Beholders of the Promised Dawn of Truth

Sunshine Family - prologue

2008-06-07T17:00:00.002-04:00

It started at summer camp. Every year at this time, Mom and Dad farmed us out between relatives, grandparents, well meaning family friends and various camps in order to have to a month to themselves. By the time we hit 7 or 8 we sort of understood why. We're a large family and none of us is exactly what you might call quiet. Even the not so big on talking people in the family are as the littlest one put it once, "Loud Thinkers."

So yeah, it started at summer camp. Our magic that is, well to be perfectly correct, I should say our discovery that we *had* magic. Funny huh?

So to set the stage for you, this was one of those old time boy scout type places. Out in the middle of freaking nowhere. Swamp monsters, spooky ghosts, and tree frogs galore. All manner of creepy crawlies. Total blast. We were in Echo Cabin. Me, my twin sisters, and four other girls from various places around the place we lived, plus one student counselor. It was getting to be late and we were all in bed with the lights off. Cassie the Counselor was already mostly asleep and we girls ranged from dead to the world (Toni) to card games underneath blankets with small flashlights (Beverly, Tori, and Eileen) and various stages in between. I was almost asleep when I heard my sister Chastity scream.

I cracked open my eyes to see Chastity in one move, leap out of her bunk, rip off the cute tightie whities she'd been wearing, land on her feet and then begin stomping all over her underwear. Deeply amused by this, I propped myself up on my elbows, "Chas? What are you doing?" She looked up at me, eyes blazing, "There was a bug in my underwear. There WAS a BUG in my UNDERWEAR!!!! I hate bugs. I hate them! I hate them! I HATE them!" She almost trembled with righteous fury. Cassie sleepily made a comment about how now the bug is dead so please go back to bed. Chastity shook her head, "Like. Hell. I'm. Sleeping. There." Felicity snickered once, before offering to share her bunk with our sister. Chastity grabbed her blankets and her pillow and shook them out vigorously, muttering about bugs and how the cabin should be bug proof and how she wished that it really was bug proof and all the bugs in the cabin would just spontaneously go away. She stopped shaking out her pillow and blankets when Cassie rolled over and gave her the evil eye and got into Felicity's bunk. We laughed over that one for ages.

Echo Cabin never did have a problem with bugs or really any other type of vermin after that , though. So that's where it started.

Little did we know that's where our lives would begin to change.

051. Water

2008-03-15T19:15:00.002-04:00

Water had never felt so good, he decided as he poured some of it over his head. "Ho, Ender, mail call." One of the soldiers called, and he stood up, stretching briefly. "Thanks," he told the private who'd brought it. He walked back to his tent as he opened his letter. Scanning it briefly, he snickered as he saw Morgan's postscript.

"What's the news, my friend?" His tentmate and Coalition partner, Tulien asked when he saw the letter in Ender's hand. "Just some updates from home and a quick note from an old friend." Ender remarked, "We're going to be pulling some quick and dirty raids soon. Might want to make sure all our troops are up to spec on their stealth skills."

Tulien raised an eyebrow, "You got all that from a letter, my friend? Or are you dabbling in the ways of the mystics now?" Ender grinned, "No, it's something I inferred from the way she worded the postscript."

"She, my friend?" Tulien teased.

"Commander Morgan, 'Lien. She and I were in the same house back in school. First thing you learn at Litchfield is how to read what your house mates aren't saying." Ender smiled, "Morgan's easy to read once you know how."
Tulien returned the smile, "I hadn't realized you and the Commander were so close. Your world and ours are very different, my friend. Not that we didn't already know that." He replied wryly.

Ender nodded, "Yeah that's true. Morgan, Twyla, Christian, and I were all fairly close to each other. A lot of what Litchfield gave us in the way of training at least, helped us develop close bonds with each other, both in the larger group and in our smaller house groups. It worked out well for us."

Tulien nodded as he finished polishing his sword, "Well we'll be ready, for whatever she throws at us. It's not like we haven't been training for the past few months. The new recruits are finally up to the point where they won't kill themselves or us, so that's all to the good. We'll start running Stealth drills later tonight, just to keep our hand in." Ender grinned, "And maybe a "Catch the Sergeant" drill tonight or tomorrrow? That could be entertaining for all parties involved."

Tulien shook his head once, "Indeed."

086. Choices

2008-03-13T17:37:00.001-04:00

“It is your choices that make you what you are, more so than that of your name, race, kindred, heritage. It is those decisions you make every day that build up all that a person is. It’s how you react and deal with the great of decisions that cements what you are. Never forget this, little one. There is always another way. Choose wisely, Ignatius. Be more than they expect. Show them that to be Dark does not necessarily imply Evil. Live happy, marry for love, and remember that there is always another way, my child. Do not become bound to your fate like I did, but live to out do it.”
He carefully smoothed out the letter to him from his mother. The last letter he’d gotten before she’d left him. One of these days he would take it and show it to Alyssa. Once he’d proven himself worthy of her. He’d share these final words from his mother with her.

008. Weeks

2008-03-13T17:29:00.000-04:00

It took them a long while, but it had finally been done. The Core was safe, the Vale had been cleansed and they were done. There were no more enemies to fight, all that was left was to survey the damage done and take steps to repair it. The war had lasted for four years and they were a significantly smaller group then they had been when they’d first arrived here, but it was over now.

They could rest.

No one appreciated this more than them – the warriors who’d fought and bled for this land. Now was a time for mirth, not grief, as the old rhyme went. No more blood and tears shed, now was the time for laughter and smiles. It didn’t matter where you went now in the Vale, the air shimmered with magic now. With the removal of the taint, it seemed that the Vale had unleashed a flood of magic that made the elements almost dance with pleasure. One of his compatriots had made the comment of ‘planetary Miracle Grow,’ which while a bit much to contemplate at first, did make sense.

But there were those that did not share in the festivities there, a slight bittersweet twist to the planet’s joyful harmony.

Adrian still mourned for Melori. The young lord had thrown himself into working wherever, whenever he could. Anything to take his mind off of the woman he’d lost, to distract from the jagged hole where half his heart had been.

He was not alone in this. There were several of the veterans that worked silently beside him, doing all they could to restore the damages caused by the war and the taint. Those who passed through the days and cried themselves to sleep at night.

050. Spade

2008-03-13T17:20:00.000-04:00

"William! WILLIAM!"

"Have you seen William?"

"William Cas…Garrett. I'm looking for a teenager named William Garrett."

"He's over there, ma'am with the other dissenters. But you can't go over there, its restricted access only." One of the school security officers pointed over to a fenced off portion of the quad. Eelysa looked to where the officer pointed and ran up to the fence, "Gid, I can't see him! I can't see him!" she cried frantically. Gid rested two hands gently on her shoulders, shooting a pleading look at Beth over his shoulder.

"Easy there soldier, here's my card. Swipe it and then let these nice people go in to find their son." Beth handed her Identicard to the soldier guarding the entrance.

The soldier scanned it and then returning, snapped a quick salute, " I can let you go in, Ma'am, but… they don't have access. Only you. It's orders, ma'am, no civilians, no unauthorized personnel."

Beth nodded and turned to the other two, "I'll go in and see if I can find him for you. Make sure he's okay."

The naked relief in both Eelysa's face and Gid's eyes was almost painful to see. Beth turned and walked into the fenced off area of the local high school. "Will! William Garrett!" She called out as she walked through the students and various corpses on the ground. With every step she took she became more and more furious. This should not have happened. It was a small incident that was mishandled that then escalated into the armed (armed!) security firing into the student body. The entire school was under lockdown now; the innocent lumped in with the guilty. She felt a tug on her elbow, quelling the urge to turn and toss a punch at the person trying to get her attention, she looked over to see a skinny teenager in a guard's uniform. "Ma'am, he's…uh, over here, ma'am." The guard pointed to where a cluster of boys were by the old maple tree. Beth quickly strode over there, the boys getting out of her way until she saw Will. She fell to her knees beside him, one hand seeking his. "Will! *Oh* Will!" she exclaimed, dismayed as she saw him propped up by the tree trunk, one hand half pressing a wadded up t-shirt against a crimson stain on his white dress shirt. He looked at her, smiling slightly, "Aunt Beth, hey. Tell Mom it'll be okay, will ya?"

Beth shook her head, " You can tell her that yourself." She smiled at him, hoping he couldn't see the tears forming in her eyes.

Will ignored her and kept talking, "And…tell Dad that I hope I did him proud, would ya?" Beth closed her eyes and sat back on her haunches, "You knew."

Will chuckled, "Yep. Thought they could hide it, but it was kind of hard to ignore the obvious, y'know."

Beth nodded mutely, she looked straight at Will, "He is proud of you, you know. You're his greatest achievement."

"Imagine that," Will grinned, "I love 'em both. Bye Aunt Beth, be seeing ya." He said as he closed his eyes. His grip on her hand went limp and she bit back a sob. She carefully slid her hand out of his, and after laying a kiss on his forehead, she slowly rose and made her way back to the gate. As she walked back to the gate, she watched as some of the workers at the school began to slowly start digging graves. The soldiers would stop them, she knew, once they realized what they were doing, there was a policy of tagging the dead and examining them before they were cremated.

She walked through the gate, head held high as she went to tell two old and dear friends the news of their son's death.

---William Anthony Garrett Casey was laid to rest in a small section of the major botanical preserve attached to the school that started because of him. In order that no other child would have to go through what he went through. ---

067. Snow

2008-03-13T17:05:00.001-04:00

067. Snow

She sat outside, waiting for something, a sign, anything. It was biting cold, and her long sleeved turtleneck and long pants were not match for keeping the cold from seeping into her, but for now that was a secondary concern. Today was the second anniversary of the ill-fated rescue mission, the one that had led to her somehow landing herself here on this alien world. She still remembered those last few moments, the earth had shaken all around her as she hurried to disable the last bits of the Osiris technology and erase anything that might have carried the slightest clue about their whereabouts. She’d sent Niko ahead her in the ‘net up to where their ship was, rapidly finishing up her duties and then at the very last second, diving into the net right before the rest of the building came down around her ears. For some reason she’d woken up here with the ‘stalkers and ‘shifters. Presence had blessed her with such good friends here and that the stupid stunts she’d pulled on the mission had thankfully not harmed Nuitari at all. She smiled at the thought of Night, he’d be two soon. She knew the DeMarco’s and the Alexanders were looking forward to throwing him a party. Her little man, full of the DeWitt spunk and grit, he was a true trooper. Her thoughts continued in this vein, she was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the door opening and closing behind her.

