Cool! Started it. 

Miri hated her name. Vehemently. Every time someone asked for her name she always made one up, like Anne, which was her favorite name. Simple and sweet, like the person Miri strived to be. As she was young and hadn't learned her Roman numerals yet, Miri was exceptionally fed up with the XVI at the end of her already horrid name.

"Mother, why am I Miribelle Frankweiller x-v-i?" She would always ask her mother, Miribelle Frankweiller XV. Her mother's response was always the same, usually because she hadn't the brainpower to give her daughter a detailed reply. This was because Miribelle somehow found the time to ask whenever Mrs. Frankweiller was doing chores or hadn't had her coffee yet.

"Because." And then little Miri would storm off, mumbling to herself about how 'that isn't even an answer', 'it doesn't even answer my question' and other things resembling the shocked spoken thoughts of someone who had been betrayed. Then, one day, that all changed.

~~

Sorry, but I'll have to cut it off there for now. I'll finish it tomorrow. For now, I have life to do. *Sighs and walks away*

Here's mine:

Whenever I used to walk alone down a hallway, I would glance behind me, to see if anyone was following me. I never saw anyone, of course, but I knew that my worst enemy would always be there behind me. Everywhere. At the amusement park, at my school, even behind the shower curtain. The most oppressive enemy you could ever imagine.

It was my name. Miribelle Frankweiller XVI.

When I first learned my name, I was thrilled. I thought it sounded exactly like a princess name. I would wear glittering, full, flowing princess gowns around the house, in pale blue or cotton candy pink or the brightest gold. But as soon as I turned seven, I cast my ball gown phase aside, declaring that I was too old for such childish things. It was then that my name turned from a miracle to a bother, and then from a bother to an arch nemesis.

One day, I came home with my shirt ripped and my knees crisscrossed with scrapes and smears of dirt. I sobbed to my mother that boys at school had punched me when I told them my name, insisting through my sobs that I wasn’t lying. But they hadn’t believed me. I climbed onto my mother’s lap and asked her when I would get a new name.

She laughed and stroked my hair. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t want a new name. All the other names are boring and disgusting. Your name is the best name in the world, because you are named after me! And I’m the best person in the world!” She went on nattering, saying stupid, frilly things and cutting me off. Angered, I jumped off her lap and stormed up to my room.

For the next five years, I dreamed and hoped. Every eyelash, every shooting star, every birthday candle contained the same wish: to get a new name. I kept to myself and avoided meeting new people, because the dread of having to declare my name aloud was overpowering.

On my thirteenth birthday, my best friend Olivia gave me a card. I glumly took it from her, noting with dismay that my full name was printed on the front. My scowl deepened.

“Why are you so upset?” Olivia asked.

“It’s my name,” I admitted. “I hate my name, and I’m sick of it.”

“Why don’t you just go by a nickname, then?”

My frown lifted. “Hey, that’s right!” I exclaimed.

Olivia was still talking. “And then when you turn eighteen, you can go to a government place and get your official name on your birth certificate changed! You can have any name you want!”

Change my name? For good, for ever? It was too good to be true. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Olivia declared.

“Olivia, you’re the best!” I shouted. I threw my arms around her.

She embraced me for a moment, then let go. “So. What name should we pick?” She was grinning.

“I dunno,” I told her. “Maybe something sorta close to my current name, so that it’s easier to remember.”

“Oooh. Let’s see. How about Miri? Or Mira? Mia? Belle? Bella?”

“How about Bella?” I asked. I liked the name Bella. It sounded so round and full. So I was Bella Frankweiller. Perfect.

“YES! Let’s do it!” Olivia exclaimed. “Now come on, or we’ll be late for chemistry, Bella.”

I savored the sound of my new name on her tongue. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Without Olivia, I couldn’t be here today, on my eighteenth birthday, in this boring government office that smells like ink and paper and disinfectant. I couldn’t be sitting at the desk, staring at this form, with a little blank at the end. Sitting there like a question mark, waiting for my answer.

With shaking hands, I write my name on the line. Bella Frankweiller. I slide the answered question mark across the tabletop.

The official’s eyes scan the paper, coming to rest on the signature at the end. Then she tucks it into a file folder on the end of the table.

