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Don't Trust the Golden Author... by BigTiggaPwnz
Chapter 1 : STOP WRITING!!!
Rating: 15+Chapter Reviews: 4

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Author's Note: This is the most humble story you will ever read. This is a style of writing I've never used and never seen done before. I know pure originality is a false hope, but I'm full of many things today. I'm glad you chose to give this story a chance.

My only real acknowledgments are Jenna822 for making a great challenge, Bo Burnham for giving me the Vitney Bouston remark, and Jo for giving us the greatest comedian to ever walk the earth: George.

If nothing else, I hope you walk away from this with an inner smile for my use of George. Obviously I don't own George, Roxanne, Fred Jr., Fred the Dead, or Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur. Hopefully I don't get struck down for stealing God's writing style. Have fun, guys.


“All that glisters is not gold.” Oh, yeah! I just got an A! “The end.” You know, you'd expect the class to actually jump up and scream your name when you quote Shakespeare like a champ like I just did, but for some reason, Americans don't care. Come to think of it, I don't either.

“That's it, Mr. Weasley?” my teacher, the hottest teacher ever in the world, asked me.

“I guess so, Mrs. Applebee?” I said with a questioning tone.

“Why are you asking me?” she retorted.

“I dun know. The better question is why are you asking me if I'm asking you?” I've got her this time!


“Eff, Mrs. Applebee? That's not a very convincing syllable. Unless, of course, it's attached to ineffably awesome!” If truth was made out of Mexican jumping beans, I'd be making some pretty mean tacos right now.

“Not eff!” she yelled at me with a whirlwind smackdown of a paper on my desk. “F!”

It was as pronounced as my dad's red hair. It was clear as my innocent heart. It was as lethal as Moldy Voldy, and I have absolutely no idea how deadly he actually was because I'm young and he died like forever ago.

“This must be a mistake!” I pleaded. “I just quoted Shakespeare like Leonardo, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Ber—”

“Those are painters and sculptors, Fred!” she interrupted me.

It took a few seconds before I regained my train of thought. “Yes, but they didn't interrupt people while they were making fools of themselves, now, did they?!” She glared at me. With her cute lips pursed, I had to make one more remark. “And in any case, you say potato and I say tomato.”

She doesn't like my comedy. She doesn't like my timing. She doesn't like my grace. She doesn't like the effort or the love I give. She doesn't even like green eggs and ham. Oh, no she doesn't, said Sam I Am.

“You've failed my class. You've failed yourself. You've failed life in general, and, for one more thing, you've possibly failed a distant civilization somewhere in deep space that might've needed a few extra empty brain cells. Good job robbing them of sentience!” If there's one thing my teacher can do, it's make me laugh. Albeit, in quick reflection, laughing at moments like these, even though it's impossible not to, is a bad idea. “You have one day. ONE DAY!!! Or you not only fail this assignment, but you get two weeks of detention for being an oxygen thief. Got it?”

I nodded slowly, repressing the most severe grin I've ever experienced. The moment she turned around, I cracked it with a giggle. She wheeled back to see what was on my face but I was too quick! Muahaha.

“Did you really have to write in 'Muahaha'?” I ask the writer.

“Yes,” the writer says.

“Why are we having a dialogue in your story?” I ponder aloud.

“Because this is a really weird story, you're a really weird character, and I'm the weird, q uirky uncle no one likes who is coordinating it all,” he says.

“You're a freak,” I tell him.

“If I wanted your insults, I'd have you marry a fat chick.”

“You marry a fat chick!”

“No, in fact, I'm the person with the keyboard and you're the energizer bunny that has to keep going.”

“If I had an imagination likes yours, I'd win an award,” I quip, not really knowing why I'm exaggerating my creator's writing skills.

“If I had any sense of how a story is supposed to actually be written, I'd get on with the story, wouldn't I?” the author asks me.

“Why are you asking me? I'm just the energizer bunny.” My face scrunched up into a poochy-lipped extravaganza. “Poochy-lipped extravaganza? Really?!”

