The Erruindel Chronicles: II

Part I
--
In Which Lill'th Is Not Given A Choice

"I am not going to marry you," blurted Lill'th immediately, drawing the natural conclusion. "I know you were that bear from earlier," she added quickly, as she could hear her mother approaching the common room, "and I'm not about to associate with magic like that, so you can take your offer elsewhere."

Eivex, apparently on a different page altogether, was speechless.

"I'm sorry if you were secretly in love with me," Lill'th went on, rather wildly, "though I honestly don't see how that would be possible, since you've never been here before."

"Oh, I—No?" said Eivex, his pasty face turning an incredibly deep shade of red. His long white hands were twitching nervously at his sides.

"Not to mention that you're probably old enough to be my father," continued Lill'th, who didn't know why she was still talking.

Fortunately for him, Eivex was saved from having to answer, as Za'allamaca, Lill'th's mother, glided into the room just then, holding a heaping load of clean washing, which she promptly dropped into her daughter's arms with an airy "Welcome home, darling" and a light kiss on the cheek. Eivex let out an audible sigh of relief and went to stand by the table in the corner.

"What have you done with my trousers?" said Lill'th, frowning down at the oddly-shaped clothing in her arms.

"I cut them open and sewed them into skirts," said Za'allamaca, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder, "so you can dress like a proper woman. Now that you are sixteen, after all."

Lill'th frowned harder. "Mother, you can't do that. Have you ever tried climbing the cliffs in a skirt? It's impossible! Also, these are so ugly."

Za'allamaca's beautiful dark eyes flashed, at once dangerously furious and wistfully nostalgic. Oh no, thought Lill'th.

"I once climbed to the top of the Black Tooth itself," Za'allamaca said in a low voice, "in the most lovely silk dress. I never faltered, not once in my long ascent. The dress is still lovely. By Loej's hands, I married your father Jacob in that dress. Pah! Do not ask me if I have climbed mere cliffs in a skirt."

Eivex, whose presence Lill'th had momentarily forgotten about, had a sudden fit of obviously fake coughing. Za'allamaca turned to him, instantly charming and elegant again, the perfect hostess. (Lill'th looked between them, feeling conflicted and emotionally whiplashed.)

"Now, sir," began Za'allamaca, "about that goat and its rainbow kids—"

"I have changed my mind," interrupted Eivex, somehow turning an even more impressive shade of red than before. He tugged at the laces on the front of his shirt and cleared his throat. "I am no longer interested in the goat. I...I would like to marry Lilith instead."

"Lill'th," said Lill'th automatically, then, "WHAT?"

Eivex smiled anxiously, showing more teeth than was strictly normal.

The spray of wildflowers sitting in a vase on the table seemed to wilt in the long, awkward silence that followed. The wooden floor creaked faintly. A small purple mouse fled the room through the open doorway.

"All right," said Za'allamaca, finally. "Let me fetch Jacob."

Lill'th dropped her pile of hideous trouser-skirts in shock as her mother glided back into the kitchen. She couldn't be serious. She was serious. She was calling Lill'th's father right now to come perform the betrothal, probably right here in the common room, with its old worn furniture and dirt-streaked walls.

How was this happening? Wasn't she supposed to at least make this choice for herself? Lill'th had been planning on probably choosing Aaron, who was nice to her and didn't smell that terrible if she really thought about it. Today was supposed to be her special day, the day that marked the beginning of her dreams coming true, and yet here she was, about to be forced into arranged marriage like some sad girl in Ayla's Fairy Tales From The Ringlands. When she'd dreamed of being married, it wasn't at all like this.

Lill'th was about to start crying when Eivex urgently grabbed her arm and whispered, "Quick, before your mother returns," which was a horrible thing to say just now, so she got angry instead, flung his hand away, and turned her back on him.

"Okay, first things first," said Eivex from behind her, "I am not old enough to be your father."

"That doesn't matter much now, does it?" said Lill'th, fuming at the streaky wall.

"Secondly," Eivex said, "I don't actually want to marry you, I just needed some way to convince your parents to let you come with me without it looking inappropriate, and it seemed—"

"Hold on," said Lill'th, turning back around. Nothing today was making any sense. "You don't want to marry me?"

Eivex's fingers started to twitch again. "Do you find odd things happen to you often?" he asked. "Nights get messed up, trees fall behind you, sparrows and cows love you, lots of thunderstorms, anything?"

"Well, let's see," said Lill'th, glaring at him. "A bear showed up as a man who's pretending to want to marry me in order to kidnap me instead, for undisclosed reasons. No, nothing weird."

"Do you like fire?" he persisted.

"Hate it."

"What about water?"

"I can't swim, if that's what you're asking."

Eivex scratched his head. "This doesn't make sense."

"NONE OF WHAT YOU ARE SAYING MAKES SENSE," yelled Lill'th.

"There's a prophecy about you," said Eivex earnestly, "only I didn't realize it was you until just now. You're supposed to have amazing powers, and you're the one who's going to set this land free."

Lill'th threw her hands up in utter confusion and despair.

"Free from what?" she cried.

The End of Myself

The end. This was it: I could feel the precipice crumbling beneath my toes. I took no step back, only stood there looking into the thick darkness. Eternity was not forever, then; it stopped here, a dry, dusty cliff with a wall of black in front and down and on all sides.

I pushed against the wall. It pushed back—nothing to be done.

So? What now? To go back the way I came? Tell whoever's there (if anyone is left?) that I've done it, I reached the end of eternity and it is nothing but nothing.

Despair rose in a choking instant. I had hoped to find something when I pressed forward: a sign, at least, to guide me where I needed to go. But here was only cold dust on my feet, and everywhere a darkness so heavy I could have been blind. Perhaps I was.

A footstep.

I tensed, ready to run. Another step, closer this time. Warm light sparked, flickered, and illuminated a face. It was him.

"When did you get here?" I asked.

"I've been," he said.

Haleigh

When a writer poses that last-resort but all-too-common question, “What should I write about?”, she can generally expect three kinds of responses from three kinds of people.

1. The Unintentionally Narcissist Friend: “Write about me!” 
2. The Extremely Unhelpful Friend: “idk, like something”
3. The Friend Who Spends Too Long Pondering Everything: “Write about how the ethics of raising and killing free-range chickens can be applied as a metaphor to war.”

I suppose it’s to be expected. Who can really rise to the sudden demand of inspiration? Who can truly fulfill the role of Writer’s Muse at a moment’s notice?

Then there’s my friend Haleigh. Also known in previous years as my blog-stalker—or if you were a keen observer of that one speed poetry post two years ago, you may have glimpsed her lurking beneath the charismatic Sirenia Featherheart’s captivating work.

Haleigh has been probably the single best prompter I’ve encountered so far. Where most people clam up and supply stupid ideas, she’s always ready to supply suggestions that are specific enough to inspire, but still vague enough to take their own form in any writer’s hands. In addition, Haleigh’s prompts tend to have the added benefit of humor, which I am sometimes prone to neglect. I’ll forget that poems can be funny, and then Haleigh comes along and tells me to write a clerihew, or a poem based on the lines “weeping, wailing / (do you care for parasailing?)”, or on the name Francesca.