“Congratulations, ma’am,” she tells me. “Your name is officially Bella Frankweiller.” She turns her head toward the waiting room. “Next!” she calls.

I race out of the conference room, out of the lobby, and onto the sidewalk. Olivia is standing there, waiting for me.

“Did it work?” she asks eagerly.

“Yes! It did work!”

She screeches and throws her arms around me in joy. 

Here's mine! It's pretty short...

The Magnificent Miribelle

“Miss Miribelle Frankwillier the… sixteenth?” The substitute teacher chokes back a snort, his shirt wiggling slightly over his beachball of a stomach.

If one more person laughs at my name…

Shutting my eyes tight, I take a deep breath, feeling the air disappearing from under my cheeks.

“Present,” I call. He looks back down to his list. Quickly, after checking to see if the coast is clear, I stick my tongue at him.

The substitute has infected me. I’m grumpy and sullen for the rest of History class. When he calls on me, my voice is drizzled with spite. He looks at me, rather confused, before shaking his head the slightest bit and moving on to the next person. I know Mr. Balloon Belly doesn’t deserve it, but the way people look at me after seeing Roman numerals added to the end of an already half-ridiculous name like an abrupt snow during late March drives me slightly insane.  

The end of school bell rings, a call from the great wide world outside for us to come explore instead of burning our butts off in this stinking high school. I jump out of my seat like there was a hedgehog on it. Fast as a cheetah, I dash in and out of the other teenagers to the sidewalk.

My left hand sliding up and down the sleeves of my backpack, I turn my face up to the wind and brush my hair out of my eyes as it dances across my face. The sun must be having a good day- it’s coating the city with a bright tint of yellow. Even the scattered, puffy clouds glow a little. My feet take me to my after-school job almost robotically, like they’re mind controlled.

The city noises lull my senses to sleep until I hear a scratchy, pained voice call out to me, “miss!”

I turn sharply to the direction of the sound. I find myself facing a young woman in her late twenties at the most, dressed in worn cloth dangling loosely from her limbs that looks more rough than an elephant’s skin. Her body is caked over with dirt, muck, and misery. In her arms she holds a tiny baby. Her child only has one blanket to cover them, and the blanket looks like a pack of zebras stampeded over it. The two hold themselves as though all of their dignity and hope had been drained out by some invisible force long, long ago. Just the sight makes me want to cry and give them food and a home and a reason to go on.

...But how could I, when I don’t even have a real home? Dad hightailed it out to make it big in Hollywood, and Mom’s a workaholic, trying to drown her sadness in business. Our apartment feels more like an empty cave than a cozy place to live.

Instead, I do one of the only things I can- I take out my wallet that I have on me for lunch money and slip out my $15. Without a word, I hold them out to them woman. She clasps a hand around mine.

“Oh, bless you, child,” she praises. I smile shyly.

“What is your name?” she asks softly, wonder shimmering in her chocolate colored eyes. I bite my tongue. I hate saying my name- it’s so embarrassing to admit my first name is three syllables long and sounds like a fairytale married the seventeen hundreds. Still, I would hate myself if I lied to this woman, so I mumble between my teeth, “Miribelle”.

She nods wisely. “What a beautiful name. It reminds me of a priceless jewel.”

I’ve never been more touched. People have taken a lot out of my name- a jewel has never been one of them.

“Thank you very much,” I respond. “What’s your name?” She smiles, showing teeth yellow as a forgotten field in the summer.

“My name is Freedom.”

The End 

I finished mine! It turned out a little longer than the official word count, but I couldn't really cut it down without it messing up the story. I hope this is okay?? Anyway, here it is. I hope you enjoy it!

______

It was the eleventh hour of the first night of the sixth month, in the year of the Golden Harvest, that I was born. The bells and chimes were set ringing in the hour of my birth, so that all should know of this great event, and they sang their clear tinkling song into the black heavens, just as they had for each noble born before me. 

     I was a healthy, pretty child, rosy-cheeked and golden-haired, just like each of my predecessors. And, in the tradition of our noble line, I was named alike to each female Frankweiller before me. 

     I grew up in a large, grandiose manor, the same home that been passed down my family line ever since my seventeenth-great-grandfather had built it, many, many, moons ago. I was raised among great balls and feasts and all the politics and interworkings of the royal court, for I was a noble, a daughter of the house Frankweiller, and it was a very prestigious name.  

