The Overlady
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Joined 03-29-04, id: 563080
Author has written 3 stories for Legend of Zelda.

Update: June 9, 2007

I haven't written any fanfiction in a long time. It doesn't look like this is going to change very soon. I'm sorry. I'm such a bad person. -cries- But I've been busy writing an original fic--I've finished book one of the story, in fact--and I just haven't been in the mood to play with Miyamoto's characters, as fascinating as they are. I'll leave the unfinished works up here, in case you, the ever-faithful reader, feels like perusing them once more, but don't look for updates. The chance of them appearing is slim-to-none. If you're really that desperate that you must have more of my writing (or even if you just want to talk to me), send me a PM, either with the email address listed below or with the feature on the site. I'll try to sign in periodically to keep the account active, and I'll still read fanfic, but I bought a little headstone for my fanfic writing days, and am having the epitaph carved in it as we speak (write... read). So, without further ado...

Farewell, and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;
For we've received orders for to sail for ole England,
But we hope in a short time to see you again.

~ The Overlady

A young man of perhaps fifteen years walks onto a stage, and steps up to a podium. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak.

“Yes, in the absence of the Cucco Overlady, I have been asked to step up and update the profile page. Let me begin by introducing myself. I am the Cucco Overlord, though some of you may know me as Owen.” Here he pauses briefly to consult a thick stack of papers in his hands. Scanning momentarily through these, he frowns in annoyance, and tosses them into the air. A passing security guard gives him a ticket for littering.

Finishing his Glare O’ Death on the guard, Owen returns to the matter at hand. “Right, then. About the Cucco Overlady. I ask those with weak constitutions to please leave the area.” He claps his hands twice. An image projects onto a well-placed white sheet. It is of a young girl, approximately in her teens. “This monster that you see before you is none other than one of the dreaded Authors of FanFiction.net! She is Jessi. No canon character can escape her wrath! Note the pale skin, almost glowing from lack of sunlight. And not the really cool glow that Tolkien elves seem to have, no… This is similar to the creepy and harsh glow-in-the-dark glow. Note the crazed and bloodshot eyes, caused by insomnia from reading way too many fanfics long into the morning hours.”

Pausing, he claps his hands and a new image projects onto the sheet. This appears to be a picture of a human brain. Wrinkling his nose slightly in apparent disgust, Owen continues. “We have here the Remembrus Totalus,” he says, gesturing to a sectioned area of the brain, tinted pink, “which allows an author to remember insignificant details about a fandom. Here we have the Lustus Muches, and also the Detestes Muches, which allow an author to love or hate a specific character to their fullest extent,” he continues, gesturing to two identical opposite parts of the brain (colored blue and green). “Here we see the Procrastinator Gland that induces Writer’s Block, busy schedules, forgetfulness, and most of the other excuses authors create to get out of writing the next installment for their works.” He points to a small yellow spot, barely visible to the back row. “And last, but certainly not least, we have the very important Creativus Originallus, which creates original characters and new plot twists, and happens to be responsible for my own life-force.”

He suddenly stops, as a female, slightly older than him, though looking very similar (and rather harassed) steps onto the stage. It is, apparently, his sister.

“Melanie, what are you doing here?” he whispers frantically. She leans over and whispers confidentially in his ear. Blushing slightly pink, he returns his attention to the podium and audience.

“I have just been informed that I am to give you a physical and mental description of the author, rather than warn you about the dangers of one. So, without further ado…”

He claps his hands, and the diagram of an author brain disappears, to be replaced by what is obviously a PowerPoint presentation about Jessi.

“Yes, the Cucco Overlady has short brown hair, brown eyes, is about five foot eight inches tall, and, by the way, doesn’t know how many centimeters that is,” he says, reading off of the suddenly-appeared first slide. “She wears glasses, and proudly proclaims that she can’t see a thing without them.”

Owen drums his fingers uninterestedly as the second slide appears. “Jessi can play the piano, draw slightly well, and, according to those she knows, but not herself, she can sing.” This statement is met with a snort and a mumbled “yeah right”. “She cannot, however, whistle, skip rope, or…” he pauses in slight confusion, “…roll her R’s? It’s amazing she’s not failing Spanish class,” he mumbles to himself.

The next slide… slides into view. “Jessi wishes to express her apologies that she has not updated in a very long time. Chalk it up to any of the aforementioned author excuses.” He has to duck as several of the authors in the audience throw rotting vegetation at him. “You know it’s true! You’re simply in denial!” he yells at them, but only succeeds in getting covered in tomato juice. Resignedly, he wipes the tomato off of his face and gets back to the PowerPoint presentation.

“She says that she may very well be updating Imperfections soon,” here he looks slightly hopeful, “and she announces that she is a mere page or so away from finishing chapter two of Ocarina Song.” He smirks and rolls his eyes, as if sharing some secret joke. ‘A page away? That could take a while.’ He shakes his head sadly and continues.

“She would like to remind everyone that she has a few stories hoarded on her hard drive—which, coincidentally, happens to be all hers now, as her old computer has been moved into her bedroom—and reminds her reviewers to tell her if they like her writing style and would care to see these come up perhaps a little sooner than they are ‘scheduled’ to,” he places heavy sarcasm on the word “scheduled”, “and advises anyone reading this to contact her at either her email address or Instant Message her at Pianomusicfan (at) msn (dot) com (simply remove the words for the appropriate symbols)for her MSN messenger, or Kittykitty42590 for her AIM messenger (which, it is noted, she rarely uses).

“Right, any questions?”

Surprisingly, a few hands are raised.

“You, in the front row.”

“Where is Jessi, anyway?”

Owen pauses. “She is indisposed.”

Somewhere in the back, a voice shouts “What did you do to her?”

Owen shoots an angry glance toward the back. “I did nothing to her, Cat. She is simply too lazy to come here in person.” He gives an irritated sort of sniff—as if to say “Don’t bother me about it”—and looks around. “Yes?” he asks, pointing to a particularly insane-looking author.

“What is your relevance to the Cucco Overlady?”

Owen sighs. “Never, ever, again am I agreeing to update a profile page,” he mutters. Out loud, he answers, “I am the Cucco Overlord! I am Jessi’s favorite original character! I-“

He is cut off by a shout from the back of the room, once more. “Jessi has a crush on him!”

Owen glares at the offending voice. “Shut up, Cat!”

Cat shrugs. “Just stating the obvious.”

Owen is now in full Ticked Off mode. Glaring around at the audience, he sees no more hands, and walks off stage. His sister Melanie rushes on to take his place.

“That’s all the time we have now! I’ll leave you with these words of wisdom: Who needs the balance and check? Screw peer review -what the heck! Send all of your crap to the internet -zap! Who cares if it's nothing but dreck!” And with that she walks off stage, to tumultuous applause.

(Poem taken from . The authors of said poem are David Morin, Eric Zaslow, E'beth Haley, John Golden, and Nathan Salwen.)

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