So this is just to give credit where credit is due. Tonight Haleigh resorted to being the Unintentionally Narcissist Friend, but since the unintentional part was very sincere, and since she actually totally deserves a whole blog post about her, I decided to take it.

Thanks for everything, Haleigh. Let’s speed-poem again sometime soon.

(Note: This post has focused on Haleigh’s role as inspiration in my writing, but it should also be mentioned that she edits all my papers like a boss, and can absolutely knock your socks off in an iambic pentameter competition if you are foolish enough to challenge her. Girl’s cool. Don’t mess with her.)

The Erruindel Chronicles: I

In Which Our Story Begins

It was, without a doubt, the dumbest bear she'd ever seen.

The stupid thing lumbered oddly from side to side, ignoring the sheep, and seemed only moments from outright falling off the side of the mountain. Several sheep on the outskirts of the flock were braying in mild terror, but the rest remained blissfully oblivious to the large black creature bumbling its way drunkenly along the precarious edge of the gorge. As Lill'th watched, the bear stumbled into a bush of thorn-vines and began to flail weakly, like a dying octopus—not that Lill'th had ever seen an octopus, but they were a common monster in her favorite picture book, The Enthralling Exploits Of Naffyt The Pirate, and the comparison seemed fitting.

The bear stopped moving suddenly. Lill'th squinted in suspicion. Had it died?
Or, no—that was definitely a snore—it had fallen asleep, in the middle of the thornbush. The dumbest bear, she swore to herself.
But what animal slept like that? There was something unsettlingly wrong about the way it had moved, the way it had overlooked the sheep, and the way it now twitched between snores.

Lill'th was no fool of a shepherd girl, and she quickly gathered her flock to bring them home to Om for the night, leaving the stupid black bear snoring gently with vines creeping into its mouth. The sun set gloriously on her way back to the village, reaching through the twin-peaked Blue-Horn Mountains to light the Blue-Foot Valleys all on fire—though not literally, Lill'th thought, as the thick, tough grass covering the valleys was entirely too wet to be burned.

She had tried burning it once, as a very young child attempting to cook a huge pile of “beetle-flowers” for her mother, and had nearly died from the smoke that quickly filled the outhouse. Her mother had been hysterical upon pulling young Lill’th from the billows of smoke, though to this day Lill’th could never be sure whether it was with worry or with laughter.
“Loej’s eyes, child,” her mother had cried, “I told myself you’d finally learned to poop in the proper place, and here you are, burning yourself alive! What in Thykaismoss were you doing?”
“Uhhh,” Lill’th had rasped.
(Thirteen years later, Lill’th was fully potty-trained, but still grew faint at the sight of fire.)

Tonight, Lill'th found herself oddly distracted and jumpy as she herded the sheep into the fold and went to wash up at the town pump before returning to her house, like something gravely important was about to happen. There was nothing she could think of to explain the way she was feeling, not even the fact that it was her sixteenth birthday and that she’d more than likely find herself betrothed before the night was over.
She went through her mental list of eligible boys one more time as she scrubbed at her hands and splashed water on her face: Aaron the weaver’s son, who unfortunately smelled like lard and mothroot dye; Levi the blacksmith-apprentice, who was handsome but took all of Lill’th’s jokes literally; and Jethro, another shepherd, who had already lost half his teeth from all the fights he got into. It was absolutely nothing to worry about.

It was, yes, a smaller and less dashing group than her sister B’naala had chosen from last year, but Lill’th felt sure it would be all right. Any of the boys would make a fine husband, and she was impatient to be married. While watching the sheep, Lill'th often dreamed of building her own house, expanding her flock, raising her children, and feeding her parents when they grew old and grumpy. She also occasionally dreamed of visiting the sea or the great White-Eye plains in the east, but those were far less practical fantasies and never lasted very long.

Softly singing an old shepherd's tune to herself, Lill'th crossed the shadowy cobblestones of the twilit town square to her home.

Sing the baby lambs to sleep
Baby lambs are baby sheep
Kill the wolves before they come
HUM HUM HUM

Lill'th pulled off her worn felted boots and left them by the doorstep as she went inside.

In my hand a staff I keep
A staff for guarding baby sheep
Kill the wolves before they come
HUM HUM—

Lill'th stopped singing abruptly. There was stranger sitting on a small stool in the common room, his long legs shaking slightly and looking incredibly cramped. Where had he come from? There hadn't been foreigners in Om since her own mother moved here to marry her father, twenty-three years ago.
As she entered the room, the man's pale features lit up with a wide, toothy smile.
"You must be Lillith," he said, and there was suddenly something familiar about him, like she knew him previously, but that was impossible, since he had just gotten her name wrong.
"It's 'Lill'th,'" she corrected him. "Who are you?"

The revelation smacked her in the face like a nasty mountaincat when the man stood up, unfolding his long limbs awkwardly and very much—uncannily—impossibly—like a dying octopus. In that moment, Lill'th knew—though she didn't know how she knew, but she definitely knew—that, somehow, this odd stranger was the bear from earlier that day. She reeled, taking a step backward.

"My name is Eivex," said the stranger, still smiling. "I've come to make an offer."

Lill'th panicked.

Oh look, a poem. What?

the definition of stress

I am upset with Dan.
He says, “try something new
using the 'new constraints'
that this environment is giving you”
which means,
“i don’t care about you
enough to shut up when you’re
trying to write”
oh NO
NATHAN IS HERE TOO
I’M DONE
DONE

Week 5 at Drexel University, Winter Term

Alternatively titled, "How Is Davina Surviving? She Doesn't Know."

Also alternatively titled, "Apologies From The Author, Who Is Writing A Lot Less Fiction Than She Wanted To This Month."

Or, "Why This Is A Blog Post And Not A Story."

The first reason that this is a blog post and not a story is that I write fiction about ten times slower than I write poetry, because it's a form I don't practice very much but retain all my perfectionism about, and also because by nature it has to be longer than most poems. There are a couple things in the works, but it will be a while longer before they're coherent and long enough to post.

The second reason is that I am inches away from drowning in schoolwork. In addition to my regular coursework, which is challenging enough to juggle, I have not one, not two, but three tests next week, including a midterm in my hardest class. Monday and Tuesday are especially daunting, with tests on both mornings, two (fairly long) online homework assignments due, a lab report due, an in-class presentation scheduled, and another lab to complete. Not to mention the fact that I need to come up with a class schedule and register for next term on Monday as well!

I'm finding that this term is much more difficult for me than last term, because of all the new material I'm learning about chemistry, physics, differential equations, programming, and a little mechanical stuff for the robot I'm trying to build. Some of the new information is getting digested, but the rest is just hanging out in my throat, waiting for me to throw up or something.

I'm also in like, three group projects at once, which is pretty frustrating. On the plus side of this, though, I am making new friends, which is super exciting after a gap year in which I met new people at an approximate rate of 1 per every 3 months.