She was slightly startled when a voice behind her spoke up, “You know most humans have the sense to come inside when they’re cold. “ She didn’t turn around, “I’m not most humans, Kiley, and you know that.” “Yeah, but you’re still shivering and why in Presence’s name were you even outside with no coat?” the shifter asked as he plopped down beside her, heat radiating from him. She leaned closer to him and he put an arm around her. “It’s hard to explain, Ki.” “I’ve got time, Mystery.”

She sighed, “Alright, it’s been two years today, Ki. Two years since I got here. And I can’t help but think of how I left things back home.” She let out a small half-laugh half snort, “Back on the vale, the Shaman Leoni, she told me once that courage would be my greatest defense and cunning my ally. Yet when it mattered, I ran away. Took the coward’s way out” Kiley shook his head, “You? Never happen.” He smiled crookedly down at her, “You don’t know how to quit and the one that names you coward had better answer to me. You’re one of the bravest souls I know.” Morgan shook her head, “I ran away, Ki, ran away and went on the rescue mission, even though I knew it was a suicide mission and that we’d likely not come back. I ran because I was scared.” Kiley looked down at her face, tasting her sincerity, “Scared of what, Mystery?” he asked gently. “Lots of stuff, stupid stuff, “ she said a touch bitterly, “Things between Night’s father and I…were good, but it was going too quickly and I just got scared, so I ran. I left, without even really explaining myself to him or my parents and siblings and then I wound up here and yeah.” Kiley hugged her closer, “I for one am glad you did.” At her quizzical look, he explained, “You gave us back our hope, Mystery. We were a sunken people before you came. Tied to an endless war which we couldn’t win and knew it,” he paused for a moment, “You and Night have given us by your very presence here, hope that maybe we’re not struggling in vain. That there’s salvation out there for us yet, a Home.” Just as he finished telling her that, the skies opened up and it started to snow lightly. “ Well would ya look at that?” Kiley said, marveling, “It hasn’t snowed here in ages.” Morgan turned her face up and stuck out her tongue to catch some of the snow flakes. “ Presence bless.”

045. Moon

2008-03-11T15:29:00.004-04:00

part of the 1oo_original ficlets I'm doing for a community over at Live Journal.

It felt good, he mused to himself as he ran barefoot through the city, to being doing something again. They'd waited so long for this. Their timing had had to be absolutely exact, but for all the frustration and the seemingly endless waiting, it had paid off. He motioned to one of the others with him and they peeled off from the main road, heading towards what used to be an old Tube station. He came to a halt gradually, resting himself finally against a nearby wall.

" Pr'sence be blessed, I've missed this." he spoke quietly, breathing deeply. "I can almost not remember the last time I breathed clear fresh air." His companion chuckled once, "Canned air does get to you at first, after a while you stop noticing it." Dorian shook his head, " I don't know how you live like that, it drives me batty."

"That's cause you're Pre, man. You remember the Beforetimes. I've only ever known this." His companion commented, "We never knew there was something like this to miss."

He nodded, wiping the sweat off of his forehead, "I know, dude, I know, but we're aiming to change all of that." Just then his wrist band emitted one soft beep, "We've got to get back." He remarked wistfully. "Herself is beginning to worry."

"Yeah," his companion grinned, "Race you there."

"You're on."

They took off once more, running silently in the moonlight.

Tales rewrite

2008-02-26T10:15:00.004-05:00

"Don't. Don't." He muttered, pushing their hands away. He needed to get up, to get out of here, why couldn't they understand this? Why were they keeping him here? He didn't understand why they were insisting on keeping him here. He...he needed to *go.* The doctors in their white coats finally stopped poking him and moved away from him. Blinking to help clear his vision, he blearily noticed someone near him. "Go 'way," he said, "Don't...don't touch me. I need to get out of here." The man in blurred brown and blue chuckled once and a comforting hand landed on his shoulder. "C'mon lad, lay back down here, you need your rest." The voice said, encouraging him to lie back down. "I can't," he explained, "I can't lie back down and let them poke me. I need to go, I need to leave here and go. There's something missing and I need to find it and fix it." He tried to explain to the man. "Ah lad, " the voice replied, filled with emotion, "Brave lad, you canna fix anything right now, you've hardly got anything to you at the moment. Skin and bones, ya are. You need your rest. Believe me, it took a lot to do what you just did, lad. You rest here, now. Let us take up the burden from you for a while. Rest. " His vision was dimming as he struggled against the sleep rising over him. Finally it won and he drifted off again, his last words mumbled, "Got to go...sigh."

The man smiled sadly down at the man asleep in the bed, better to let him rest a while more, before subjecting him to the tender mercies of the doctors and an unforgiving world which had no idea how much they owed this man. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the weight of his age settling on him. Another younger man motioned to him from outside the room and he walked over there, carefully closing the door behind him. "How is he?" the younger man wanted to know. The older man exhaled audibly, "Tired, confused, there's a degree of memory loss there, though until he's more rested, there's no telling exactly to what extent it goes to. Mostly he kept trying to convince me that he needed to be let up and turned loose because there was still something he had to do. Something missing, he said, that he needed to find and fix. " The younger man chuckled once, "Sounds like him alright." The older man cleared his throat once, " There was one more thing he said before he fell back asleep. " His companion shot him a look, "What was it?" he asked. "Her name." the older man replied, slumping back against the wall. The other man's eyes widened and he swore once under his breath. "I'm sorry, Corwin, truly I am. But this could present a serious problem for us."

"I know. If it comes to that, I'll deal with it. You've my word."
"I'll leave you to it then. I've got to go comfort my aunt."

Two assorted Spinner ficlets

2008-02-08T19:31:00.000-05:00

In the same universe as the Deeping Well short story Here

The characters belong to Paula, the plot line and stuff is mine.

Day One:

It had been kind of beautiful, he reflected bitterly, had it not been for the fact that he'd had to sit there and watch as one of his oldest and best friends bled and died on Shadow's Ridge. He'd be buggered if it hadn't a sight to see, watching her sword flash after enemy and enemy and enemy fell at her feet. It wasn't long before they had to climb over stacks of bodies to get a chance at trying to bring her down. "What a piece of work is man," he quoted as he fixated on the screen before him.

They knew, had always known that to get this far would be a miracle. They hadn't had much a chance to prepare or anything of that sort. They'd carried with them what they had had on them and what they scrounged up from places on the way and the stocks of the command central. He, Matthias had been entrusted with securing the area for Tristan to work his special brand of magic. She'd been left to guard Elle, faithful arms woman that she was. What none of them had counted on were the two girls having to run the gauntlet through the city. M had mustered more numbers than any of them had thought there even existed here in the game. There'd been just enough time for her to shove Elle through the reinforced doors before they descended upon her again. Her sword flashed brightly here and there as the three of them had watched horrorstruck from inside the security of the fortress. Elle had marveled at the skill that Beth showed and it was Matthias who'd answered quietly, "Best student I ever had." Tristan had turned to his brother in shock, "I never knew that you had showed her how to make a blade dance like that." Matthias had snorted once, "She hounded me until I did. She was a mite persistent." Tristan nodded, "That she was." Elle glared at both of them, "Is. She'll make it through this."

Matthias shot a look at the petite girl, the grief and pride warring plain on his face for them to see. "God, I wish that were true, Butterfly. But as good as Spitfire is, and she is good, make no mistake. They have the numbers and she is but one person against so many." She nodded once, "And there's no way to get in or out from here."

Matthias shrugged, "Fortress was designed that way, sweet Butterfly, to protect the lands behind it. To keep the abominations from spreading to the rest of this place."

"I know that," she spoke quietly; "I helped design it." Turning worried eyes back to the screen where she watched her friend, arms woman and sword sister still slashing her way through the hordes of enemies coming straight for her.

Day Two

He felt so hopeless, standing there watching her fight shade after shade after shade. Tristan came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "She's getting tired." He noted, peering at the figure on the screen.

"Yes, it's not long now," Matthias was surprised at how level his voice was. Inside, he shook uncontrollably. He didn't want to watch this, the inevitable slaughter of the single person on the planet that anchored him, that gave him a reason for existing. But on the other hand, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her figure outlined there on the screen. He couldn't go to her, but he could stand watch here for her. Be there in spirit if not in body for her. No one should have to die alone. God, watching her was a dream almost. He was so proud that she'd taken what he'd taught her and actually improved on it, made it her own.

"You did good, training her." Tristan commented, squeezing his shoulder sympathetically. " She's better than I am," Matthias replied with a sad smile. Tristan looked at him quizzically for a minute, "No, no I think you're actually equals." He stated as he turned back to watch the screen. " Which is good because neither one of you could settle for anything less." Matthias laughed bitterly, "And what good does that do us now? I am here and she is there and I would for all the world that it was me there in her place." Tristan didn't say anything, just squeezed his brother's shoulder one more time before leaving him to his vigil.

Elle brought him a cup of spice drink and he gulped it down eagerly. "Thank you," he spoke quietly as he sat there, staring at his hands. " How is he? Your brother, I mean?" She asked him. Tristan rubbed a hand over his face, "Matthias won't stir from that spot until it's all over. She's getting tired and soon she'll start to slip up and make mistakes and the second that starts to happen…it'll be a lucky shot or her miss-stepping and falling to the ground that'll do her in and with her, will go my brother. What's left of him, that is." Elle shook her head, "Run that by me again, Tris?"

Tristan let out a sharp bark of laughter at the confused look on her face, "Matthias and Beth….it's complicated. She's the one; she's always been the one for him. My brother in his own twisted way has from the day they met always, looked out for and cared for Beth. Both of them knew on a deeper level, I suppose you'd call it, that they'd eventually end up together, but they had to go through a lot of grief before either one was able to really accept that fact for fact." Tristan sat back in his chair, "He loved her for the longest time until she left him that first time and then when she came back, it was like they were two completely different people. I had one hell of a time dealing with the two of them then."

"But if….-"

"Like I said before Elle, it's complicated. But no matter how my brother felt afterwards about her leaving him, he couldn't just send her away. She's just far too important to him; she's in essence, what keeps him together, what keeps him tied to this earth. My greatest fear was always that one day like tonight we'd lose her."