     At the unassuming age of six, while my nurse was brushing my golden hair, I had asked innocently, “Lira, why am I called Mirabelle Frankweiller XVI?” Only I had said “ex-vee-eye”,  because I didn’t know what those letters meant, only that I had seen them in the portraits painted of me, and anytime anyone wrote my name down.

     “Because,” Lira had answered, jerking the brush through a particularly nasty knot. “You are the sixteenth Miribelle Frankweiller in your family. And XVI is there to tell everyone that you are the sixteenth.”

     My younger self had creased her brow thoughtfully and fallen silent for a minute. After I had turned this information over in my mind, I said, “There were fifteen other Miribelles before me? Couldn’t anyone think of anything else to name their children?”

     Lira had laughed. “Miribelle is a family naming tradition. And it’s a very respectable name, too. It means wonderful, admirable, and lovely.”

     “But does no one ever grow tired of it?”

     That wasn’t the point, Lira had informed me. It didn’t matter if they grew tired of it or not—it was for tradition's sake. 

     It wouldn’t be the last time someone said those words to me. 

     When I was still a very small child, I enjoyed it all. The glamour and the grandeur made me feel special, important. My father was a prominent voice in the council and among other nobles, as men of our family had always been. The servants catered to my every wish, I had many lovely things to play with and to do, and plenty of time to spend doing them. I was Miribelle Frankweiller XVI, and I relished it.

     Of course, getting older changes everything, and it was a rude awakening when my innocent, youthful mind realized this fact. Being part of such a prestigious family—being such a public ornament—had many ‘responsibilities’, as my parents put it. As soon as I was old enough, I was bombarded with lessons and studies of all kinds, from the history of our country to ballroom dancing. I had to attend each and every meeting, each and every formal ball that happened anywhere remotely near us, which meant being all primped up in corsets and ribbons and makeup. 

     I once tried to convince everyone to call me Mira. The servants refused out of respect, and my parents refused out of pettiness. My elder sister was the only one who complied—she had been calling me Mira since I was a babe. Of course, so had everyone when I was small. But soon it was only my sister, and only in private.

     As I grew older, I only accumulated more burdens. And my name was a constant reminder of everything I was expected to be. It was a title for a person my parents had built up, a costume I was expected to wear. There was so much. So many duties, so many expectations, so many boundaries. And my name was no longer just a small annoyance; it became a label for all of those things. Miribelle Frankweiller XVI was not who I was, but a shell of a person that I pretended to be.

     Just when I thought nothing could get worse, it did. It was a mere month ago. Several important lords and their sons came to our manor for some business with our father, or so I assumed. My sisters and I attended a ball or two with them—nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed I did not understand why they had come. I was soon informed that they had come to ‘take a look at us’, and to my parents’ delight, they had apparently found us ‘worthy’. I was to be married off to one of them. Upon my disgust and protests, my parents had told me that it had all been arranged already and there was nothing more to be said and I would have to go through with it whether I liked it or not, among other excuses. 

     I did not know what to do. It seemed I was doomed to live with an ugly rich lord ten years older than myself for the rest of my days, for what other option did I have?

     It turned out I did have another option, but it took me weeks to become desperate enough to face it. I didn’t want to do it—I dreaded doing it. But I had no choice.

     I ran away. 

     I struck out exactly three days ago, with naught but my faithful horse and a few necessities. I knew nothing of the outside world. For the first time in my life, I was completely alone. I was scared. But I was also free—free like I had never been before.

     I am still on the road. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ve gained confidence. I’ve stopped at a small rickety inn, where I’m hoping to gain a warm meal and lodging for the night. A stable boy stops me and offers to groom and feed my horse. I thank him and dismount. Taking a closer look at him, he appears to be a few years my senior, though rather short. He grins at me, his green eyes gleaming like jewels inset into his dirt-smeared face; I note he has a certain rugged charm. He tells me his name is Ervin, and then he asks who I am. I’m a little surprised at first—I can’t think of a single time someone hasn’t known who I am. A tiny smile blooms across my lips as I realize how freeing that is. I answer without an ounce of doubt.