I hope this doesn't come across as complaining. I am very happy where I am, and I'm confident in God's ability to carry me through this, and I'm not even despairing about my grades yet.
However, this is definitely an excuse for any poor writing or ridiculously short posts over the next week and a half, as I crack down on my time management. I've already spent 23 minutes on this piece that I should probably have used studying for Chemistry.

Back to chemical kinetics, y'all.

Speed Poetry

As midnight drew nigh, two poets turned face-to-face and tested their hands and skill. Whizzing back and forth like two-minute bullets, they searched their souls and let words of love and pain spill unfettered onto the paper (or screen, as it were).

Sirenia Featherheart:
I look at you
and my pancreas just weeps
and hurts
because all of the insulin
in the world will never be able
to break down
your sweetness.
And so,
I cannot take it in.
It clogs my arteries like dead rivers.*
And I am so sad.


thoughts of. rivers of. tears:
In the middle of the day
at 12:03 P-M, I think of you
and you are like sugar in my heart
making me happy
like I was never happy before
Will you love me back
because at 12:03 P-M, I love you.


Sirenia Featherheart:
Sometimes I wait for you to
whiz by me
like a freight train
with wheels
and love for me like a big silver bullet on a steel track.
My suitcase
is by my foot.
My foot
is by my face
because
every time I see you
speeding by,
all I can think to do is stuff
my foot
in
my face
and wish that you
would slow down
just a little bit
for me,
just a little for me.

Dang,
I missed the train again.


thoughts of. rivers of. tears:
I wish you would look at me
the way you look at your dog
and your pet turtle
and your dinner
and even
her
but you will never feel
this same way for
me
because your dog is loud
and your turtle swims
and you are hungry
and she is your girlfriend
and I will never be.

--
* Phrase "dead rivers" © Sirenia Featherheart 2013.

Blessing

Something about the dimness of a rainy sky has its fingers rooted in my spirit, so that when the rain comes cold and trembling to the thirsty ground, it comes singing like a blessing. It draws me irresistibly outside to hold me close, to hold me shivering and happy, bare-foot in the muddy grass and face tilted to the sky-born water, calling out:

Oh wash my eyes and make me see!
Wash my lips and make them clean,
run down my chin and through my teeth
until I thirst no more!

Beneath me, the earth drinks deep until its pores are full and overflowing in cool streams between my toes. I am too small to do the same: this body cannot hold enough of anything to satisfy my heaven-reaching soul.

Someone’s voice is in the rain and echoes in my brain. It is a love song. It cries:

I love you, I love you,
I will quench your thirst both today and tomorrow,
when the sun returns to wither the grass,
and the earth’s wells run dry.

These words, falling heavy on my chest, steal the breath from my throat.
With my tiny voice drowning in all this thunder, how can I sing my reply?

Mirror

Back then, my days were black and dim, and my sky was a canopy of murky leaves.

I would stumble through that thick, dark forest and try to keep myself from tripping over the tangled roots that blanketed the ground. Sometimes I fell anyway--never hard enough to shatter completely, but painful breaks all the same. When that happened, I learned to kindle a smoky fire and press the smoldering branches to the broken pieces, clenching my jaw against the searing pain until the glass was whole again.
The fire could burn away a bit--just a little--of the mold covering me. I remember once, after fixing my left hand, how my fingers glinted dully in the fire's tiny flickering glow. It didn't last long. The mold always grew back quickly.
The angles were never quite right after I put myself back together. I stumbled on and on, crooked toes scraping at the dirt and knees cracking in the cold.

One day, unexpectedly, my darkness splintered and fled.

I met a woman who shone so brightly that I could see her coming for a long time. Her glass was new and clear, her face hidden in brightness. I thought I might go blind from looking at her.
"Where did you get your light?" I asked, staring though my eyes burned--because it was beautiful, because I had never seen anything like it.

"Oh," she said with something rapturous in her voice, straightening and sparkling even brighter. She lifted her clean hands like mirrors and pointed up. "Let me tell you about the sun."

That is Me (Wide Sargasso Sea Write-Back)

A/N: This story (written in a modernist style for an AP Lit assignment) is a response to the book Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, filling in a solution for a "problem" found in the original text, as Rhys herself did with Jane Eyre. If you've not read Wide Sargasso Sea, this story may or may not make sense. I'm not entirely sure.     

--

That is Me

      He doesn't remember meeting her, but there was always the day it seemed that she had flitted back into his life for good. They were both very young. Her family had for years lived in a relatively small estate by the sea, and they visited now and then, but for Edward those visits were a whirlwind of unfamiliar relatives, and he did not like strangers very much. Strangers, he called them, because he knew who they were, and he knew they shared something of the same blood, but he did not know them. Not like he knew his own father and mother and brother.
      Everything began to change when Uncle Robert decided to move his wife and fast-growing brood to a larger estate further inland and closer to Edward’s family. Then one day she came to him with flashing grey eyes and a smile that seemed to swallow her face (he thought he’d never seen anyone smile so much, not even his mother), and didn’t leave again.
      “I am going to be here always,” she said.
      He was glad of that because he liked the way she smiled. It made him feel as if someone had lit a fire in the hollows of his chest, where he was so often cold.
      “Which one are you?” he asked her bluntly. “I don’t remember your name.”
      “I am Bertha, and you are Edward,” she said, laughing.
      She was not completely right—he was not Edward and would not be as long as she stayed with him—but neither knew it yet.

* * *

      She is standing alone near the edges of the room, letting bolder women take up the center, but he sees her instantly because she is stunning, just as they told him. She is tall for a woman and almost too thin. She has big eyes glistening black in a small, pale face, and her hair is long and beautiful. Her dress is vibrantly blue and shimmers in the soft light.
      He bows to her, kisses her hand. Paints a perfect smile on his face, a mask he has learned to hide behind. They dance once, but when she moves it is with a liquid grace that unnerves him, and he cannot bring himself to dance again. He is stiff, a wooden puppet for his father, and he wonders, briefly, if she is the same for hers. She never returns his smile, but he thinks: Why would she, when we are strangers sent to dance together and all that is real in me has been locked away. She would be smiling at a ghost.
      The night wears on drearily, and though she is very beautiful and they have not stopped talking, there is a chasm between them. It is tiring to stretch words across, exhausting to span with meaningless glances. He begins to feel like a candle burned low, flickering whenever she looks at him with those dark sad eyes.
      “Antoinette,” he says, and the name is too big for his mouth. He does not like it.
Her expression bends from startled, to bewildered, to hesitantly amused.
      “Yes,” she says. “That is me.”