"Because you'll be losing one of your oldest friends."

"No, because when we lose her, I won't just have lost a friend, I'll have lost my brother as well. Matthias, as much as he loves me, wouldn't stay here just for me. But he'd stay for her." Tristan spoke, mingled bitterness and grief in his voice. " She dies and the best part of my brother will go with her and there'll be nothing left but the madness for him, which will kill him. He knows it too." Tristan's voice broke on a muffled sob. "And as good as I am, Elle, I can't protect you half as well as they can. So my dream comes true. It wasn't supposed to be like this!" Elle ran in to embrace him as he cried.

Meanwhile, back in the master control room, the shadow man smiled as he watched the chaos unfolding. Tapping out a few commands quickly, he hit enter and then left for the day, whistling to himself, pleased with the way the experiment was turning out, unexpected variables and all.

Meta: First Lines

2008-02-08T18:04:00.000-05:00

" It's always a good idea not to leave your dead lying around."

This is an amazing first line for a short story or novel. I mean, it right there captures your audience's interest. We immediately want to know who said this and why it was being said. It keeps us reading, keeps us intrigued and that makes it an excellent first line.

First lines are important. They are what introduces us to the characters, and the plot lines, and the story. They are the hook that reels us in and keeps us reading past that first paragraph.

So when you write your novel or short story, make sure you choose your first line very carefully.

A brief blurb

2008-01-16T12:23:00.000-05:00

It took them a while to pick up their dead after the bombing. The dust and ash settling and coating every with a thin fine layer of mottled gray and brown. Those who could help did and those who couldn't...well they stayed where they were in order not to get in the way of the Angels helping them. Not that this group called themselves that, they were just a group of folk doing their best to keep spirits high and the remaining survivors of this sick struggle alive. Free Humans, alive and well in the midst of all this chaos and destruction. That's what the Angels called them. Words that hadn't been heard in a long while here on this world, so far away from their home planet. Free, they called them, giving them a reason to survive, to fight. Humans, they named them, giving them back their identity, their connection to a home far far away.

They brought hope with them, these Angels did. Hope and news of what lay beyond their own territories. Travellers walked the Continuum once again and the planet of legend had been rediscovered. Some said their Angels were a part of that auspicious group of people, others claimed they were merely people who saw what needed to be done and had the guts to go out and do it. No one knew for certain. The Angels themselves never said, not that anyone would ever explicitly ask them.

They had two leaders. A tall dark-haired man with dark eyes, could be blue or brown or even black like some whispered. His ever-present companion, indeed rarely were they ever spotted apart from each other, was a slightly shorter female, sweet-faced with dark hair but she had the oddest set of light blue eyes. They came and went as they pleased, disappearing for days, weeks at a time. Coming back they would bring news and medicines and even sometimes small food stuffs. Their presence always brightened up the camp. He'd once asked Lacey, the female why they bothered with the people here given that they were in such dire striaits. Indeed the war here would never be over and everybody knew that. They all stayed because there was no place else for them to go. Lacey merely shrugged once and as she finished tying up a bandage on one of the workers' legs, she'd told him this, "This is how it works, you're young until you're not, you love until you don't, you try until you can't, you laugh until you cry, you cry until you laugh, and everyone must breathe until their dying breath. It's just the way of things."

Support the WGA!!!!

2007-11-15T17:48:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo UPDATE

2007-11-05T09:57:00.000-05:00

13,777 words so far.

Also sick.

NaNoWriMo

2007-11-01T19:01:00.000-04:00

NaNo has begun!!!!

*grins*

This year's novel? Rocking Socks Across The Nation

It involves a train and buses and rental cars and a mule, with a wedding, a funeral, a prison scene, and a family reunion. Also Las Vegas and mad crazy hijinks.

It's the standard Cross-Country trip...with hijinks and crazy people.

*nods*

For those that don't know, I'm a '04 convertee to Nano. This will be my 4th year doing it and hopefully my 2nd year at reaching 50k. I'm still *in* college and paying my own way through (which is fun...no, really it is). *grins* I'm actually beciase of finals and projects and crap, trying to do Nano in two weeks. Will I succeed? Will I have a psychotic episode?

I'll let you know in two weeks...

The last draft of my Creative Writing final- The Deeping Well

2007-09-12T19:27:00.001-04:00

Disclaimer and Author's notes:

I played with characters created by my lovely friend Paula, who came up with this bizarre and fascinating little world that I'm thoroughly addicted to. She's given me her complete permission to do so. This is a piece at the beginning of said universe, a sort of in-between scene happening between the first few chapters. It also is from a point of view not specifically seen in the beginning of the story. I sweat blood try to get this into a format that my teacher liked. My first three attempts were 1) too long, 2) too cliché, 3) too confusing, and 4) looks more like a proposal for an actual novel rather than a short story in and of itself. So here it is I present you with what is in my mind known as the finalbloodydraftthankthegraciousLord. I've always been fascinating by the things of Faerie and the Deeping Well is one of them and I thought that given the mix of mechanical and magical that Paula writes about, this little scene would fit in quite well.

The Deeping Well

Tristan sighed; it had been a difficult day. Another one of their candidates had died today. This was the third candidate that they had lost in a month. Something was wrong, either with the Game or with the girls they were using to test it out. None of them were lasting farther than the first level of the game. There was also something off with the process of entering them into the Game. It was simple really, once the candidate was deemed fit enough physically, they were placed in the stasis tube with a crystal cover. Matthias, upon seeing them had christened them coffins, and Tristan had to admit the status tubes did resemble coffins after a fashion. The tubes helped to sustain and monitor the candidate's vital information while they were 'inside' the Game, so to speak.

When a candidate failed, that is to say, died inside the game, the coffins turned black. No amount of any medical assistance could wake them up again. He'd tried. After the first few, he'd realized it was futile. So was trying to talk to his brother or Mr. M, their mysterious benefactor about possibly entering some safety features into the programming code of the Game. He couldn't do what his brother and the mysterious Mr. M did, lump the girls they used as human test subjects together in the same category as the white lab rats they'd used for their preliminaries. Yes, their work was important, and yes, they were on the verge of a ground-breaking new discovery, and yes, he like his brother would do just about anything to keep it going; but still the same, the deaths bothered him in a way he couldn't quite define.

He'd tried adding some other non-player characters into the Game, to help take some of the burden off of the candidates, but even that had its limits. So much depended on the candidates themselves, the Game was invented initially to study people's dreams and how they would react if they were thrust into a world not dissimilar to the ones in their dreams. It was fascinating to see some of the unusual facets that some people had dreamed up. They'd gotten enough information in their initial trials to have a working prototype that adjusted to each different candidate. With each new candidate, more variables were added in, and the Game's overall performance was upgraded. The screening process was highly selective, only females within a certain age bracket and only the ones who were vivid dreamers. That point was critical, for it was only the dreamers that had imaginations fertile enough for the Game to work with.

They'd just gotten a new candidate in and she looked to be one of the most promising yet. Candidate Twenty-Six, name: Lilith also known as Elle, age: fifteen years old, he typed into the program in front of him. Matthias and Mr. M were ecstatic with Elle's progress so far. They planned to implement a new trial for Elle in the morning; she'd done so well against the monsters and demons that they'd thrown at her so far. This one was a bit different from the others, however, called the Experientia Dolore or Trial of Pain, if you cared to translate it from the Latin. It triggered some of the pain receptors in the brain, causing the candidate to feel varying levels of pain throughout one or two cycles inside the Game. It was a totally new feature and before he finished imputing it into the Game's programming, he wanted to run a few tests on it.

Tristan set the Game into standby mode and opened a different program; one that he doubted that Mr. M or even his brother knew existed. It was his own personal side project, a sort of testing ground for the Game. He called it the Deeping Well after some of the stories and old myths he'd heard as a child in the orphanage. It was a program he'd created to show him possible scenarios from the data that he'd entered into it, the various variables and such. In this case, Elle and her possible reactions to the Experientia Dolore, because while he did halfway understand why M wanted to implement it, to see how far they could go, to push the limits of both the candidate and the Game, he didn't want to see Elle end up like so many others had before her. He also wanted to see what would happen if he interfered in the Game against his brother and their benefactor's wishes, if it did indeed come to that. He suspected it might and in that case, it would be better to be as prepared as he could be. Cautiously he looked around, making sure that no one was around before attaching the small headset he'd brought with him to the computer and entering into the program himself.

Elle scrubbed at her sword, wiping the blood stains off of it. This last battle had been something fierce and she'd only just made it through. She really needed to find some place where she could hole up safely for the night, take care of that wound of hers and maybe gets a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Time was rather fluid here in the Game, but she sensed that something big was approaching. She wasn't quite sure if she would make it through this time. She'd only barely made it through last time and that'd been with Beth's help. She didn't know where the petite blonde had gone to, she'd disappeared after killing the monster. It didn't help that she was still dreaming, even here inside the Game. It was dangerous to dream here, because your dreams had an eerie way of manifesting inside of the Game, almost as if the Game had a direct line to your subconscious. If she slept, she'd dream and the dreams of her death were still the most prevalent out of all her dreams. Finding a small enclave big enough to fit her, she unrolled her sleeping bag and crawled inside of it. Tomorrow would bring another day, another fight, hopefully another win, she told herself, but the growing pain all over her body seemed to counteract any positive outlook she might have. Deep inside, she knew that she couldn't handle too much more of this.

Pain, pain there was so much pain. It hurt so much just to bleeding breathe, much less fight. But she had no choice because if she didn't fight then no one else would and this monster would terrorize others. She'd seen what some of the other monsters had done to some of the villages they'd encountered and it sickened her. All that blood, all that carnage, all those innocents slaughtered all for one man's psychotic game. She screamed as one of the monster's talons ripped across her back and as she fell to the ground, the last thing she saw before losing consciousness was a pair of concerned green eyes looking straight back at her.

Tristan shakily pulled the headset off, the Deeping Well program had projected for him the most likely scenario based off of the data he'd fed it and he did not like the outcome. He'd also seen what had happened if he interfered with the process. In one, M killed both Elle and Matthias before finally putting Tristan out of his own misery. In another, Elle lived, but not for long. Even escaping into the Game itself and using it against Matthias and M had only bought them a scant amount of time. Each scenario the program had projected for him had ended in death, either his or Elle's.