     “My name is Mira.”

I’m the last in a long line of thinkers. My mother is a lawyer, one who’s argued for the Supreme Court. Everyone knows to give Miribelle Frankweiler XV respect when she enters a room with her briefcase in one hand and her trusty Samsung in the other. My second-great-grandmother was able to look at inconsistencies in a set of twins’ genetic codes and discover a new mutation, one that was linked to several forms of cancer. One that she was able to eradicate before it claimed any lives. My legacy of thinkers travels back all the way to my seventeenth-great-grandmother, Miribelle Frankweiler the First, who helped write one of the first books on the human anatomy.

My mom always reminded me that I was destined for greatness. That I was going to do something extraordinary. She told me my name was a precious thing and I should wear it with pride, Roman numerals and all. Some would love to be Miribelle Frankweiler XVI. Me? I can’t stand it.

I nearly failed middle school. It wasn’t to spite my lineage or my name or anything of the sort. I simply had realized, somewhere around sixth grade, that there was no way to live up to my parent’s expectations. So I’d just stopped trying. My mom kept telling me, “Miribelle, you need to keep up with your studies. If you work hard, you can be anything. You can be anything.”. I always frowned when she told me that. Yeah, she was saying I could do anything, but she seemed like she was saying I had to do everything. And when you’re a Miribelle Frankweiler, what’s the difference?

So I ran. I cut my hair short with a pair of craft scissors, threw my wallet and phone charger into my backpack, and ran. I boarded a nighttime train heading West. By the time my parents woke up, I was gone.

I’m the last in a long line of thinkers. I have no license, no credit card, no plan. I’m cold, and tired, and without any kind of diploma. The world is my oyster now. Everything is what I make of it. Am I running away from my name? Or am I running towards something new and sweet and all my own?

The first taste of freedom came in the form of a caramel frappuccino. When the barista asked my name, I paused a moment before telling her, “I’m Charlotte. Charlotte Jenkins.”