* * *

      He never enjoyed anyone else’s company as much. They spent every day together if they could, and Bertha liked to tell him stories that he was sure could not be true, all about talking mice and people in the sky and sea, but he loved them anyway. She did everything he would never—followed her impulses, laughed or cried aloud when adults were near, brandished the phrase ‘I love you’ freely.
      They used to play by a small creek that ran behind his house. She always muddied her skirts and got her sleeves wet, but he was careful to keep his trousers clean, fearful of what his father would say—
      'No son of mine shall appear before the servants looking like a common vagrant. Never do such a thing again.'—and the tone was cold, like he'd rather have a stone for a son instead of this small restless boy. A stone, at least, could be kept clean and quiet and still.
      They liked to play anything, but she liked best to play at sailors.
      “Imagine that this is the ocean,” she would say, lowering her voice as if telling him an important secret. “We are in a ship, and you are the captain.”
      “Why am I the captain?”
      “Because you are a boy, and the captain must be a boy. Now, Captain, here is the wheel,” she said with a wide grin, giving him a large stick, “and you must steer the ship.”
      “Where are we going?”
      “Ireland, or the Continent, or the West Indies. Wherever you want to go.”
      Edward (Captain now) had heard of those places, but did not know what they looked like, and did not want to go anywhere he did not know—
      “Let’s go home,” he said, and he ran up the hill from the creek into his house.

…

      The room was darker and warmer than he thought it should be, and Mother still wrapped up in thick blankets, her skin paler than he last remembered.
      “Eddie,” she called, seeing him in the doorway. “Come here, sit with me.”
      He ran to her bed and pulled himself up. Mother smoothed out a space for him, dropped a kiss on the top of his head. He leaned against her, curling his legs beneath him and sinking into pillows that comforted and cradled. A hundred silent flames filled the fireplace, yet Mother still shivered. He pressed himself closer to her side.
      Don’t be cold, Mama.
      Mother’s hand reached out and tilted his face towards her own. “Oh, Eddie,” she murmured. Her fingers brushed lightly over a bruise on his cheek.
      “Rowland told me I was bad,” he said. “Am I very bad?”
      When he looked at her, there was a frown on her face that he mirrored. He missed her smile. He had not seen it in weeks. She did not answer but wrapped her arm around him, pulling his head to rest on her shoulder. There was comfort in her quiet embrace, in the continuing murmurs above him that he could not hear distinctly—the sounds which his imagination carefully crafted into a chain of I love you’s, over and over and over. It was not long before he slept.
      Woke once when Mother’s body shook with coughing. Held on tightly until she was still and her breathing steady.
      Slept again.

…

      Edward was not Captain was not Eddie. Edward—the silent son who did not talk back to his father, the silent brother who did not cry out when Rowland hit him. Captain—Bertha’s best friend, Bertha’s favorite cousin, Bertha’s laughing playmate whose imagination ran free in her company.
      Eddie—his mother’s beloved child, who died when she did.
      He did not weep when it happened. Later, Captain would crumple and cry into a comforting shoulder, but Bertha was not with him at first. At first he was alone, with only Edward left inside him, and only silence kept Edward strong.
      He is such a good boy, but something is strange about him, they murmured when they thought he could not hear them. So cold, not like a child at all.
      Yes, he thought. That is Edward. Not a child at all.

* * *

      She comes to the door as he passes her room, huge dark eyes swallowing her face—pleading for him to stop and talk to me, talk to me—and immediately a fire is rising at the back of his throat, burning his mouth dry. He plants his feet reluctantly. Clenches his teeth and slowly turns to face her.
      “Wait, Edward,” is all she says, and her voice is measured and soft like sand.
      He looks at her then, looks for black ocean eyes and black waterfalls of hair, and does not find them. Instead there is a beautiful laughing mouth and sparkling grey spheres gazing at him, cool like a rainy sky. The head tilts up at him sweetly. For a moment his heart pauses, his hand trembles, he can't breathe. He blinks and stares, but the golden vision refuses to fade. It smiles at him, speaks his name again. Finally he draws in one shaky breath.
      The words force themselves out of his mouth: “Good night, Bertha,”—He flees before anything else can slip out of him. His masks have all fallen in one instant and he cannot let her see and he wonders who is the ghost now, you or me? Captain’s heart jerks back to life and thrashes violently in his chest.
      A door whispers shut somewhere behind him, hiding the shrinking figure within.

…

      He keeps calling her that name because he hates Antoinette. Hates her songs and stories because he is sure they are not true, because he does not understand them, but also because they are so sad. He wants a wife who smiles without hidden sorrows in every curve. He wants a girl whose face is bright when she tells him happier stories of happier things. He wants—
      Laughing, open-hearted Bertha. Her absence still claws inside him. She haunts him from the hollowing eyes of his wife and he tells himself he must, he must have her back.
      “I hope you will sleep well, Bertha,” he says, and watches as Antoinette shrivels into herself, says nothing in reply. She lies frozen in her bed like a dead woman. He is irritated at her silence, but satisfied for now. Silence, at least, he is familiar with.

…

      (She speaks as herself one more time.)
      "Why do you hate me? Why do you never come near me, or kiss me, or talk to me?"
      Because you are not and never will be the one I want.
      "Why do you think I can bear it, what reason have you for treating me like that?"
      Because you lie to me, woman, and besides you are so sad nothing could make you happy again. There you go again, telling me another sad story, this one the saddest yet, and you are talking too quickly but I still don’t know what you are talking about at all. When you laugh, it makes me shiver all over. Don't laugh like that, Bertha.
      "That is not my name; why do you call me that?"
      I want you to be silent now. No, I want you to stop lying to me. But there—now you will not talk because you cannot talk without lying. Look, I am near to you, I have kissed you, but you are not happy.
      "Will you come in and say goodnight to me?"
      Certainly I will, but only if you will be Bertha tonight. I must have Bertha tonight.
      (A long silence.)
      "As you wish," she says.
      In the sharp shadows it is easy to imagine her hair golden-red and her eyes a lighter color. The last drops of Antoinette dissolve into the ghost that is Bertha for the sake of one dark feverish night. His mouth is still cold when he kisses her the last time.

* * *

      He never shared her thirst for the ocean, which arose from her early years spent by the seaside and never lessened since. They went to the shore together twice: once while they were still children, and another when both were on the threshold of new adulthood. The first time, she was almost wild with delight, darting everywhere along the rocky beach and sometimes venturing further to stand in the path of the dying waves, though she was told not to.
      "Hey, Captain!" she shouted to him, perched tall on a slippery rock. "Come play!"
      But his father was there, frowning disapproval at them both, and he dared not go to her.
      The second time, she dragged him out in the first hours of dawn, just the two of them, to sit on the cliffs above the beach and watch.
      "What are we watching?" he asked, tired and confused.
      "Everything, Captain," she said, eyes shining. "It’s so beautiful. The sky, the water—and the sun is just rising."
      He watched it all, but thought nothing out there was so beautiful as the girl beside him when the faint morning light reached out to stroke her long, unbound hair.
      "Do you remember I used to tell you about the mermaids who lived in the ocean, next to my house?" She laughed and pointed to where the water rippled and flashed silver. "There they are, do you see them?"
      "Yes," he said, though he was only looking at her.
      She let out a rapturous sigh. "Sometimes I wish I could be the ocean. I wish I could let it swallow me and just be."
      "Me too," he said, though he did not.

…

      It seemed perversely fitting that she should be on a ship to France a year later when a violent storm dashed it to the bottom of the sea, when the water wrapped its arms around Bertha and did not let go. He wondered if that was the kind of embrace she had wanted all along.
      Edward felt a creeping chill settle in his ribcage.

