Facebook and I deleted your number.
I have heard that you have a new girl now. I’ve heard that you dropped your friends for her. I’ve heard you are happy. Be careful R, I know you. I care about you. Friends are just as important as lovers. Remember that.
Anyway, this is getting lengthy.
I do not wish to become the person I was a year ago, I am in love with the me of 2015. I don’t want to turn back time, nor do I want to become your girlfriend again. I just want to be your friend.
Goodbye, I hope you are happy as a Hungarian Horntail on Halloween.
Okay it’s done now. I’m sorry if I bummed anybody out, but it was a good and emotional piece of writing. Naturally, I have to post it.
Also, I like sharing my life with the Internet. Every like and follower and view I get makes me so happy I can’t even put it into words, and I’m a writer.
So bye.. Next post will most likely be funny.



Posted in Writer's Craft

I HAVE been writing, just not posting :/

Hello people, I am currently gettin’ ma Christmas on. I have tried to keep it in but, alas… The jolly thing reared its sparkly head.

I got some WHAM and Mariah Carey and a bit of Ariana Grande jammin’ and a fluffy old man sweater. Currently very content with life.

Anyway, I just wanted to check in and show you guys some stuff I’ve been doing.

Thing #1

This is a Roundel poem I wrote for writers craft.

Yes, I handed this exact poem in to be marked.

The Lonely Unicorn.


There once was a unicorn. He was a lonely dude.

Very sad, desolate, uncherished and forlorn.

He can seem kind of creepy, always being in a crappy mood.

There once was a unicorn.

Lady unicorns never stay long, no flame is born.

Doesn’t understand why, could it be all the tobacco he chewed?

Or maybe it was because he owned a lot of porn.

Poor unicorn quite bitter one Monday mood,

Hired a stripper, forgot to tip her, must mourn.

Sad, the poor filly, just 7 years old, already working her horn.

There once was a unicorn.

Thing #2

This is a speech for.. You guessed it. Writers Craft.

You’ve got a lovely everything. Ernest Hemingway

Hello. Best (wo)man here. That quote doesn’t actually mean anything but I was reading “How to Write a Wedding Toast” on wikihow and it said to open with an “Eloquent and moving reflection on marriage, love, or soul-binding. Check.

Next, I am supposed to compliment the bride. (Turn to bride) Ooops, I just read my own stage directions. Anyway, Bride, you look nothing like a potato on this day. You’re welcome.

I almost forgot! I am supposed to clarify who I am. Well, some of you might like to know that I actually dumped the groom in grade 10. Now I am the best (wo)man at his wedding. Yup. I don’t have a whole lot to do on Friday nights, as I am a social hobbit. I, being a proud broke-ass writer am not going to turn down some free food that is not actually that free, as it is going to put the lovely couple into 30 years of debt. Thanks, guys.

Now to get all sappy up in the hizz-house.

I remember when Joe came to me saying he met the girl of his dreams, and was not going to let her get away ever. I then smacked him and called him some choice words. I thought he was talking about me and he wanted me back. He was actually telling me about how he met Midi. I then turned as red as a tomato and handed him a bag of peas for his face. We sat down on my couch and I watched as his eyes lit up when he talked of her short blond hair and, I quote, “Cherub cheeks”. We laughed and he told me she is the one. He will marry her one day. I then called him creepy and cooked the now thawed peas from his face.

Now for a cheesy clincher to end this thing. I would like to make a toast to lying, stealing, cheating and drinking.

If you’re going to lie, lie for a friend. If you’re going to steal, steal a heart. If you’re going to cheat, cheat death. And if you’re going to drink, drink with me.

Nailed it.


ANYWHOO, I think we are pretty much done here. Hopefully this will keep you entertained for a while.

AND one last really random thing.

Listen to this Christmas song. You will cry. It will ruin your life. I cry every time.

Good luck.


Posted in Writer's Craft

Something a little different…

This is something I wrote for my Writer’s Craft Class and I just really like it.

The Kiss.

There we were, in my purple and green childhood bedroom. The hard surface of my dumpster-chic twin bed sagging under our weight. The sound of an obscure movie playing on my laptop is a constant. A curious scent of pizza wafted up the vent from my stepbrother’s basement apartment. He, the boy that I magically tricked somehow into becoming my boyfriend, looks at me with his big, brown doe-like eyes. I see the strange dimple on his forehead twitch. The smile that accompanies it could be radioactive. My stomach ties itself into a knot and drops to my feet. Naturally, I start blabbering meaningless words to fill the silence. In a desperate attempt to keep myself occupied on other things than the gorgeous boy sitting on my bed, I start to tidy my dirty clothes pile into a more organized dirty clothes pile. Having something to busy my hands with helps to differ the tension elsewhere. I hear him chuckle behind me at this ridiculous cleaning ritual and hear him leave the bed with a creak. His hand crosses from the small of my back up to my shoulder and he turns me around. A pleasurable prickle shoots up my spine. Both his hands are on my shoulders, I can practically hear those mahogany eyes of his burning my face like the hiss of a summer campfire, a comfortable burn. One of his hands moves from my shoulder, past my collarbone, and rests on the back of my neck. The subtle weight of it tugs at my copper strands. His fingers move smoothly, just a hair’s width away from my skin but somehow the electricity from them is igniting my soul, a flame that has been put out for quite a while now. His other hand moves to my hip. His cool grip rests on my warm body, just underneath the soft corner of my Ed Hardy t-shirt. One final glance and it’s like I’m vinegar and he’s baking soda. The kiss explodes into it’s full glory, an intoxicating touch of his winter-chapped lips crash against mine which are bitten raw. I deepened the kiss, it was not new, this feeling awakened something older and more powerful than the pyramids themselves. I moved my hands to his face and felt the familiar scruff of his stubble underneath the palm of my hand. I would say my heart skipped a beat, but at this rate it was more like my heart had gone and run a mile. The rest of my body just hadn’t caught up yet.

Hey, so it’s over.. tell me if you guys (guy.. there is one of you, I keep forgetting) liked this something a little different from me and I think I’ll continue posting things I like from my Writer’s Craft course.

Be gentle, I am trying something new. Please don’t slaughter me where I stand.

Alicia, (your overlord).