Rubbing a hand across his tired eyes, he caught a glimpse of the digital clock blinking at him from the wall. 01:05 a.m. it read in bright red numbers, no wonder he was so exhausted, he'd been up for almost twenty-four hours straight. Putting everything into standby mode for the time being, he stiffly stood and shuffled off to his cot in the corner. He'd figure out what to do in the morning. He'd seen only projections, possible futures, nothing was certain yet. As he closed his eyes, sleep overtook him and wiped the conflicting visions from his brain.

Writer's block assignment

2007-09-12T09:18:00.000-04:00

The Great White Elephant In The Room

It starts out in my head with a cloud, wispy, sort of nebulous just very subtly insinuating itself into my brain. I can still see my plotlines and characters, but I find myself having difficulty reaching out to them, my fingers constantly slip as I try to hold onto them. Sometimes I am able to successfully navigate the cloud and push through it. Other times, I can’t because it is too strong for that.
Then it moves to my fingers and the curious sensation of having several teams of very tiny bricklayers whose only job is to build up walls and barricades at the tips of my fingers. So that even if I did manage to work my way through the cloud in my head, the ideas and plotlines come to a screeching halt at my fingers. This is by far one of the most frustrating aspects of this phenomenon called writer’s block.
Then finally it’s an actual sort of person, not quite spirit and not quite fully tangible. She is standing facing me, her palms touching mine and her face a hairsbreadth away from mine. She is wearing my face and she is the final stage, there is no getting around her. Because she is, essentially me, she has all of my knowledge and understands how I think, which makes it easier for her to counteract any move I make. She is very much like Gandalf standing strong in front of the Balrog in Tolkien’s Fellowship of the Ring. It is impossible to take her down without in the end, going down myself.

World building templates part one

2007-08-24T12:14:00.000-04:00

Faerie.
A magical world full of mystery and attired wonder, but not without its perils. There are all manner of things that can ensnare a young human and twist his thoughts, make it so that he no longer remembered where or whence he came. Two sides of the coin, dark and light. But not all that is Light is good and not all that is Dark is evil. Riding the balance between the two can sometimes be more trouble than it’s worth.
It is a knife’s edge you walk if you seek the balance. A world where sometimes the ends justify the means, where sometimes you do not even want to know how you got the things you used as your ends. A world where the one ironclad rule of existence is that everything has a price. What you the individual chooses to do in regards with that one rule that commands all of creation as you know it, is entirely up to you. But you cannot escape it. The Law of Unintended Consequences, stronger than any written Law. 'Whether or not what you do has the effect you want, it will have three at least you never expected, and one of those usually unpleasant. The second rule which you must always keep in mind is that names have power. Be wary of to whom you give your name to, by this we mean your true name, the one that defines you as your most basic element. To name a thing or to call a person by their own true name is to have a certain degree of power over that person.

This is what happens when my brain wanders off in Driver's ed

2007-08-20T17:08:00.000-04:00

A random type vamp ficlet.

“Little one, you might want to be more careful about the clothes you choose to wear in such mixed company.” I looked down and blushed hotly, of all the days to pull a random t-shirt out of my closet, I had to grab the one that said Nunquam Lamiae Morde Me Dice, Latin for “Never say bite me to a vampire.” But the comment was spoken gently with a teasing note in his tone, so I knew he was more amused than possibly offended. That was good, cause I needed this job. Badly, very badly, otherwise I might not have decided to take the vampire’s case, but when it comes down to me working for a client with a distasteful background and me not living in a cardboard box and grabbing leftover food out of a dumpster…my preferences went out the window. Me taking the case had led to me being here on the arm of the vampire I was working for. And the dress, I was wearing what had to be one of the most expensive dresses known to mankind, perfectly tailored to my figure. And the corset, dear Saints above, I was wearing a corset, it did wonders for my figure I would admit, but still…it was a relic from the eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundred and well I was a very twenty-first century type of girl. Luckily he had thought ahead and gotten me some appropriate attire for this evening. A t-shirt and jeans would not have been anywhere near suitable for this sort of crowd. ‘Stay focused here, sister, you’re looking for someone who could possibly match the descriptions your vampire gave you.’ I thought to myself. It was hard though, he hadn’t given me much to work with and besides everyone here was so stunningly beautiful, it almost hurt to look at them for anything more than a brief second. Just then I thought I spied someone who looked a bit off. Casually making my way over to where I could see him better, I noticed that he was wearing all leather clothing from his buttoned up long sleeved jacket and gloves to the pants and boots. That was definitely odd especially for a place that had everyone dressed to the nines. No leather in sight.

Confessions of a Soccer Husband

2007-08-09T12:00:00.000-04:00

My wife is the most beautiful person on the face of the planet. To me at least, she would tell you differently. This is the woman who has followed me all around the globe, given me numerous children, and hasn’t thrown me out of the house every time I forget myself and leave the toilet seat up or the food out on the counters. The woman who has promised to love and obey me all the rest of our years, even with some of my odder habits. She puts up with all of me, good, bad, and freakishly anal parts. She supports my affinity for old books, classical rock and roll, and passion for playing contact sports. And every four years, my wife turns into a raving total lunatic.

My wife is a soccer fan. Actually the proper term for it is ‘futebol’ as I have been told many a time, she doesn’t much care for anything else (sports wise that is) but futebol and the only time she really shows her true full blooded hard core fanatic side is during the Copa de Mundo, or in English, the World Cup.

She cheers and she rants and she makes the simple act of watching a soccer match on TV a full body experience. The pleasure I get out of my work; the artifacts and old books and arguing over theories and such, she gets out of watching these few men kick around a small black and white ball. She has said that there are just some things in life that are only worth doing if you do them all the way - you know like marriage, futebol, writing or painting, stuff like that. I would tend to agree with that statement of hers, because it’s true and she does have a valid point, despite my misgivings about the ‘futebol’ part.

Fantasypunk

2007-07-30T13:26:00.000-04:00

I am not writing this story. See here for more details -> Fantasypunk Story Idea

Here's the first blurb of the story that I am not writing.

This sucked, it really really sucked. So what if she wasn’t exactly the model Elfling that her grandparents hoped she would be, she had her gifts. Granted she leaned more towards the electric guitar than the harp or violin. Her teachers had always praised her compositions, even if they were a bit of the stranger side of things. Always original, never copying or altering someone else’s work, but always making it uniquely her own, the same thing happened with her painting. Very original, very creative, not at all fitting into the nice orderly Elvish community of things. Her grandparents blamed it on her blood or rather the quarter of it that was human and not pure blood Elvish. So her mother, her glorious, sainted mother, (the perfect child of perfect parents and with a sweet heart and intelligent brain to go along with her amazing beauty) had married a half-elf from the wild hills of Mercer, Ohio, who had a penchant for fast rides and rock music. It was hardly a crime. Her grandparents hadn’t seen it like that. After her parents had died, her grandparents had taken her in and tried to exorcise, for lack of a better word, all of the humanity in her. Ten years later they had to admit that all they had was a granddaughter who excelled in everything except how to be a good and proper Elf maiden. So she had been summoned to the Court of the Brethren and told that she was to travel in human world for a while, to see if that would bring her peace. To see if she would find her place there rather than here, traveling as a mortal meant obeying mortal laws however, no magic, no gifts other than what was customary for a mortal to possess.

She was on her own.

Other World blurb

2007-07-28T02:20:00.000-04:00

First they were children.

He could remember them as such, Becca and Will the siblings from next door, Jacey from down the street and himself playing happily in the meadows behind his house. Crossing the nearby creek and making up their own secret kingdom, far away from older eyes. He’d been named the king of their little pretend kingdom by the others, Becca by virtue of being the only girl there, was the queen. Jacey and Will were knights, often having great adventures and rescuing damsels and finding treasures and having duels. Becca had turned the small grove of pines on the other side of the creek from plain old trees into a marvelous palace and throne room. A hollowed out space in the old oak was their treasure hoard and armory. The meadows were their practice areas and their battlefields and they’d had some fierce battles fought there, in defense of their kingdom and their queen. Every knight and king needed a lady to fight for, it made them extra brave and noble, at least that’s what all the stories said, Jacey told them with Will nodding his head in agreement. Becca’s bright smile and pink-cheeked laughter as she hosted elaborate balls and festivals that she insisted they all take part in. As King, it was his solemn duty to dance with the Queen at least once, she told him with her brown eyes twinkling with mischief.

Every chance they got, they’d be out there, playing, fantasizing, and imagining in ways only a child truly can.

But then Becca and Will moved away, their father having gotten reassigned to a different post. And for a while, he and Jacey kept visiting their little kingdom, but it wasn’t quite the same and after a while, he stopped going across the creek altogether.

They grew up and in time, his father had been reassigned as well and he’d said good bye to Jacey, waving from the back of the military jeep as they drove away.

The little boy who’d once been a King grew up into a Captain in the USAF, just like his daddy and granddaddy before him. Went through the Academy and graduated with honors, flew several missions for the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq before being recalled home.

They wanted him to head up a special exploratory mission, very top secret and classified. He’d be allowed (within reason) to pick who he wanted on his team. He’d met up with Jacey again while over in Iraq and with the help of his friend, they tracked down the two other members of their former band. Will was a top analyst working with Signals and Reconnaissance, Becca, a grad student at Oxford of all places. Both agreed to join the team and with the addition of two others, Amiel and Shirin, the team was complete.

But Will didn’t joke like he used to and Becca never smiled anymore.

They were adults now, grown-up and making their way in the world, about to set off on a mission that they might not ever return from…but first they had been children.

An Ode to the Specially Awful Torture (SAT)

2007-07-26T00:28:00.000-04:00

Note: this was composed during the free periods of the SAT taken by me in June 2005 at the American School in Asuncion, Paraguay.

An Ode to the Specially Awful Torture (SAT)

O test, O test of tests,
How I loathe thee.
Thou art more foul
and despicable than the
lowliest of brigands.

I hate thee with
every fiber of my
being. You meddle with
my brain and my nerves.

You toy with me like
a cat toys with a
mouse. Yet I need
thee to go on to
better things, to pass
to higher levels of knowledge.
It is a most especially
trying conundrum.

You push me to exhaustion
and burnout. To prepare
for you, I have studied
until my brain has
started to leak out of
mine ears.

To wake at the crack
of dawn, at the earliest,
most ungodly hours of
the morning, after having
studied well into the night.

To struggle to concentrate
and maintain focus on the
problems at hand, while also
trying to remain awake, if not
alert.