In any case.... I went home that day and told my parents what happened. Needless to say, my dad loved it! He was the king of pranks and antics back in his day. Albeit, he is a wizard and he had a twin to do it all with at Hogwarts. I'm a squib... The squibbiest of all the squibs. I'm related to Harry Potter and I'm a freaking squib! How much a fail is that? Yeah, that big.

Oh, where was I? Oh, yeah! My mom grounded me. She's all like, “You can't be such a smart ass, Fred!” As if I would ever be such a thing. I mean, I'm comedic. Totally different.

So... The writer is aching to put in backstory now. He's really demanding. If you ever meet him, don't ask him for his name. Just sock him in face. I'll give you five brownies for ninety cents on the dollar! ALRIGHT! We'll give them backstory now! Jeez....

My sister, Roxanne, is a witch. Obviously, because God hates me, he decided torturing me with a magical sister was not enough. He had my family move to the States for a job opportunity for my dad. His business, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, is the largest joke store in all the magical world. We moved here when Roxanne was still in my mom. So, naturally, I hate it here. I want to live anywhere else. Most preferably with my favorite cousin Louis.

“So what are you supposed to do for your assignment?” my dad asked me after he sobered up from the recital of today's events. He was always wearing some kind of dashing suit. He said he did it out of irony. After my namesake died, my dad kind of devoted his life to bringing the lulz. Big or small, if it can be seen as funny, he'll do it.

“Well, gracious father of mine, I have to pick a poem that I like, memorize it, and say it to the whole class,” I told him. I don't even like poetry. It's sooo depressing! Why would anyone other than twelve-year-old girls who just realized Edward Cullen isn't real read it?

“And what did you pick today that your teacher didn't like?” He raised his eyebrows in his usual fashion, suspecting that it wasn't even a poem I recited.

“All that glisters is not gold... It's Shakespeare.” I thought it was a good idea.

“And? How does it go?” he asked, waiting for me to elaborate.

“That's all I said. All that glisters is not gold,” I admitted, smirking in an attempt to steer myself out of trouble.

My dad slung his head in acknowledgment. “I did that once to McGonagall back in my day... Fred actually had like ten lines to say,” he confessed. “Well, is that one of Shakespeare's sonnets or plays?”

Whoa! My dad knows something about Shakespeare! “I think it was from a play...”

“You think?”

“Well, I didn't really read all that much on E-notes,” I said, frowning.

My dad shrugged his shoulders. “That must be one of those Muggle interwebs things.” I nodded. “Well, let's find out what that line is from,” he said, sighing like an elephant trying to blow over a tree from a thousand yards away.

After two minutes of research, we found out it was from The Merchant of Venice. “Holy crap! It's actually a part of a poem!” I exclaimed in great relish.

“Yeah....” my dad said, giving me a sidelong glance.

After reading the poem, it hit me: I have to memorize this! “Dad, there's no way I can memorize this by tomorrow! It's five lines long!”

He gave me a dead stare glare. Yes, that bad. I'm glad you know it too. The writer quaked in his boots writing that. Stop interrupting my story, dude! Alright. Yeah, he's still dead stare glaring at me.

“It's five lines long. Exactly. You either memorize that and understand fully for tomorrow or you lose all your entertainment for the next month,” he said, threatening me.

“All my entertainment? What does that even mean?” I'm not stupid, guys, but that's kind of vague.

“All of it. As in, you and I will read math, history, science, and English books and afterward we'll dig five ditches a day. Do you got it? I'm not going to raise you to be dumber than a box of dung beetle balls.”

“What about the Xbox?” I asked in wonder.

“The Xbox will meet the store down the road where the money will meet my wallet and my wallet and I will meet the cigar shop and my cigar and me will proceed to smoke horrible chemicals into the air thus giving you second-hand smoke cancer. Yes, I will do that.” My dad was making some mean truth-tacos right now.

“What do you mean understand fully? We only have to recite the poem for class,” I explained.

“Your class might have to just recite it, but you—yes, you—have to understand what's coming out of your lips. This train you've been riding stopped when you quoted one line of poetry to your class. Stop slacking and get it done.” He spun on his heel towards the door and proceeded out of my room before I could call him back.