* * *

      “You are trying to make me into someone else, calling me by another name,” she says wildly, as if Antoinette might still live, as if Antoinette was not already a shadow lurking at the corners of her downturned mouth. Her spirit, though in its death throes, still writhes and bites him viciously. She curses him, cries like a river, calls him a stone.
      Yes, he thinks. Edward is a stone. Always has been, since his father wished him to be. What did you expect? What did you want?
      “Don’t you love me at all?”
      “No,” he says, because he does not, cannot. “Not at this moment.”
      A tiny voice cries at the back of his head: I don’t know how. But if you gave me time, maybe I could try to learn. I could try, if only there was time.
      He pushes it roughly aside because it is too late, and there is such hatred in her eyes as he has only ever seen in mirrors. It scares him—so he hides himself in blind rage, hoping to drive away the fear.
      He drives her away as well. Leaves her to drown in the flood of her own tears.

…

      These days guilt pools at the bottom of his stomach when he looks at her, at the silent broken figure that once rose quickly, adoringly, to meet him. He tells himself he has done no wrong, that everything is her fault, everything is his father’s insidious scheme and the cruel magic of this place that mocks him with its deceptive loveliness.
      He dreams once of Bertha lying asleep on the rocky ocean floor, the light shifting between dark, murky purples and mottled blues. He tries to pull her body to the surface, but his arms are so weak that he cannot even lift her from the rocks. He wakes crying with frustration. Sets his face in stone when he gets up, so nobody will know.
      The pool of guilt deepens. He can do nothing to stop it.

…

      He watches closely for a tear, just one, and then he will know she is alive. Then, he thinks, he will try to start over: hold her close, say her name one more time. But there are no tears left in her. Antoinette is a dried-up ghost he created, Bertha a ghost he can no longer find.
      Her eyes are black like charcoal, her hair rough and tangled. She is stiff, a wooden puppet.
      He turns away, disgusted by his handiwork. Locks it up safely where nobody can see.
      The guilt has turned to acid and devours him from the inside.

* * *

      Time will play the surgeon: cutting deep, but soothing old wounds.
      Edward was never a child, but he never grew up either. Another decade will pass before he does. He will strip off his mask, bit by bit—a slow, wearying process through the years—and bare himself to Time’s bone-shifting scalpel. He will begin to ache at night for every mistake he knows he has made. He will search long and hard for happiness, for something (someone) to right all his wrongs, but ten, fifteen years of smaller mistakes will only build up and weigh heavy on his chest. Many times he will not be able to sleep for the aching.
      When she finally flickers into his life, her name will be short and sweet and will fit perfectly on the tip of his tongue. He will notice the quiet, steady flames behind her eyes and laugh in unchecked delight when they flash out to reignite his coal-black heart. He will let her move the most stubborn parts of his being, and watch in fascination as he remains himself but more alive, not like a ghost at all. The other ghosts will burn away, will haunt him no more—will leave him crippled in body, but freer in spirit than he has ever been.
      “Edward, sir,” she will say to him, radiating joy to know he loves her. (And he will love her, fiercely and with an unparalleled passion, more than he has ever loved anyone.)
      She will mean to say more, but he will interrupt in his happiness, take her impulsively in his arms and bury his wide smile in her hair.
      “Yes,” he will whisper. “That is me.”

Almost Forgotten

Worn wooden table. Chairs scraping against the floor, children's chattering, laughter. Hot chocolate in old mugs, cupped by little hands.

We made the hot chocolate with microwaved milk, instead of using boiled water like I did at home.
It was never quite as hot, but always warmer on my insides as we sat there, cheeks pink from the snow outside and all of us thinking hard what to do next.

Tents, or houses, made from blankets. Some of them were so heavy, we had to use our schoolbooks to pin them to the couches. There was barely enough room underneath for even our smaller bodies to crawl, especially after we padded the carpet with cushions. It was okay because we were being Cats, and cats don't stand up inside anyway.

Sometimes we made hot chocolate with only half the powdered packet, and ate the other half, which I never did at home. It stuck to my teeth in little gooey lumps, and I thought that was funny.

When we got tired of talking, we lay down and tried to read in the dimness of those quilted shadows. Eventually we took the books and migrated back upstairs to where the winter sunlight poured in through the window.

Sometimes we didn't make hot chocolate at all. If we had played long enough, if the house was warm enough that we didn't care about the cold, we had cups of apple juice instead.

We asked to sleep under those blanket-houses, so we could keep playing even in our dreams, but ended up in proper beds anyway.

Still it was the roads that

caught our attention and

my recollection: there, 

reality blurred, and we found 

a doorway into our own world.

On the roads, we were

adventurers, explorers,

or warriors as we wished--

what exciting journeys

to remember! and how

simple to forget the quiet

comfort of the house that

waited, waited patiently

until the weary travelers

returned.

oh, journals

I found this in my notes today. It's something I wrote back towards the end of June, a brief descriptive journal of the summer thus far. I made myself laugh a little.

--

The wind outside is blowing enough to toss the tree branches from side to side, and it looks like they're playing with each other. The sun is brilliantly gold on every bit of green and not too hot today. All the same, I shall probably soon be called to water the flowers outside that my mother has been planting in recent weeks. There are daisies, lilies, and many others of various shapes and colors whose names I do not know. They are beautiful as long as the sun does not shrivel them and the deer and beetles do not eat them up. Both situations are in constant danger of happening, which makes my mother upset.
If it happens that all the flowers should die, we shall at least have the tomato plants still living, as long as the rabbits and groundhogs do not dig under the fence and eat them, and as long as the ants do not go around building anthills nearby and getting ideas. The ants really have quite the audacity. A few months ago we found an anthill actually inside the house, which was appropriately horrifying to everyone. Thankfully, there are also lots of spiders in the house, so the ants are mostly dead now. I like spiders as long as they are not crawling on me, biting me, or sitting in forbidden places like my clothes drawers.
That is basically the sum of my current summer existence--sunlight, flowers, and insects.
No, I am probably lying. There are other things happening as well, but they don't matter so much to me right now.

--

I particularly like the line about spiders. It's true.

I am in New Jersey

There wasn't a single cloud in the sky tonight, so I could easily see the way the different blues arched overhead: bright and vibrant straight above, then fading to near-white at the very edge of the horizon. It looked sharp, as if the circle of the sky rushed down and sliced through the sea right there.

We didn't stay long enough to watch the sun reach out and play across the water, so I can only imagine how beautiful that must have been. I rather wish we had.

Tomorrow, maybe.

~

A very young boy in stars-and-stripes shorts stood by the sea with a shovelful of sand. He looked as triumphant as a two or three-year-old boy could look.
"Look at America," said one of my brothers. "He claims this land for himself!"
America held his shovel up with both hands and awkwardly tossed its contents at the waves. They mostly plopped at his feet.
He bent down for another scoop of sand and did the whole thing again.

When we were preparing to leave, America walked past us towards the boardwalk, wailing as he clung to his father's hand. He pointed somewhere and sobbed harder. He was obviously trying to get something.
(Whiny child.)

When we were walking back to our house, we passed a family: mother, father, and young son. They were fully dressed now, without their bright swimsuits, so it took a second look for us to recognize them.
"Hey," said Jeremy. "Is that America?"
It was.