O hated test that gives us
ulcers, insommnia, and vicious
headaches. You reduce the sum of
all of our collective parts to
mush.

You suck all coherent thought
out of our minds and leave us
with nothing but a sluggish,
cloudy mind. Completely
incapable of any higher brain
functions for the rest of the
weekend.

A harrowing experience, thou art,
one that leaves us so emotionally
drained at the end of it.

The SAT, oh Specially Awful
Torture, ever reducing bright
young teens into mindless husks...

a blurb

2007-07-20T01:24:00.000-04:00

Connected to Trials of Fire in a fashion...here we see some of the other characters. Yes the format is odd, no my brain does not work in a linear fashion, I wish it did, it'd make writing so much easier...

She ran through the rain, laughing gaily as she held her sweatshirt above her head. The raindrops hit her skin, but she didn’t care. She felt glorious, absolutely glorious. Feet pounding on the wet brick sidewalk, breathing in heavily, she had never felt so marvelously ALIVE.

As she ran, her mind wandered to that other world she inhabited.

-I DO believe in Faeries, I do, I DO! -

My mother died from this earth and went to inhabit another. I always knew she would, because she was the bestest mother in all the world and she was too good to spend too long on this earth. With her long blond hair and her lovely blue eyes, my mother looked like an angel, my father claimed. There was always a sparkle in her eye though that entranced me and I privately always thought that my mother was a Faerie, like the one in the stories she would craft for me. I loved going to bed because that was when the stories came and there were many a night that I drifted off to dreamland to the sound of Mother’s voice telling me about the Fae Folk, and Dryads and Naiads and Fawns who danced in wild circles all the night away. Of secret hideaways and places that built on heart and spirit, where the world would take you to where you were most needed, where you belonged on this next step of the journey. Where it was your heart and what was in it that mattered most. Those were the tales that stuck with her all through her childhood and it was those tales that came back to her now as a grownup. She was a brilliant person, her friends said, so full of interesting facts and opinions. But what her grownup friends rarely saw was that all of her brilliance with facts and opinions and all manner of grownup things paled significantly in comparison to the power of her imagination. Whole worlds were created, peoples and plants and languages flowed from her mind, puzzle pieces that seemed completely disjointed, out of place until she masterfully wove them all together in one of her stories.

A man bolted away from his pursuers, weaving in and out of the marketplace. He wanted to get away, that’s all he wanted, was to get away. The music in his soul was what carried him up and away and out of his previous existence…and into the direct path of the runner. They ended up sprawled on the sidewalk, her half on top of him. “I’m so sorry,” she started to say before she looked up at him. A startled gasp fell from her lips before she hurriedly stood up and stammered out another apology before sprinting home. Once she was behind closed doors, she let out a shuddering breath. He was *here* and that meant that it was time.

He stared after the girl-woman as she ran away from him. Rachel, his mind whispered, Rachel the Believer, the Keeper of Tales. What was she doing *Here* of all places? The blond haired sweetheart of his dreams lived here in this damp and dark place, in this world that was rapidly extinguishing the Light, not knowing that once they did, they would perish altogether. For no darkness can exist without some small bit of light and no light can survive without a little darkness. It’s how the universe kept in balance. It was all about balance after all.

Trials of Fire

2007-07-20T00:54:00.001-04:00

Intro - this began as nothing more than a bit of fun for a writing prompt community I had joined and like most everything else I've written, it grew into something larger. So this is the story of Whittaker Lee. How she lived, how she loved, and how ultimately she died. This is not quite complete yet, but it is a piece that I keep coming back to.

Part One

“Faith, Whit, faith.” The blond haired young man said, a pleading note in his voice.

“You’re delusional, Cal. There’s no such thing.” His companion stated, her copper hair falling forward to conceal her face.

Cal’s deep blue eyes flashed angrily, but he kept his tone level as he replied, “Don’t give me that, Whit. What about all of those stories you told me? The ones about all of those different places you’d seen and all those different people you’d met? What about…”

Whit cut him off abruptly, “They’re not real, Cal, they were just figments of an overactive imagination. That’s all they were. The stories I told you were in fact just that, stories. The people, the places, it was all just make-believe.”

“What about Mom’s trunk? And the photo album? You couldn’t have dreamed up those, Whit. What about the stuff we found in the trunk’s false bottom? The Chronicles and the letters and the diadem? What about that, Whit?”

Whit shook her head sadly, “It’s not real, Cal, none of it’s real. Those are probably props in some play that Mom did.”

This last statement stopped Cal in his tracks; he stood there astonished staring at his sister, “What happened to you, Whit? What happened to my lovely fabulous sister, the one who always had a smile on her face and a cheery outlook on life, no matter what the rest of the world said or did? What happened to the person who told me that we shouldn’t ever lose hope, lose faith that one day soon, we’d find where we belonged. Who told me that it was our faith in this that made us whole, that kept us together. What happened to her?”

“She grew up, little brother and she realized that to get anywhere in this world, you had to fit into their ideal, their standards. Fairytales and make-believe don’t work so well in the real world and being different can actually hinder instead of help these days.”

Cal looked at his sister sitting hunched over, her knees tucked under her chin and her long hair spilling all around her and his heart started to break. “I liked you that way, Whit. You were special, unique, a bright bit of color in this otherwise dull existence.” He told her sadly. He watched as his sister slowly got to her feet and made her way out of the room. I want my sister back, the way she used to be, he thought to himself, Oh Whit, what have we done to you to make you lose your faith in things?

[Fear not, son of Gabriel, she will come around and you will have your sister again. It is only natural for her to lose hope. Everyone loses faith at some point, even the most devoted of believers experience moments of doubt. And she has been believing this for so long and so hard that she has given it up as naught but fantasy. All will be made right soon, you will see. The Ancients have been apprised of her state and they are sending someone to remind your sister of who she truly is, to revive her flagging spirits.] The enigmatic voice spoke into his mind.

[Thank them for me, please.] Cal sent back, comforted by the sudden appearance of the voice.

[I will, son of Gabriel, but I already know what they would say. They would tell you that it is a trifling thing compared to what you and yours have done for us over the ages.] The voice replied amusedly.

[Even so, I’m still thankful.] Cal stated firmly, not one to be deterred from his purpose.

[You would not be your father’s child otherwise. Goodbye, son of Gabriel.] The disembodied voice faded away.

[Goodbye] Cal sent back and then noticing that it was almost dinner time, smilingly he went to see if perhaps he could convince Whit to actually eat something tonight. His strength had been renewed; the Ancients were sending someone to help bring his sister back to herself.

Part two

[The diadem and the Chronicles have been found, as have the Keeper and the Seeker. All is now in readiness.]

[The pieces are in play. Send in the Heart’s mate.]

“Hi, you must be Rafael?” Cal asked the dark-haired stranger that had been about to knock on their door.

The dark-haired man looked at him quizzically for a minute, “And you’re Cal, but how…-”

Cal cut him off, “Whit’s stories, plus I knew that they’d send someone and you were the most…um…logical choice.”

“I see.” Rafael said bemusedly, “Where’s Whit now?”

“My sister is out walking right now, she’ll be back soon.” Cal answered confidently, hoping that no one had heard the unspoken, “I hope” at the end of his statement.

Rafael nodded, “I’ll just use this time to get more familiarized and prepare a bit more then. Something tells me this won’t be as easy as They think.”

Cal sighed heavily, “I hope you can get through to her. It’s just about killing me to see her like this.”

“I’ll do all I can, Cal. Which…-” Rafael started to say.

“…is all a man can promise, I know. Given the way she talks about you though, that is when she talks about anything relating to the dreamworld and the stories…you won’t let her go without a fight.” Cal finished.

Rafael chuckled, oddly touched at the boy’s stumbling remarks, “No I wouldn’t. I care too deeply for your sister to just let her go like that….”

Cal gave him a secretive sort of smile, “I know.”

Part three

“Kitten?”

She was dreaming again, she had to be, why else would she be hearing that voice. Out of all of her dream-wraiths, he’d been the most dear to her. And out of all the scars and holes in her poor battered heart, his was the deepest and had hurt the most.

“Kitten? I know you’re there, Cal told me that this was your little hideaway.”

She bowed her head, tears burning her eyes; she just wanted it to end. The voice, that voice, his voice was such a sweet torture.

“Dash it all to Hades, Kitten! Whittaker Lee, come out of there right now!!” That voice, his voice commanded sternly. She almost moved to obey it but then she caught herself. It isn’t real she told herself, none of it is real…he’s not real. This is all just another Dream…it’s all in my head.

“Please Kitten,” the voice pleaded, “Please.”

Whit sobbed harder into the pillow she’d been holding. It wasn’t fair for her to be tormented like this; after all she’d been through so far. And whoever was behind this was especially cruel, doing this to her on the anniversary of the day that they’d first met. She remembered it like it was yesterday…

Sitting on a beach, watching the tide come in as the first rays of daylight crept up. The wind lightly brushing her skin, her long (it’d been longer then) copper hair streaming out behind her and a blissful look of peace and contentment on her face. He’d slowly walked up behind her, just the two of them on that deserted beach, and he’d murmured, “Beholders of the promised dawn of truth.” Without hesitating, she’d answered back, “The explorers of immense and simple lines.” Lines from one of her favorite poems, Your Body is Stars, by Stephen Spender and she had to admit it made a certain amount of sense considering where they were. Virtually deserted beach at sunrise with a complete stranger, some might have considered it odd, but in the dreamworld anything was possible and Fate or whatever deity ruled this place had a habit of guiding you to the precise thing that you’d been lacking, even if you didn’t know you’d been missing it in the first place. A comfortable silence had settled over them for which she was thankful for. It was rare to find a person who knew or even recognized the value of silence. They’d stayed like that, in that companionable silence until the sun had risen. She’d been slightly startled by his quiet yet strong voice, “Ah, a literary soul then,” he’d stated. She’d smiled softly before replying, “I could have said the same thing about you.” He’d turned toward her then and she saw him for the first time. That wonderful exotic face, Human, with just a hint of Other in it, the olive based skintone that glowed faintly under the morning sun, the fine dark hair, and those green-gold eyes, so amazingly expressive. She’d looked into his warm eyes and melted. In that instant, that one moment when their eyes had met, she’d seen her life flash before her eyes. She’d seen herself living a full and happy life with this man. They’d lived, loved, cried, laughed, played with their children, it’d been a happy content life they’d lived. She’d never been one to really believe in love at first sight, but somehow this was different, she knew this was right, she felt it deep down inside her. “I…I don’t even know your name…and yet…” she’d started to say.