What universe is this?! My awesome, crazy, funny-til-the-grave father has gone Major Payne on me! How?!?!

All I could think of was the time that would be wasted trying to memorize these five excruciatingly long lines! How could this happen to poor old Fred Weasley? Really? Life is cruel enough as it is without any magic! My cousins can fly around on their silly little brooms where as I have to take the bus everyday to school. One word comes to mind and it's not making me happy and the writer would write it now but he's pretty sure it's banned and would offend several dozen thousand people, but I'm sure you've guessed it by now so... Yeah.

“Dude, you're whining like Sittney Bears on a bad hair day!” the writer tells me now.

“Who is Sittney Bears and when isn't she having a bad hair day?” I reply.


Anyway, I guess I should start... Whoa! I didn't even realize before now that I already have the first line down pat! For that, I deserve a break!

I jumped down the stairs, bolting for the front door to jump on my bike and find my friends, but, as can be expected with a horrible case of the Life Sucks campaign from God, my dad apparates in front of me to rub his magic all up in my face again.

“Where do you think you're going, young man?” he asked me in the most formal way he's ever addressed anyone.

“I was going to take a break! I have the first line down already! Can you believe it?!” I asked, astonished.

My ever gracious father shook his head minutely. “I'm starting not to.” He heaved another great sigh of anguish before sending me back to my room.

“Dad, you're robbing the world of my creative genius by making me sit in my room like this!” I plead. “Think about the children!”

Slamming my door shut, I was left alone. Isolated and alone. Like a giant library in New Hampshire not yet built. Ineffably alone.

“You do realize that if we keep going on like this, no one is going to read this story, right?” the writer asks me.

“I realize that you are incredibly dim if you think anyone other than your grandmother is ever going to read this mangled garbage of syllables!” I roar back at him.


“Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Let's finish the story and then we can go our separate ways, okay?” I said, trying to reach a compromise.

He nodded, still in silence, sitting on the Fourth Wall.

So I'm never going to be able to finish this poem. It's like thirty-two words long and I only have the first six done. Seriously, I'm toasted like "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn in Greece. Yeah, that bad.

“All that glisters is not gold; often have you...” I trailed off, only knowing three words from the next line. “Well, Houston, we have progress.”

“My name isn't Houston,” says the writer.

“Seriously? You're interrupting like a mooing cow!” I tell him, trying to get back to the actual story instead of his random asylum-escaping words.

“I saw that.”

“I know you did, stupid! You're writing them!”


My thoughts somewhat trailed off from the poem to music. My dad had turned everything in my room off magically. Lucky for me, I had a decent inner beat. I started drumming with a pencil I had found hidden in my backpack. My desk wasn't a good conductor of sound, but neither was my thigh, my hand, arm, or any part of my leg. The only part of my room that wanted to echo any noise was my head.

“I knew you had no brain!” the author quips.

“Shut up!”

I kept reading the poem over and over again, hoping beyond hope it would lead to some mutilated form of memorization. Through the time I was reading it, I kept drumming the pencil on my head, creating a rhythm between the beat and the poem.

It was as if something clicked in my head and I knew how to memorize it! Eagerly, I jumped into my new found method, creating a whirlwind of knowledge swirl in my head.

Before going to his room that night, my dad stopped in my room to see how the memorizing worked. “Did you actually do any of it?” he asked, hopeful for two words written on his face.

I nodded, a big smile stretching across my face. “I know the whole thing and the meaning. I guess I should say thanks for pushing me, dad. Even though the poem looks morbid and emo, what with the worms enfolding the tombs and selling your life for gold, it has a really cool message.”

He smiled, nodding while leaving my room.

It was a peaceful sleep that night. Not like all the other nights where I dreamed of clowns with wands chasing me on brooms, poking at me, trying to find the magic in me. Don't worry, everyone. I got one of their noses and I use it as a protection talisman now in all my dreams, especially the ones with the vampire unicorns.... If hatred were made of blue cheese, I'd move to Wisconsin. Yes, that cheese.