Charlotte Jenkins the First.

~~~End~~~

I've got my story! By the way, I'm loving everybody else's.

- 

This story isn't about me. It's about my best friend, Miri. Miribelle Frankwieller XVI. She told me not to mention her full name but I kinda have to because this story is about her name. 

Miri and I (I being Olivia Reynolds) have been friends since we were in diapers. When we were six and playing princess and imagining up our regal names, Miri always chose her own. Partly because she's terrible at making up names and partly because it's a very beautiful princessey name. Miri loved her name and inisted everyone call her, her full name right down to the roman numerals. 

However, all the trouble started in third grade. We were nine and still as close as two bugs in a rug. My mom's words, not mine. It was the first day of our third grade year and we were excited to be placed in the same class. We were busy reminsing over all of our second memories and daydreaming about the year to come when roll call began and we all snapped to attention.

After "Marissa Adams", "John Baise", and "Sophie Edgar", "Miribelle Frankweiller XVI" was called. And someone laughed. Chip Hauser laughed. And since laughter is contagious, pretty soon the whole entire class was laughing too. You may not think that's a huge deal but to Miri and most kids it was. And Miri had always been short-tempered so this really dented her feelings about her name.

That day at recess, she told me in tears that from now she was Miri, and nobody ever call her by her full name. It was also the beginning of the Miri-Chip rivalry, along with the start of Miri's vengance on her name. 

Now, we're in middle school. A brand-new massive place, swarming with people. It's the first day and me and Miri don't even have any classes together. I was wandering the halls during third period science, looking for the restrooms, pass in hand, when I saw Miri slumped againest the wall outside the English classroom, head in her hands. 

"Miri?" I ask and she up, eyes red with tear stains. 

Olivia." she says with a sad smile. "Gosh, I hate this place."

I sit down beside her. "What's wrong?" 

"Chip Hauser. He's such a jerk. And the English teacher, too." she then muttered a very bad word that I'm not going to repeat to you. 

"What'd he do?"

"It was roll call, and she called my name, and he laughed super hard. Just to annoy me. And then everybody else did too. Even the freakin teacher. It's third grade, all over again. Except worse. And then I lost my temper and got sent out here." Miri said miserably.

I rolled my eyes. "C'mon it's just your name, not you. Don't let it bother you, Miri! Ingore the jerks, girl! Ingore Chip *bleep* Hauser!" 

She sighs. "I know, I know. It's just I feel like it's defining me. It was all my ancestor's names and I'm not them. I'm not some musty old grandma!"

"It shouldn't be defining you! And doesn't it make you feel connected to them? You have a strong family legacy." My voice softens. "And you have a beautiful name." 

Miri rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "You're right, Oli. I decide who I am, not my name. And certainly not Chip, that *bleep*! I'm gonna try to more open about my name. But you're still calling me Miri!" 

We get up, and hug before going our seperate ways. 

After 21 years, we're both married, with jobs and children. And still good friends. We drifted apart in middle and high school, making our own bunches of new friends. But we reconnected in college and reformed the bond, stronger than ever. And it's lasted. 

Miri's married to (guess who!) Chip Hauser (!) and she totally doesn't care about her name anymore. They have a cute little guy named Alex. I'm happy with the man of my dreams, Dasheill Roberts and we have a beautiful little girl named Miribelle Frankwieller Roberts I. After somebody pretty amazing.

-Olivia Reynolds 

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"Miribelle?"

     I stared them down defiantly; at least I
tried.

     "Yes."

     The pretty brunette girl, Tulip,
sniggered.

     "Miribelle XVI????? Miribelle Frankweiler
XVI? What was your mama thinking?"

     The blond boy leaned back in his chair,
shaking his head. 

     “I – um – it’s a family name. Passed
down.” Why is this always so hard for me to explain? “XVI means that I’m . . .
the sixteenth Miribelle Frankweiler.”

     All is silence for a moment in the
classroom. The teacher isn’t here; she’s talking to another teacher about
something, outside in the hall.

     “Well,” said Tulip conclusively, “It seems
to me that there are sixteen Miribelle Frankweilers too many.”

     Oh, I hate her. I hate this name. I hate
them all. I shoot daggers at her with my eyes, but before I can respond, Ms.
Jackson enters the room again.

     Tulip smiles.

     I solemnly swear I will make her life
misery. Because I know that secretly, she’s swearing the same thing.

The fat kid. Over there, with the
brown hair. You see her? Well, she’s Miribelle Frankweiler XVI. Miribelle! Can
you believe it?

     “Shut up.”

     “Ms. Jackson!”

Maybe it
isn’t that bad. Miribelle. It’s sort of pretty . . ..  . Got a nice ring to it. .

     “Hon! Time for school!”

     Nah. It doesn’t.

“Hon,
look on the bright side, There aren’t really any insulting nicknames you can
get out of Miribelle Frankweiler XVI, are there?”

      “Well, I’m fat. So they call me Miribelle
Fatweiler. “

     “Oh, hon.”

     “Stop with the ‘hons”! They don’t help
anything!”

     “Bella –“

     “Leave me alone, Mom!”

     Slam.

“Behavioral
issues . . ..”

    Ha.

The fat kid.

     What’s wrong with that?

“MS.
JACKSON! MIRIBELLE PINCHED MEEEEEE!”

     Who cares?

“MS.
JACKSON!! SHE WAS LOOKING AT MY TEST!!!!”

     Well I got to make it through school
somehow, right?

“You
nasty spying girl, you silly prissy sissy, think you’re so fancy and pretty
with your looooong name! Miribelle!”

     You think I like this name, girl?

And so
the year goes. I hate everyone, and everyone hates me. Happy days, right?

Sun
shining. Leaves nodding, fresh green leaves, gleaming in the light. Sky blue as
. . . blue things.

     A perfect spring day, except for the fact
that Tulip happens to be walking her frisky dog on the other side of the
street.

     It’s a gorgeous dog, I must admit. I’ve
always been jealous.

     A shining white car, going too fast.

     A big-eyed squirrel on my side of the
road.

     A loosely held red leash, and a dog’s big
hazel eyes looking for something to chase.

     A bark. A scream. The yell of a startled
driver.

     Me, lunging forward. Me, falling hard on
the warm pavement, a red leather leash in my hand. Me, pulling a limping dog to
the sidewalk, my knee bleeding, the car whizzing past.

     “Oh, Miribelle!”

     Gone is the hate and hostility. Now we two
might get along. Cuz ever since I snagged that dog and Tulip thanked me, I
learned that it’s not just a name that can spark a reaction; it’s what the name
signifies.