“…I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.” He finished.

She was stunned, “It was like I lived a whole other lifetime with you. I mean I know that you have three freckles right below your waistline and…”

“…that your favorite thing to do is walk along the beach at sunrise, because you believe it’s the perfect time for contemplation.”

Turning to look back at the horizon, he shook his head briefly, trying to clear his mind of the visions he’d just seen. She’d stood and laid a hand on his shoulder, smiling when he turned to her. “I’m Rafael,” he told her.

“Whittaker Lee.” She’d answered back. He smiled back at her, “An interesting name for an equally interesting person. I like it, it suits you. Honor to make your acquaintance, Whittaker Lee.”

“The honor is all mine, Rafael.” His hand had somehow found hers and then…

Suddenly jolted out of her reverie by the oppressive silence, the voice had faded just like she knew it would, a fresh onslaught of tears came over her and she wept into the pillow she clutched.

Part four

Rafael’s heart was slowly being shredded into pieces; he could see now what Cal had meant when he’d said that it’d been killing him to see Whit like this. It hurt, oh how it hurt to see her like this. He didn’t even need his extra-sensory hearing to tell where she was, her sobs were audible even to human ears, not to mention the anguish that was rolling off of her in waves. It was criminal what they’d done to her, absolutely wretched, he thought to himself. To do this to an ordinary person was wrong, but to do it to a sensitive like Whit was downright criminal. He wished now that she had accepted his offer, had decided to stay with him, but she’d chosen to leave the dreamworld they’d inhabited for so long together and return to her own plane of existence. She had wanted to stay so badly, he knew it and she knew it, but there’d been someone else to consider. A little brother whom she loved and adored, a little brother that’d been left behind.

Cal.

He did not begrudge her this, family was family after all. He quite understood that, but still he could not help but think that if she *had* gone with him, then she would not now be in the state she was. He looked back up at the treehouse where Whit had ensconced herself and sighed heavily. He was getting nowhere with this current line of action. Focusing back on the matter at hand, he tried to think up some other way that he could get through to her. Mulling it over for a second, an idea hit and he quickly sprinted back to the house in search of Cal.

Finding Whit’s brother on the porch swing, Rafael handed him a slip of paper with some faint scribblings on it. “You’ve got a connection to Them, haven’t you?” he asked hurriedly. Cal nodded briefly, taking the slip of paper from Rafael’s hand, “Wha…” Rafael cut him off, “A thousand apologies, Princeling, but if you could ask them to send Seraphina here please. She or They may protest and if they do, just tell them exactly what’s written on that slip of paper.” He paused for breath, “The situation is perhaps more serious that we thought and should I require a bit more assistance, it would be good to have her here.” Cal nodded his face solemn, “I’ll tell them.” Rafael nodded once in acknowledgement before sprinting back to the treehouse. It was obvious to him that just standing here and calling up to her wasn’t having an effect, so he’d have to try a more direct approach. He hoped that this would get through to her; otherwise it’d be up to Seraphina and her sisters. And that was always a double-edged sword, asking them for help. Still, he had no other recourse to use, no other ally to turn to if he could not manage to break through the damage that had been done to her.

Part five

It was a weary and heart-broken Rafael that had returned to the house later that night. Cal rushed up to meet him, “Is everything alright…”the boy started to say, but after catching a glimpse of Rafael’s tired face, he switched it to, “Are you alright?”

Rafael shook his head in disbelief; “She honestly believes that I’m just a figment of her imagination. Even standing right in front of her, touching her, she still believed that.” He sunk into one of the living room’s armchairs.

“Why should she not believe so?” a smoky voice from the shadowy corner of the room said, “You were the most dear to her, Rafa, apart from the Princeling here. She cherished you more than anything else.” The voice continued.

Cal interjected, realization lighting up his face, “Oh, you mean like when my mother died and even for years after her burial, my aunt swore that she could still see her from time to time.”

“Exactly so, Princeling.”

Rafael sighed heavily, “I see your point, Seraphina, but I fear we’re now worse off than we were before.” He told her tiredly.

“Perhaps not, Rafa. I will see what I can do, that is why you summoned me after all. You go and rest, I will call you in time.” She turned to Cal who was hovering by the doors leading outside to the patio and backyard, “You too, Princeling. Rest and renew your strength.”

Cal made to move after Rafael, but then stopped short and turned back towards Seraphina, “You’ll call us?” he asked, a desperate sort of plea in his voice.

Seraphina gracefully inclined her head, “I will call you.” She assented, “Now go, Princeling.”

After both of them had gone, she began in earnest to prepare for what she had to do. It would not be easy, but she was the only one with the strength (and daring) to do it, it seemed.

Nano 06 and untitled semi-ficlet

2006-10-19T20:13:00.000-04:00

My NaNoWriMo project for this year has it's own blog!

http://talesfromthecafeteria.blogspot.com/

Go check it out if you dare..... *grins*

And now for a bit of something that's been just sort of puttering around my head for a while. I have no idea if it'll become something more than this or not. Here it is in all its unfinished glory for your viewing pleasure.

The bus stop was empty. The green and yellow foliage waves gently with the biting cold of the fall breeze; the dark brown and tan colors of the cold bench and trash receptacle blending into their surroundings, a lonely forgotten spot.

Or so they might claim.

There are some of us who know this spot for what it was; the place where it all began.

The end of the world, I mean.

With apologies to Mr. Frost, the end of the world did not come with trumpets blaring and fire raining from the skies or with ice and natural phenomena. No, the end of the world came with fear and the sound of a single gunshot.

An innocent girl, the child of everyday ‘normal’ parents brutally shot while waiting for her bus. Her senseless murder galvanized the nation, her pictures all over the media, the most fantastic uproar raised. “How could this happen here?” People asked, “This is the greatest country on the planet, the safest and best, how could this happen to us here?”

There were no answers for them, the police were stymied, and the federal government investigated and investigated and yet turned up nothing. No clues, no motive, no answers. The people demanded more security, they craved it, they elected what they thought would bring them more security. Bills passed, freedoms were restricted, and life progressed the same as it always had. There were record-breaking amounts of arrests being made and detainees were always thoroughly questioned.

Some fought back against the new laws, believing that they went against everything the great country had been founded on, everything they stood for. Their voices were few and far between and all too quickly silenced. With the executive powers that had been granted to the governing representatives and the corruption that was already running rampant through the offices of those that the general public had placed their lives and faith in, life was now a pale shadow of what it once was. Not that any of the mundane drones would realize it. They deluded themselves into believing that their every move, the entirety of their lives was not being recorded and analyzed by computers and the silent ones behind the public figureheads of the governments.

Every now and then something would pop up on the screens of the omnipresent government and a silent strike would be set up and a person, perhaps an entire family would be brought in for questioning. Sometimes they were seen again, sometimes they weren’t.

This was our future now. This was our reality. Our worst nightmares come to pass.

There are still those who oppose the government regime, we are silent (for now) but we are there and there *will* come a day when we take our country, our lives, our freedoms, our privacy back from those that took it from us. For now we watch and wait. The timing must be certain. We are known among the free underground as Prometheus Bound.

I am one of them.

Rebel for The Cause, like our brothers and sisters of times before us.

The last true remaining freedom fighters on the planet,

Viva la Revolucao.

Long live the cause, long live the Revolution.

Flyin' Free

2006-08-12T11:06:00.000-04:00

A timed writing exercise brought forth this one.

Flyin' Free

“Are you ready to fly?” The question came.

“Don’t know if I should,” I replied.

“Don’t know if you should?” the voice threw back, “Or don’t know if you want to?”

“I want to, but…” I hesitated, unsure.

“But? There are no buts. You want to fly? Then spread them wings and fly.” The voice told me.

“Just like that, it’s that easy?” I asked.

“Just like that, spread them wings, jump off that cliff, and you fly. Simple as that.” The voice replied.

“Jump off that cliff!” I exclaimed, horrified, a zillion excuses already running through my brain.

“All you got to do is let go and then you soar, high and free.” The voice told me patiently, “Let go of them fears, them thing holding you down, keeping you tethered. They drag you down, make you stumble.”

“Alright,” I said, shakily, still scared.

“S’ok to be scared, you acknowledge it then push through it. Have faith, little B, you’ll soar.”

“OK,” I said, stepping up to the ledge, “Here goes.”

I stepped off it and for a moment there I froze, doubts and fears falling a head of me in freefall then the voice came back, “Spread them wings,” and I did and I soared. It felt so good to be this free, this light, this fantastic inside and out.

Flyin Free, just me.

Two different descriptive pieces

2006-07-25T09:08:00.000-04:00

The first is from my Advanced Creative Writing class last year. The second is from my 1'st 2006 Paper Journal (writing through the second one presently).

Descriptive Creative Writing Assignment

Your assignment today is to tear apart these sentences! Of course, you have to rebuild them and put your creation in the group discussion folder.

I saw the can of Diet Coke sitting on my desk. It was calling to me.

Group discussion – Make this description better! Use all senses!

Drip, drip, I watch as condensation forms on my Coke can and thin little rivulets of water slowly glide down the brilliant surface of the can and are soaked up by the thin cork coaster beneath it. The air was thick with humidity and the hot sun blazed down upon the small city, casting a glare on the window pane in front of me. The click click of the keyboard sounds as I finished typing in my thoughts on this latest piece of speculative fiction. My eyes continually straying from the computer screen to the bright red and silver of the Coke can that rested on the other side of my desk, it was calling to me. My dry throat begging for a tiny sip of that delicious cola, to feel that refreshing sense of the carbonated bubbles of that ice cold drink tickling the back of my throat as they go down, the soda was calling to me.

Not with words, but it was surely calling me, drawing me to it.

I saved the document and then picked up the can. The slick feeling of the small beads of condensation only made me grip the can more tightly as I lifted the can up to my mouth and took a deep swallow of the tantalizing cool beverage.

I answered the call of the Coke.

The Taste of Summer

January 21, 2006

...right now I'm enjoying a lovely suco (smoothie) and some pao de queijos (cheesebreads) here at the lovely lovely suco shop. With the Foz summers, nothing quite hits the spot like a lovely watermelon suco. Mmmmm, watermelon, the true taste of summer.