“I hope you have your assignment done, Mr. Weasley,” Mrs. Applebee whispered dangerously to me in the hall, making me chill with excitement.

“Psh! My head has more lines memorized than Vitney Bouston's coffee table!” I remarked, happily. Okay, the joke might not be true, but it's still funny.

“You totally stole that from that guy from YouTube!” the writer whines.

“You did! You wrote it! You own this!” I hiss back.

“Oh, we got a paralegalist up in here now! Oooo!”

“Okay, Hariah Carey, let's see if we can finish this in a decent amount of words and mind-splitting headaches, okay?” I ask the author, for your sakes.

He nods whilst holding his fist up for silence. Or power. Either way, he's going to jail for stealing me from my original author.

Mrs. Applebee summoned me to the front of the English class to recite my poem later on, after I got my writer under control. “Please tell us who the author is, Fred,” she said—in a droning voice, no less.


“Oh, for the love of bloody unicorns and—”

“WHERE?!!?” I screeched. The class immediately laughed at my high-pitched scream. Mrs. Applebee gave me the same dead stare glare that my dad did the day before. “I mean... Where can I stand to read my poem?”

“You're fine where you are,” she answered, her eyes narrow in concentrated consternation.

“Why, thank you! You're not so bad yourself!”

“Read your poem before I give you two years worth of detention for stealing my oxygen and time!” she roared. Yes, she roared.

“Okie dokie then...” I whispered to myself. “All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told. Many a man his life hath sold but dot dot dot. And dot dot some more dot.” I looked at my teacher with expectation of hollering, and maybe a kiss or two, but that can wait.

“Well, it's a full poem, although I don't know about the dot dot dots. Good job. You survive one more day in this jungle called high school. Can you tell us what that poem means?” she asked, a half-frown still on her face.

“Not everything in life that is the most expensive, pretty looking, or shiny is going to be the best. Sometimes you find that the most worthwhile things in life are those that aren't the ones that catch your eye the first time you come up to bat,” I explained. “Especially morals of stories, because this one is awful. Also, the dot dot dot is a metaphor for wanting to put in a full Shakespearean poem, yet being denied by The Man, although The Man is actually a great person and if The Man reads this, I hope They know how cool I think They are.”

My teacher looked like she was about to cry. “Did I say or do anything wrong, Mrs. Applebee?” I asked, waiting for the rain of death to come down on my head from her super huge, body-building husband for making his precious wife tear up.

“No, no, no, dear child. It's just that this is the first time you've ever spoken a full, complete thought without having some kind of joke or remark attached.” Truth tacos, my friends. Truth tacos...

I shrugged my shoulders, giving my poochy-lipped 'yeah, I'm awesome' look the best I could.

“I think you deserve a kiss for this one, my dear student,” she said, walking to give me the one thing every guy in our class desired.

And as we came closer for the proclamation of all things good and holy, I heard the drumming sound on my head, and another weird sound.... Almost like...

“WATER!!!” I screamed as I sat up in my bed. “What the bloody hell, dad?!”

“I've been wanting to test that Fantasy/Hell-filled Dream Potion forever!” he shouted, jumping around my room as I laid soaked in my bed.

“You are the worst father ever!” I bellowed.

“And the best part is I watched the whole thing! It was hilarious!” my dad exclaimed in his own great relish.

My face went white. “You saw everything?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! I even saw who your teacher was!” His face was beaming a bright smile—a huge smile at his son. “Don't be ashamed. All of us Weasleys had a crush on her at some point.”

My face was drenched in shame. “But dad, you don't understand, Uncle Bill will kill me if he finds out,” I plead.

“And he is! I'm going to put this in a Pensive and share this great moment with everyone! You are going to be the poster child for this product!” he said, explaining his own little story. “At least you're not actually a squib!”

My dad skipped out of my room that day, allowing me to lay back in my soaked bed, on the verge of tears, thinking of my stupid, awesome, crazy as a panda on a New York subway, induced dream.

“I loved writing this!” the writer says.


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