Maybe we'll see him again tomorrow.

~

Fireworks are booming from somewhere beyond the other side of the street. They're mostly red and gold, and I have no idea why they're being set off at all. Maybe a clear summer night is a good enough reason to celebrate.

One golden firework lingers in the sky after it explodes into a thousand tiny sparkles.
I imagine this might be what it looked like if it rained light instead of water.

~

The seagulls were massive in number. You couldn't look any direction without seeing one, or twenty. They were also massively obnoxious, constantly stalking as close to you as possible and swooping low over your head, not to mention swarming at the merest hint of food. It would be easy to hate them, or at least resent their presence.

Instead, I mostly envied them.
I envied the way they could spread their wings and beat them till their bodies rose.
I envied the way they could streak through the air just as fast as they wanted to.
I envied the way they could soar upon the strong, cool wind, confidently tilting here and there as they rode the shifting currents of the vivid sky.

These rugged scavengers are as loud as they are bold. They'd answer me, no doubt, but I don't know how to ask them if they'll teach me how to fly.

I'd ask tomorrow if I could.

Picture of A Summer Evening

Thunder grumbles in the distance like a giant restless river. The air and clouds hang heavy with the promise of rain, but rain doesn't come. The scorched, thirsty ground remains dry.

--

The bird's sound is not like any kind of music that I know, but rings clear in trills and rounded notes, smooth and loud and lilting. I wonder at the rippling sound bursting from the bird's throat, surely shaped so differently from my own. It is not so much a song--(if some wild melody is promised, it fades too quickly, only completed, perhaps, in the human mind)--but what else can we call it?

--

Sunset glows warm through the thinning cloud-veil;
gentle colors gather in the west, saying
farewell to the day.
No ray of light can needle through the heavy air
and brush across the leaves to set them ablaze--
the evening trees of green and gold
are only green tonight.

--

I saw a firefly. Couldn't tell if he was green or yellow, but the light was very bright. He blinked with his whole body, and fifteen others followed him at once.

--

It's dark now, so the windows become mirrors, and I can only see outside through my own reflection. My body is too narrow to watch the whole night wrap its arms around the house, but the night doesn't mind. I think the bird sleeps with the sun, both of them silent as the crickets take up the song of summer, and the moon thrusts its silver light against the other side of the inky clouds, hoping that a sliver will peek through. Perhaps, here and there, it does.

It's still dark.

Thunder grumbles again, and again the ground and I will hold our breaths for rain. It is only a promise. Perhaps it will come when I, too, lie down and sleep.

Two fireflies are left blinking above the grass. They surge up, up, higher and higher, their light twinkling in bright streaks behind them.

They are my stars against the murky sky.

6-15-12 Miscellaneous

(Because I felt like I needed to post on this blog, and I'm too lazy to come up with some cohesive idea right now. Text below has been taken from all over the place, certain bits having been jotted down in my Simplenote notes from quite a while ago.)

• I like this quote: "The people talking about the weather had no intention whatever of of really exchanging meaningful information on the subject; they were merely using language to fill the emptiness between them, to conceal the fact that they had no desire to tell each other anything at all." ~ Martin Esslin
• I enjoy drawing in a realistic style because then it feels like I'm simply copying the strokes of a greater artist. He sure knew what he was doing.
• I kind of dislike "that moment" things, but seriously, that moment when you go to type "face" and it comes out "foam"? What. Maybe that just happens to me. Fortunately, I love foam. 
• I watched Snow White and The Huntsman a week ago with Colleen and Emily. My conclusions: it was a gorgeous movie that was sadly lacking in the plot department, and the acting execution ranged from excellent (Charlize Theron) to eh, okay (Kristen Stewart, for whom heavy breathing apparently = every single emotion. I think she smiled like, twice.). I would go into more details, but that would probably end up in spoilers. I will say, though, that with the measly amount of time that was spent on the huntsman's character, the movie might as well have been titled Snow White and the Evil Queen.
• By the way, Evil Queen was awesome. And even though Ravenna is such an obvious symbolic name for a queen with raven-minions, I  like the name a lot. Ravenna Ravenna Ravenna.  
• OH OH and they got Florence and the Machine to sing for the end-credits song! That may have been my favorite part of the movie, accompanied as it was by slow-mo close-ups of a figure dressed in intricate obsidian armor. It was cool yo, totally cool. 
• Should I put up a full review on this blog or not? I might. I can't seem to stop analyzing this movie whenever my brain has a free moment >.o
• Word-magnet poem thingy from a few weeks ago:

Over a thousand lakes of wind and time

moon light whispered through diamond mist

as a boy played his dreams to sleep

beneath a still blue sky.

• I love making sentences with those magnets. It's such a creative challenge.
• Oh, I should probably comment on the fact that school is over. Yay. But sad too, because I miss the teachers and the friendses. 
• Well, school's kind of over for me. I still have two units of Mandarin to work through. Urgh.
• Hm, it thunders, but the sky is still blue? Or am I imagining the deep growls coming from behind those fluffy, sunlit clouds? o.O 
• I promised myself I would write lots of poems once the summer began...but inspiration is strangely lacking. Ideas, people? What new forms shall I tackle? What new topics? Suggestions would be much appreciated.

Okay. That's it.
I'll write some better-focused blog posts in the near future. 

In My Room

I’m proud and
standing tall because
the rain is pounding
at my window but
it never will come in,
so I am standing tall and
proud.

A wind is shrieking
at my window but
the glass is strong and
thick, so I cannot be
hurt.

I’m standing tall and
cold because
the sun is streaming
towards my window but
the glass is strong and
thick so it cannot
come in, and I
am standing tall and proud but
cold

I am so cold.

"Friends"

Your smile never
opened anything,
and my words never
found a home.
The cold, trembling ice-bridge
shattered too quickly, too long ago,
leaving empty laughter ringing
through this chasm
deep with soul-silence.
We circle, eyeing warily,
two fortresses around our hearts.
We smile, we talk, we laugh--
and we are lonely,
so lonely.

Cows

Emmie mentioned yesterday that I had sent her a really long sentence about cows once, so I went through my email to find it today.

The results of my search (with a few minor grammar corrections):

Now, as I am to write the longest sentence I can possibly craft regarding the subject of certain animals of the bovine family--namely, cows--it will no doubt have some mention of every characteristic I can think of that is unique to (or not necessarily unique to; it is quite acceptable for animals of different species to share certain aspects with each other, such as the presence of teeth, skin, and coloring, as it in no way proclaims them as exactly the same species) these large-eyed, generally mild creatures: large eyes naturally being one of these characteristics, cows are also found to have horns on occasion (usually males possess these, though in certain varieties females may have them as well), are large in bulk when full-grown, have split hooves, come in a wealth of different colors--including brown, black, white, tan, and the classic black-and-white--and quite possibly their most well-known feature: the ability of the females to produce, with relative regularity, a white creamy substance known as milk, originally intended for the nutrition of their own offspring, but in modern times harvested widely for human consumption.

  
[I now wonder why I spent all the effort it must have taken to write that.]