*grin* I've just realized how true that last statement of mine is. Watermelons, they really *do* taste like summer. With one tantalizing, cold, refreshing sip, you taste not only the deliciousness of the fruit itself but also the cool sensation of running and playing in the sprinklers, of Fourth of July cookouts and brilliant fireworks' displays. You taste the warmth of the summer sun and the humidity from the lakes nearby. Playing by and in the river, little boys running all around playing pirates, adventurers, and cowboys and indians. Little girls with their dolls, making daisy chains and having outside tea parties. Outdoor picnics and treetop forts. Warmth, lighty, bright colors, and love. First kisses and tearful goodbyes, summer camp in all its glory. Going to the beach and playing for hours with family and friends in the sand and the surf. no cares, no worries, just blissful summer-y goodness.

The taste of summer.

Yep.

The Author and The Muse

2006-07-24T00:53:00.000-04:00

This is a bit of an odd story with a rather interesting history behind it. One stormy night I had trouble sleeping and had been writing shortly before I slipped into Morpheus' arms (or tried to at least) and so my notebook and pen were right by my bed instead of on my desk like they'd usually be. Finally I was able to slip into this half sleeping/dreaming state and get at least a small bit of rest. Or so I thought. That night I had some particularly vivid dreams, all running along this same theme and when I woke up the next morning, the notebook was on the other side of the bed from where I'd placed it, there was inkspots on my fingers and the sheets and the pen was shoved halfway between my pillow and comforter. And when I picked up the notebook and looked at it, there were about six-seven pages of script that I didn't remember writing at all. As far as I know this was my only foray into sleepwriting and this story was what was on those pages that I didn't remember writing.

He wasn’t quite sure what exactly had drawn her to him. Or more precisely what had first drawn his attention to her. What had set her apart from all of the rest of the nameless faces, shapeless figures passing by. She was just different. That’s all that really could be said, she was *just* different. Not in a bad or even outrageous way, just that there was something about her, something profound, something deeper to her that set *her* apart from everyone else in the crowd. It was something that tugged at him, it messed with him. He found himself wanting to know, wanting to understand how, *why*. He wanted to get inside her head and see just what it was, that made her so inexplicably *different.*

For the first time in a long time, it seemed, he had a purpose, a driving force pushing at him.

He wanted to hear her laugh, to see what color her eyes were close up, what she looked like when she was sad, or mad, or happy. To figure out what were her passions, her goals in life, her opinions, and her beliefs. Why she said or did or thought the things that she did.

He wanted it all.

He wanted to experience, to wonder at life they way she did. He wanted to touch her soul and her touch his. To understand and be understood. This was what he had been striving for; this is what…this was who he had been searching for. He didn’t even know her name and yet he felt like he’d gladly spend the rest of his brief, temporary existence with her. Just by looking at her, watching her through the glass windows of his shop, she being different made *him* want to be different.

You would think that a man, who wrote and painted for a living would be able to come up with another word, another description that could accurately describe her, but he couldn’t.

The words were simply not there.

It was a vast understatement to say that she was different, but that really was the only word that could even come close to naming that indescribable quality she possessed. He could spend a lifetime trying to describe her in prose or capturing her on canvas and still never quite touch upon that sole defining quality, that thrilling and mystifying feature that boggled him so.

She was in his blood, his soul, his mind, she was his muse breathed, dreamt into life. A real live Galatea to his soul-weary Pgymalion. She was all of that and so, so, much more.

She’d radically rocked his world, shaken it down to its very foundations…and she’d done it all with a simple smile.

One smile was all it took.

One small smile and he was totally and completely lost.

And if this was all a dream, some mere fragment of his subconscious mind drifting up, then by all that was holy, he never wanted to wake up ever again.

She wasn’t perfect, or flawlessly beautiful, or a brilliant intellect that wowed and astonished everyone around her. She was simple and ordinary and clever, but not in that way that immediately overpowered you with shock and awe at her apparent brilliance. She was different and for right now, she was his.

And that was all that mattered right now.

The Author paused for a moment, yes, he thought, that would make a very good beginning to his book.

Now this Author had been alive for many, many years now, and he had seen many strange and wonderful things, but nothing had quite affected him so like this one girl had.

Their first contact had been brief, measured in the manner of seconds, but within those few, fine seconds, she had seen inside of him, she’d touched him deeply and did so in such a way that he’d never been able to forget it.

It is funny, he mused, that thing we call the relativity of time. Where a friendship that’s lasted for thirty-forty strong years can come to mean the same to us as a simple smile that lasted no more than a few seconds. Both were meaningful and both touched the life of the person they were intended for. Which one was greater? Only Heaven could tell.

But both of those two instances had a profound, defining effect of that very same person. That in some small part, in some small way they changed him. For better or for worse, none can say. But he was a changed man from both of those experiences. Perhaps even changed in ways that he didn’t even know or realize yet.

Yes, the relativity of time as it related to life experience was indeed a funny and mystifying thing. And perhaps it was best left like that. Man was surely not created to know everything (though some did seek to do so), it would be quite boring and meaningless to know everything. Life would lose its color, its vitality, were one to know everything.

No, it was good to acquire knowledge and to then endeavor to pass that knowledge on to younger generations, but it was also good to be surprised. To be able to enjoy and experience all that life had to offer. To look and watch as younger people grew and experienced life themselves, listening fondly as you reminisced about what you were like at their age. There were certain things in life that could not, should not be taught, but must instead be experienced. For after all, experience is the greatest teacher of them all. No living mortal, past or present could live up to her standards.

The Author chuckled, if there was one thing to be said about old age, it was that it certainly made a body more introspective and philosophical, he supposed. For as all Great Authors know, one can only really write believably about something that they already know, that they’ve already experienced for themselves.
Personal experience was the secret, the key to all great writing.

Because personal experience made the words jump out at you from the page and ensnare you in their storytelling. Personal experience makes it real, makes it concrete. Makes it take on a life of its own, the Author thought wryly, much like this story was getting away from him.

Stories were meant to be told, meant to be shared and enjoyed. It is their reason for being, the essence of their existence. A writer is merely a person who has a certain affinity to channel those stories through him in order to share them with others. He is a dreamer, a poet, an idealist, a realist, and a living, breathing paradox. Writers don’t see the world the same way others do. Their perspective in this is totally and completely different.

Fresh and original.

Two other beloved aspects of this girl of his dreams...

Sleeper Awake

2006-07-13T23:00:00.000-04:00

This was my review for my online book club's discussion of our first book, Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson. One of my favorite books period because it has a way of speaking to you, no matter who you are and because it never fails to touch deep inside you, if you have the courage to let it.

Sleeper Awake

One of the things that always captures my imagination when I read this book is how the author manages to describe such a rich and deep world with only a few words. I mean I open the book and the first page just immediately calls to me. I can hear the truck and see it clanking down the road. As I read on, I can see in my mind's eye, Jess Aarons getting up and running, almost flying as he practices. Jess is at first glance, just a simple country boy with simple country boy aspirations and pleasures, but then we see as the book goes on, Jess has a secret before he ever meets Leslie. Jess is an artist and the only sort of ally he has is his beautiful gypsy like music teacher, Miss Edmunds.

Then he meets this new neighbor of his who turns his life topsy-turvy. Leslie Burke is a *girl* and a girl who can run like nothing Jess has ever seen before and who has this unparalleled imagination that just blows him away. And one day, Leslie comes up with this idea, that they should create a place for themselves, a secret sort of imaginary kingdom where they could be the rulers of it all.

And thus it begins. Just by hanging out with Leslie and talking/associating with her, Jess has already started to change a bit, started thinking beyond just winning the next footrace and all. But Terabithia gives him something he couldn't get anywhere else. A sense of purpose, of belonging, of responsibility. Being a king is not something lightly undertaken after all. Slowly Jess is starting to awaken, he's starting to really *live* instead of just exist. The power of imagination is a mighty thing. Being around Leslie has a positive influence on Jess. He grows a bit after each of their escapades and adventures, even if he doesn't quite realize it.

One of the hardest things for me, I suppose, is remembering that Jess and Leslie are only 9-10 years old at the time of the story. Just kids. But yet on the other hand, they aren't *just* two kids playing make-believe, they are the King and Queen of a magical land called Terabithia. I get lost in their struggles and triumphs that I forget that these are after all characters who haven't even reached puberty yet. Jess and Leslie possess a sort of timeless quality and maturity that's a bit unusual, yet seems to fit with them.

That's the first half of the book, then there's the second half of the book. Where Jess has the perfect day, going up to Washington with his beloved teacher, Miss Edmunds and seeing all of these great and wonderful

sights that he just can't wait to share with Leslie once he gets back,

onlyy to find that while he has been gone, Leslie has slipped, hit her head, and then drowned in the river.

She's gone. This wonderful, magical, mystical person who has twisted and turned his life upside down and sideways, who has been his best friend and partner in crime, and his fellow monarch is gone.

Who pushed and pulled at him and really made him stop and think about stuff, who told these amazing stories, and who was the catalyst for his imagination and mind waking up and realizing that there's a great big world out there that he'd never even dreamed about, but that he wants to explore now that he know about it.

This pivotal person, his mentor of sorts, is gone.

Jess, understandably, is numb at first-- like it's all a bad dream he's having

and he just wants to wake up and end it, but he can't, because it

wasn't a bad dream after all. Once he comes to that realization, he gets angry at Leslie for leaving him, for failing him just when he needed her the most. "She had made him leave his old self behind and come into her world, and then before he was really at home in it but too late to go back, she had left him stranded there ---like an astronaut wandering about on the moon. Alone." Page 114

Jess passes through all the stages of grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

Chapter Thirteen is my favorite part of this book, because you see how Jess has matured and grown from where we first saw him in the beginning of the book to the person he is now. From making a funeral wreath for the fallen Queen to his rescue of May Belle at the beginning of the chapter to his epiphany at school. "He thought about it all day, how before Leslie came, he had been a nothing --a stupid, weird little kid who drew funny pictures and chased around a cow field, trying to act big--trying to hide a whole mob of foolish little fears running riot inside his gut. It was Leslie who had taken him from the cow pasture into Terabithia and turned him into a king. He had thought that was it. Wasn't king the best you could be? Now it occured to him that perhaps Terabithia was like a castle where you came to be knighted. After you stayed a while and grew strong, you had to move on. For hadn't Leslie, even in Terabithia, tried to push back the walls of his mind and make him see beyond to the shining world --huge and terrible and beautiful and very fragile?
(Handle with care--everything--even the predators.)
Now it was time for him to move out. She wasn't there, so he must go for the both of them. It was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength. As for the terrors ahead -- for he did not fool himself that they were all behind him -- well, you just have to stand up to your fear and not let it squeeze you white. Right, Leslie?