  ~~~

uuuh does this have a bunch of weird stuff at the top if so sorry it's not part of the story 

Has everyone submitted their story yet??

Ha, last night I dreamed I won this. XD So, when’s judging?

<rvtg>  Yes, it is a riveting competition, isn’t it?

So, I’m taking Aquamarine’s spot in this! I think. If everyone’s okay with that. Anyways, assuming that it is okay, here’s mine for the first prompt. I’m actually kind of happy with how it turned out even though the prompt was pretty hard! Welp, ta-da, here it is! (I’m not sure how this will post since I copy and pasted it from Google Docs, but...)

Piles of leaves littered the cracked sidewalk as Miribelle Frankweiller XVI walked home from the library. The sun was setting, a globe of orange fire resting on the horizon as she kicked a pebble with the toe of her knock-off Converse. Her polka-dotted backpack weighed her down, her shoulders falling back into a slump as she hiked up the steep hill toward her house.

    “Hi Miribelle!” One of her elderly neighbors waved at the seventh grader from her garden. She stood up and brushed off her cargo pants to wave at her.

    The girl smiled back, grateful for the one thing that never changed. It didn’t matter if it was snowing, there would always be someone sitting in the garden when she walked up the street. “Hi Mrs. Markle! You can call me Miri, you know.” Miri replied happily. She pushed her glasses up her nose and handed the older person a shovel that had fallen to the ground.

    “Oh, Miribelle, but you have a marvelous name! It’s a shame to shorten something beautiful!” Miri shook her head slightly as waved as she headed further up the street. She couldn’t disagree more. In her opinion, her name was an ugly creature of a name, a burden that she didn’t have a choice about dragging around. Really, Miri had a lot of burdens to drag around. She continued on the long walk home, reviewing today’s events in her head. She waved to a group of moms with strollers as her English class replayed in her head. Suddenly, she was sitting in middle of the classroom again.

    “Our next unit is on names!” Her teacher had announced. “We’ll be learning all about our names, and things like their origins.” The teacher smiled, going on to talk about how this was just a quick, fun unit to start of the school year. Miri wasn’t paying attention because she was stressing out. Her best friend, Laura, leaned over and whispered to her.

    “Yours will be so interesting! Mine is not going to turn out good at all.” Miti rolled her eyes. If only Laura actually knew.

    Turning back to the darkening road, Miri sighed. Her name was annoying, really. Miribelle Frankweiller the Sixteenth. And it was bad enough that she had no idea who she was named after. Being a foster kid was always tough, and having a name that connected her to people she would never know was just cruel. To her, all that her name was was mish-mash of syllables that had no meaning.

    She finally reached the run-down building that she lived in with her foster family. They had too many kids and not enough money; or so that’s what everyone said about Christine and Daniel Yacks. But Miri just thought they were too nice. They would adopt or foster all the kids in the world if they could. The seventh grader unlocked the back door and walked inside to see all of her siblings sitting around playing “Go Fish” with slips of paper that they’d written numbers on. They didn’t even have enough money for a deck of cards, and it wasn’t like they would have it for long anyways. As a foster kid, the only things you had were the clothes on your back. Miri frowned and settled onto the couch with a notebook. She tried to write down something, anything about her name, but nothing came to mind. Well, almost nothing. Mrs. Markle’s words kept repeating in her head. “Marvelous name. Beautiful.” Miri got up and shouldered her backpack again. She didn’t know where she was going at first, just that she had to go somewhere to find out something. She took a deep breath and realized that maybe her paper didn’t have to be about what her name used to me. It could be about what her name could be. What she could be. Feeling a jolt of hope, the girl smiled as she realized that she did know someone who could tell her about her name, or at least help her come to terms with it. And so, burdens forgotten, Miri Walked back down the street to learn about herself. To get to know herself. And possibly do a little gardening.

Rogue, yes, you can definitely start your submission over!

luster-dust, you're welcome to take Aquamarine's spot.

I think we should set a deadline of Monday, March 18. At that point, I'll post the prompt for the Technical and, if neither of the judges post, post the judging.