Loose Threads

Loose Threads is a novel I was writing last summer. I got to about Chapter Four and then realized all the things that were wrong with the story, which is what tends to happen with most of my potential novels. My problem with writing full-length book stories is that I always have a completed backbone of the main events, but don't plan enough for the flesh that provides transitions...so I just sort of stop when I don't know how to get the characters from here to there. Loose Threads was an interesting case. It was actually intended to be a tying-together of all my previous abandoned stories: The Dragon Rider and The Healer (awful title), Carry the Night, Dream-Weaver (which I've now turned into Weaver of Dreams), and another untitled one involving fairies--which meant tons of characters and numerous plotlines that I had no idea how to handle. I am actually considering picking it up again and narrating beginning from a different point. After more planning, of course.
Anyway, though, in digging through some files to reexamine the story this morning, I came across this ridiculous little thing I wrote to help myself get to know the huge cast of characters. Heh.

~~~

Song and I are sitting together in my room on my bed, talking. We are talking about lots of different things. Right now the topic of conversation is giraffes.

"I still don't get it," says Song, chewing doubtfully on the latest piece of candy I've given her. "How can an animal have such a long neck? Wouldn't it just, you know, fall over and break? I mean, break and fall over, and hey! You know what? I just realized this sweet thing is really good too! Do you have more?"

"I think they just have strong neck bones," I tell her, purposely ignoring her last question. I do have more candy, but I'm afraid to give her any more than she's eaten already. At present, I am dreading the imminent sugar-high. Song has probably never had this much sugar at one time in her life before.

She looks at me suspiciously, swallowing. "How do I know you aren't making these giraffe things up?"

"You shouldn't be one to question that," I say, "Considering, you're a made-up person."

She is about to answer, but is interrupted.

"Hi Author!" Kah comes bounding into the room and bounces onto the bed next to Song and me. The move knocks one of my pillows to the floor.

"How'd you get in here?" I ask, retrieving the pillow. Kah grins and winks cheekily.

"It wasn't too hard. I heard you were with Song, and everyone knows you can hear her talking from miles away," she says.

"Hey!" Song exclaims, hitting Kah, who winces under the blow.

"By the mountains, Song, do you have to be so violent all the time?" She edges away from the taller girl. Song raises an eyebrow.

"So violent? Are you serious, Kah? I'm a soldier! What did you think?" Song grabs the pillow from me and starts whacking Kah with it, despite the string of protests. I try to stop her and quickly discover that there are disadvantages to having created a character who is five times as strong as I am. Song probably didn't mean to actually injure me, but I am nevertheless forced to hold my hurting arm and watch the violence helplessly. Though it looks like Kah's own fighting instincts have kicked in, because their struggles have landed them half onto the floor by now. I am just trying to stay away and not get hurt further, though I worry for their safety. I had no idea they didn't get along—

Oh wait, never mind. They've stopped and are giggling like little kids now. Gosh, is this what they consider play-wrestling? That probably would have killed me or something.

"'I'm a soldier'? That is possibly the stupidest thing you could ever say to another soldier," laughs Kah, slightly breathless from the fighting episode. Song is laughing too hard to answer, and it's getting more high-pitched by the second. I suspect that's the sugar kicking in.

"What a commotion!" says Eir, dramatically slamming my door open. I am not pleased with the cracking sound it makes against the drywall. He eyes the two girls curiously. "What have you been doing in here?"

"Fighting!" says Song, suddenly coherent. "You know how much I absolutely hate Kah, heheehee..." Her speech trails off into giggles again. And Kah is giggling too. I think it must be some sort of long-standing joke between them. Eir rolls his eyes and pulls them both up, instructing them to fix their clothes and hair, which is enough to sober them both down.

"We know how to do that," Song tells him, irritated. Eir is unfazed.

"Then do it," he says easily.

Song makes an inscrutable grumbling noise, and I can sympathize with her. I completely understand how his calm, composed tone gets on Song's nerves, though I wonder if his getting equally irritated would be any better. On the other hand, Kah seems to find it amusing. Then again, she seems to find a lot of things amusing. Sometimes I wonder if she ever gets angry. (And you'd think, of all people, I should know.)

At this point, Li comes in with a tall girl with long blond hair, whom only I recognize. They are chatting away like old friends, which puzzles me.

"Who're you?" demands Song, pointing at the unknown girl. Dearie me, is she ever the tactless one.

"N.," says the girl.

"No way!" say Kah, Eir, and Song together. "N. is a guy!"

"Yes, I'm a guy," says N., walking through the doorway. "Why is this being questioned?"

Girl-N. looks at me, then at N. in horror, then back at me again. "That's what you turned me into??" she asks incredulously.

"I needed more male characters," I explain lamely, giving her a sheepish smile. "But how do you know Li?"

"We met in the hallway," Li tells me. "I like her a lot better than the newer N."

"I would get offended at that," says N., smiling amiably, "But I'm too flat to have regular human emotions."

Li scoffs, then pauses. "I guess I shouldn't be talking, because I'm flat too," she admits. Then adds, "But not that flat, and I won't be for long."

Girl-N., meanwhile, is still aghast. "I can't believe you kicked me out of the story for that," she gapes at me. "He's not even as handsome as I'm pretty! And way less awesome."

That was rather strange for her to say. I look at her. "When did you become conceited? I definitely did not give you that much depth." (Perhaps this is not a good time to mention that I've already kicked N. out of the story too.)

She shrugs in response to my question.

"On-the-fly character development," suggests Li. "I think it happens often."

"But she's not even in the story anymore," I protest.

"This is a story right now," comes the swift reply. Okay, I have no idea how Li figured that out. I guess I made her scarily perceptive. Or maybe it's that on-the-fly character development she was talking about. Which is absolutely bizarre, because she's the character and I'm the author, and how can she be talking about something that is happening to herself that I am making happen and also making her talk about because I wrote it—ouch. My brain hurts.

"What the—!! Mar!" Kah suddenly yells from the corner. Everyone jumps. (Except for Song, who is fast asleep on my bed, presumably from the sugar crash. I really should have held off on that candy.)

"Go 'way," mumbles a grumpy voice. We all go over to see Mar huddled in the small space between my dresser and the wall, along with all the old spiderwebs and dead spiders that I never got to cleaning out.

"Uh, Mar," says Li, putting her hands on her hips, "What are you doing?"

"Nobody cares," Mar mutters darkly. "I've been here the whole time, and you never noticed. Of course you wouldn't notice."

Li glances at me. "I think she's trying to get attention."  

I think I made you too smart, little dragon rider.

"No, don't say such cruel things," says a light, sweet voice from the doorway, one that I recognize as Rhia's. "She's just hurt, badly hurt. You have to try to understand her."