Right." Page 126

This for me makes the book. This is what it is all about right here and it's so true, so applicable to life now as it was then when the book was first written.

The end of the novel is beautiful for we see Jess now confident and assured, build a bridge with the extra lumber from the Perkins place and then induct May Belle into the magic of Terabithia. Jess' journey is far from complete, but we have seen him grow and awaken and mature and now he is doing for May Belle whatLeslie did for him.

And the magic goes on.

It Happened Again

2006-04-05T11:02:00.000-04:00

It happened to me again.

Only this time it happened while I was playing this monster-slaying online RPG (I have pictures too)...my character got zapped into a younger version of herself and the(character) bunny bit.

So without further ado, meet Jaeriel

Jaeriel is nine years old and she has two pets, a Baby VampDragon named Firedrake...

and a Were-Hare named Bunnicula.

Little Jae is a monster-slayer and a fairly decent one at that...

Spirits, Zombies, Small monsters, Big ones...She's ready and willing to fight any and all of them with a fairly impressive mini-arsenal at her disposal. I told two of my friends with whom I was chatting with at the time about her and they promptly informed me I needed to write something with her in it...*laughs* So now I'm off to write a story about a nine year old monster-slayer who has two rather unique pets she travels with as well as her own mini-arsenal of weapons and magic tricks...

My life is *so* weird...

Does Anyone Else Have This Problem?

2006-03-29T15:53:00.000-05:00

Right, I'm sitting here at the computer, trying to read a little fic before taking a nap and then working my tushie off again. And all of a sudden this random bit of dialogue runs through my mind from completely out of nowhere: "Snap does tend to forget that not all of us think in binary." The split second after that goes through my mind, this vivid mental image smacked me over the head.

An average height reed-thin guy with oval-shaped wire-rimmed glasses sitting at a computer desk in a small room crammed full with bookshelves and bits of stray paper and computer paraphenalia haphazardly strewn all over the room. A set of headphones on his head, he rapidly types something into the PC at the desk and then whirls around in his computer wheel-y chair and just as quickly clicks and types into the laptop on the other side of the U-shaped desk. He reaches up with one hand to grab the last printout from his printer on the shelf above the desk before it falls and he scans it before whirling back to the PC and working there again.

This man is a Master of the Binary Kung-fu. And in the space of 10 seconds, I have his entire life story. It just came to me, completely out of the blue. Everything, down to how he likes to dress (mostly casual - ties make him twitchy), his favorite foods while working (Pizza Hot Pockets, Toaster Strudels, and Chinese Takeout from the Restaurant two doors down along with some nice herbal teas and caffeine drinks), his favorite outdoor hobbies (photography and rock climbing), and even the names of his two cats (Rorschach and Jake) and how he got to be called Snap in the first place (a nickname given to him by a friend who'd say that, "Charlie can do it for you in a snap" in reference to his phenomenal coding skills. Eventually he just became known as 'Snap').

How freaky is this? I wasn't even trying to think up a character, actually was doing my best to kinda shut down my brain a bit. And then in the space of all of 10 seconds, it feels like someone just downloaded all of this stuff into my brain.

So here is my question to those out there reading this...Does anyone else have this problem? Characters /Story plotlines/other related writing-y stuff just happening to you like that?

Joy

2006-02-28T12:05:00.000-05:00

This was my first article for the SA newsletter - the theme was Joy and they were looking for an MK's perspective on it. After thinking about it for a while, this is what I came up with.

Joy.

Everybody knows what it is yet you ask someone to define it for you and they get all tongue-tied. This is because joy isn’t the sort of thing that can be described with mere words, it has to be seen, felt, experienced, and shared to fully understand it. As an MK, my perspective is a little different than most teens my age. Life on the mission field has taught me most of all to appreciate the little things that most take for granted. Having hot water in the sink taps and showers is one example that comes to mind, stores like Target or Wal-Mart, with all those choices right there in *one* store is another.

Joy is also found in the smiles and hugs of all the little children I work with at both the Brasilian Awana’s club and the bookmobile project. The looks on the faces of the street kids as they hear about Jesus for the first time through the EvangiCube or the storying scarf, and the little light that goes on in their eyes as they pray to receive him. It’s found in the laughter of my siblings and the amused looks of my parents, in emails from good friends and family. But most of all joy is found in these two verses from Lamentations chapter 3, “The unfailing love of the Lord never ends! By his mercies we have been kept from complete destruction. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each day.” God loves us, loves me so much that he not only saved me from destruction, he blessed me and continues to bless me each and every day I live. That for me is the source of all Joy.

Why I Write

2006-02-18T09:05:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine on one of the forums I subscribe to asked this question: Why do we do it? Why do we pour so much of ourselves into writing? Many of us pour our souls into it; we plot and plan and edit and worry and stress ourselves over something we're not necessarily *required* to do. It's not for extra credit or prestige, many of us aren't even trying to make a career out of it.

So why do it? Why put all the effort and time into it?

So after pondering this over, I finally came up with an answer:

In my first post, I spoke about Magic and Good Madness. Writing for me is just that. Magic. Something wonderful and inexplicable and indescribable. Writing fulfills me in a way that very few other things can. That's why I do it.

And at the risk of sounding cliche, I write because it's part of who I am. I could no sooner stop writing (or dreaming) then I could stop breathing. I write on and about everything... A interesting thought occurs to me and i'll write it down so I don't lose it. Happy times, sad times, I'll write about those, sometimes after writing down what happened and how you felt about it, you find yourself with a new perspective on the matter, better able to think things through and understand the other side of things. I also write to get the plot bunnies out of my head before they drive me insane. Plot bunnies are worse nags than the School Nazi on a rampage. But mostly I write because it relaxes me and because there's this driving need in me to share the stories that come out of my mind, to get these characters and scenes out of my head and onto paper.

To sum up, I leave you with this quote by Roald Dahl who states, 'And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.'

I've found that magic and I've discovered some of those secrets and that is why I write.

Going Home

2006-02-11T11:27:00.000-05:00

Written for an English Assignment. Speaks about the feeling of exile one gets after returning to your birth country after an extended stay outside of it. Dedicated to all those kids who don't know where home is.

Going Home

Alien in a strange land
[Going back, going home shouldn’t be like this]
Outsider, interloper in a foreign territory
[A thousand faces all around and I stand alone]
Outcast
[Lost in the overwhelming crush of Nationalism]
Apart, not like them, strange, foreign, a mere novelty to their eyes
[I come from the same country but no one sees that]
Expatriate
[My perspective is different, my expectations are different]
Perplexed
[Can’t they see? Don’t they know how lucky they are?]
Sad
[They take so much for granted]
Different
[Why can’t they accept me?]
This is my culture too, my people, my nation
[Is this really where I want to be? Is this really who I want to be?]
This coldness, this apathy, this indifference
[I hate it, being here, never good enough for their standards,
Forever relegated to being that alien from the other place]
What happened to this place? Where did all the passion and vigor go?
[I don’t belong here-they don’t want me]
The people are bland, they exist but they don’t live
[Deserted, abandoned, despised, shunned]
They merely go through the motions of living
[Too much passion, too much vigor, too much life for this dreary place]
Exile
[Creature in a zoo, trapped behind invisible walls, displayed for all to see]
Refugee
[Take me away, anywhere but here- I can’t stand it anymore]
Welcome Home
[I’m an alien in a foreign hostile land- these aren’t my people, isn’t my culture, not my home]

Untitled

2006-02-11T00:34:00.000-05:00

Untitled

Black laughter reflected in black eyes
Mocks the bright radiance of the sparkling poet.
Seeks to suppress the dreams and wishes
Of the fragile soul made from glass.

Seeks to crush the rising star,
Strike down from its lofty perch
In the heavens above.

Seeks to quench that hungry desire
For passion, light, and love.

Seeks to put out the golden light,
Shining forth with all of its glorious
Illumination.

Seeks to poison and kill all
That is lovely, bright, and good.
Blots out the stars, the sun, the moon.

Turns everything to chaos and the
Black oblivion of nothingness.

Inside the starless void, there are no
Answers, no escapes, no boltholes,
No way out.

An endless labyrinth of death, decay,
And despair.

Shattered fragments of the once fragile soul
Litter the endless pathways, drawing blood from the body,
Slashing deep inside the mind, crushing the soul.

Hope is gone, a forgotten memory on the winds of time,
All that is left is the void.

Just the void,

Nothing else.

This is what happens apparently when one reads Poe and D.H. Laurence right before bed. Inspired by a very odd dream I had.

First Post - Magic , Dreams, and Good Madness

2006-02-09T11:06:00.000-05:00

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good
madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks
you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or
build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the
next year, you surprise yourself.
~ Neil Gaiman

Magic, Dreams, and Good Madness...

That's from a Neil Gaiman quote.

Magic is reading and writing and that amazing sensation when you get sucked into a novel or fic, sitting spellbound as you dive into imaginary worlds that sometimes seem to you as being more real than your own world. Magic is sitting with pen and paper or in front of the computer and watching as the ideas, daydreams, and specters of imagination solidify and become nearly tangible as they flow from your brain onto paper/word processor. It's watching a character develop from a brief fragment of your mind into a living, almost breathing person, independent, with concrete personalities of their own. It's watching the story develop and being swept away right alongside your characters, it's surprising even yourself with the plot twists and turns. It's Magic, life encapsulated in a dream bubble, or indeed as the title states, "Good Madness."

To be a writer, to really be one is to be wildly, passionately, fabulously off-kilter in some way. I mean after all our classification in the DM IV should read: Evil and Sadistic Paranoid Neurotic Schitzophrenic Masochist...aka Writer. How else would the cliffhanger and other such beloved plot devices have to light?

*smile* Another less creepy, more poetic way to look at it would be to say that Authors/Writers channel life, hopes, dreams, wishes, nightmares even, but most of all, they channel life. Pure and Simple (no matter what Mr. Wilde might say).