Mar scowls and hides her face. Rhia looks heartbroken. I am wondering how to make Mar less emo. In a way, both Rhia and Li are right. Mar wants attention that will heal her hurt. Unfortunately, I've emotionally stunted her so much that her only methods involve silent brooding among cobwebs, which is not particularly effective.

"It's all my fault," says Rhia, almost crying.

"Oh! Small child!" says Girl-N., not concerned about Mar whatsoever.

I assume that means Tei is here. Which, I also assume, means Ká is not far behind. Sure enough, the two fae have made their appearance, one tall and lanky, one small and short, both slightly glowing in that weird fairy way. (Is it just me, or is it getting sort of crowded in here?)

Kah seems surprised. "Ká, is that you?" she asks in shock. "You look so different!"

"I was...eum...up—er, updated," says Ká with her funny stumbling accent. It's a pity that now when she speaks human, it sounds so awkward. Her voice is beautiful when she's talking to Tei, though I'm usually the only other one who can hear it. "Long fingers." Ká holds up her newly-long fingers to show Kah. "And my, er, legs—longer too. But hair is same," she adds.

"Kah..." says Eir carefully, "What are you talking to?"

"The little one is cute," Girl-N. comments helpfully.

"They're fairies," I explain. "Ká has somewhat learned human speech, but Tei hasn't, so the cute little one won't be talking."

Tei smiles adorably and melts most of the girls present with her huge blue eyes. (Except for Mar and Rhia, who are both still absorbed in their own melodramatic world.) Maybe I should make her less cute. But no, that would be such a pity. I'll just have to make everyone else less susceptible to Tei's cuteness instead. Excluding myself, that is, because that would be impossible—

Oh, well, apparently Jun has picked this opportune moment to come barreling in and knock Ká to the floor. Uh-oh. She does not look happy. Jun gasps in terror at her or at something else, and leaps nimbly all the way over to the bed, where he lands atop his sister for a rude awakening. Not a smart move, kid. Now you have two women seriously ticked off at you. Thankfully, before either of them kills him, another male enters the room to distract them. It's Aílcruinn, looking mighty amused.

"Boy," he calls out, "I wasn't going to do you any harm, but now you've really got yourself in trouble." I can only imagine that he's referring to the death-glares coming from Ká and Song. Jun cowers and tries to hide. It's not a very hard task, considering the crowded state of the room. "Ká, calm down," says Aílcruinn, chuckling. "No hurting anyone."

"But Father—" I can hear her protesting as she slips into fae-speech.

"No, Ká." He is shaking his head. Ká pouts like a whiny child and obeys. My goodness, sometimes she can be so immature. Song, on the other hand, is pummeling Jun anyway, though it's obviously a gentle punishment. Or what those soldiers classify as "gentle", meaning it would still probably kill me.

"AAHHH!!" the young boy screams, "I wasn't trying to hurt you I promise I was just running away from that guy AHHH because you know how I am jittery around unknown places AAAHH and he was coming after me!! Stop it please Song I'm sorry!! Ahh!"

"Huh, I guess the talkative genes run in the family," I mutter, half to myself. Song drops Jun and transfers her glare to me.

"What did you say?" she demands threateningly, raising an eyebrow. Um, this—this is not good. This is, in fact, terrifying. I duck around five people and run out the door in hopes of escaping her wrath. Then I slam right into Youn and Ifan, who have been standing in the hallway for who-knows-how-long. Ow, that really hurt. Since when were they so solid? Both of them cross their arms and block my path stolidly, forbidding me to pass.

Wait, why are they—?

Song drags me back into the room, which looks considerably different from when I left it. Tei is standing on the bed with arms crossed. Everyone else is kneeling on the floor around her, as if she were some sort of queen. Tei imperiously points to the ground in front of her.

I cannot believe what I am seeing.

Song throws me roughly down in front of Tei, bowing deeply.

"Here she is, Master." (Those words did not just come out of Song's mouth.)

Tei grins impishly. "I am in control now," she declares to me triumphantly. 

I look at her in disbelief. "Uhhh...no, Tei, you're not."

She frowns. "Yes I am! See?" The child gestures to the kneeling people around her. "I told you what to make them do." That explains a lot.

"But just because I can hear you doesn't mean I have to listen, especially now that I know you're doing it," I say. "You realize that?"

Her face falls. Aw, poor little thing. I stand up from the floor and give her a hug. "It's okay, Tei," I tell her. "Don't order me around, but you can help me write the real story."

It's amazing how quickly her face brightens again.

Nothing much else interesting happened after that. Basically, Tei and I kicked everyone else out of the room and are now getting down to the business of planning and drafting the actual stuff. From time to time, we have to check the corner to make sure Mar hasn't come back in and started crying among the spider remains again (it's only happened twice so far), but other than that, things are going well.

There is now a sign that appears on the door when we're doing extra-hard stuff:

DO NOT DISTURB. WE WILL KILL YOU.

It might be a good idea to notice that when it comes up.

Song Lyrics Mashup

in the dark
i hear a call
from across the distant shore

why do you weep?
what are these tears upon your face?

hope fades
into the world of night
through shadows falling
out of memory and time

what can you see
on the horizon?

o shenandoah
i long to hear you
away, you rolling river
away, i'm bound away
lift the wings
and carry me away from here

(cut me free
leave me be)

find me,
look for me
where stars are rising

somewhere beyond the sea
somewhere over the rainbow

over the hills and far away
a light on the water
voices                  
clear and pure
find the way home somehow

open your heart

i am calling you
right from the very start
your wounded heart was calling too
the never-fading
rain in your heart
the tears of snow-white sorrow
slipping through my fingers
all the time.

dont your feet get cold in the wintertime?
the sky won't snow
and the sun won't shine
but you cant jump the track
we're like cars on a cable
and life's like an hourglass
glued to the table
so cradle your head in your hands

it isnt strange
after changes upon changes
we are more or less the same
after changes
we are more or less the same
sometimes i think i see familiar faces
but they're always strangers
staring back at me
and i've been lost
in so many different places

and you know
city parks have daffodils...

if you miss the train i'm on
you will know that i am gone
you can hear the whistle blow
a hundred miles

oh how i wish
for soothing rain
all i wish is to dream again

all my memories keep you near

there's no escape now
no mercy no more
no remorse
cause i still remember
the smile when you tore me apart

you're the best thing
i never knew i needed

you and me
we can ride on a star
if you stay by my side

we can rule the world--

and you'll be here in my arms
just sleeping...

 ~~~

If you happen to just know all the songs here, then you must be exactly like me, and I will love you forever.
(Well, the love-forever part is a maybe. But we might be soulmates.)

Other than that, you can see the list of songs used here.

Into the West - Annie Lennox, LOTR

Shenandoah

Lift the Wings - Riverdance

10th Man Down - Nightwish

Homecoming - Lisa Kelly

Beyond the Sea

Over the Rainbow

Over the Hills and Far Away - Nightwish

Into the West (again)

Non C'e Piu - Celtic Woman

The Call - Celtic Woman

Amaranth - Nightwish

Slipping Through My Fingers - ABBA

Desperado - Eagles

Breathe (2am) - Anna Nalick

The Boxer - Simon and Garfunkel

Sometime Soon - Lynn Hilary

500 Miles - Peter, Paul, and Mary

Nemo - Nightwish

Memories - Within Temptation

Angels - Within Temptation

Never Knew I Needed - Ne-Yo

Rule the World - Take That

Into the West (again)