Yes! a new post from ME!! You may now start breathing again. Of course this is the summum of irony since NO ONE READS THIS EXCEPT MY BEST FRIEND!! but hey, all the great artists were anonymous in their time. Its only after their death that people discovered them (... erm, comforting thought...). And people: modesty is SO overrated. Anyways, other than the fact I am unkown to all (shame, isn't it) I'm not complaining... just kidding, Moona. I'd rather you read this than a whole plethora of people I don't even know. Plus you're great for my ego as you leave wonderful comments on everything I write. As if my ego needed help. Right. On to the main attraction, I've kept you waiting long enough. This is the prologue of Truth Seeker. An idea I like very very much. Cool world, cool magic, if I do say so myself. And, umm... for Dark Dawn... I'll send the 100 pages to ya if ya want... but I kinda stopped writing it, though I WILL get back to it have no doubt. But still... its boring. Lol. When it gets less boring and I have more ideas I will start writing it again.
Anyhoo.
Prologue
“Tynan! Come out, come on, come on!”
A young boy rushes out of a straw hovel, runs towards his friend who awaits him impatiently in the middle of the field.
“Are they here?” he demands. “Are they here?” The youngster he speaks to nods enthusiastically, before running around her friend, seemingly unable to stand in one place.
“You betcha! They’re so big, Tynan, come on, you have to come see! They’ve come for the Selection. Tynan, Trevano Wingback is there!” The name is said with reverence and awe. Tynan freezes as an incredulous expression flies over his boyish features.
“Trevano Wingback,” he breathes. His companion jumps into the air and nods.
“I bet we’re gonna be chosen,” the ecstatic expression on her face goes dreamy. “You’ve got to be, you’ve got the Sense.”
“You’ve got it too,” argues Tynan. ‘If they don’t choose you then I won’t go,” he says in stubborn loyalty. The little girl giggles.
“We’ll both be chosen so it doesn’t matter. Now come on!” She grabs his hand and pulls him forcibly toward the little village just beyond the butte that rises above the field. “You’ve got to see his dragon. Her name is Chimera, and she’s so beautiful. I want a dragon like that. With all those pretty colors and jewel eyes!” She tells him as they run over the butte.
“You’re such a girl,” the boy exclaims, laughing. “I don’t care what color mine is. I want him to be the biggest, strongest dragon of all.”
At the word “dragon” a wary head rises.
“Tynan!” the brusque command stops them both in their tracks. A young woman rises from her crouched position in the wheat field beside the hovel, wipes away the sweat on her brow, looks up at her son. “Where are you off to, little goblin?” The boy smiles at her.
“Mother, it’s the dragons!” he explains, running down the butte, gathering speed as he flies towards her and launches himself at her waist, laughing ecstatically. “Please, please, please can I go? Please, mother!” His enthusiastic embrace nearly makes her fall over, as she laughs with him and caresses his curly brown hair.
“Tynan, there is work to do in the field for this winter.”
“Oh, please, mistress Eliesa, let him come with me!” the little girl runs down to them. “We’re going to be chosen, ma’am, I know we are! Please let him come!” She jumps excitedly up and down as she pleads with the last obstacle in their way to becoming Dragonniers. She doesn’t see the arrested expression on Eliesa’s face, or the way her arms tighten about her son.
“Chosen?” Eliesa repeats numbly.
“To become Dragonniers, Mother!” Tynan exclaims, tightening his embrace before letting her go to look up into her face. His expression changes as he sees the evident worry and fear in her eyes. “They’ve come for the Selection, Mother,” he adds, unsure of her reaction.
“They’ve come? They’re here? In the village?” Tynan’s mother demands.
“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful? Tynan and I are going to be chosen to be Dragonniers and we’ll ride the winds and save Seldon from orks and goblins and we’ll be heroes and become Knights of the Realm!” Eliesa looks over at her son’s companion, the bright stars in the child’s eyes.
“Oh, yes, little one,” she says gently, trying to disguise the naked fear in her voice with a smile, “no doubt you will be a hero. You shall do great things, I’m sure.”
Though Tynan listens to her encouraging words, he feels the fine shudders in her arms as she convulsively caresses his head. He tightens his arms around her, a frown shadowing his boyish features. His mother is afraid. He entangles himself out of her embrace.
“Nianne…” his friend turns to him expectantly. “I can’t go with you. I have to help my mother.” Nianne gapes at him.
“But… but if you don’t go… if you don’t go you can’t be chosen! We can’t become Dragonniers, and be heroes and protect the borders and, and…” At a loss for words, the little girl stares at him, horrified. He hears his mother breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
“Of course we can, nitwit!” he tells her, smiling, “but you have to go first. I’ll catch up later. I promise I’ll come, all right? But I have to help Mother for a little while. So just go ahead without me.”
“You promise, Tynan? Promise?” Nianne asks suspiciously. Solemnly her friend nods. “On two sticks and a stone?” she asks teasingly.
“Two sticks and a stone,” he answers with a pained smile, as his hand tightens into a fist at his side.
“All right! I have to go or I’ll be late! Hurry up, all right?” with no more guarantee than her friend’s word, she rushes off over the butte, turning around to wave before she disappears, laughing as he makes a face back at her before starting to run towards the village again. After she’s gone, Tynan turns to his mother.
“What’s wrong?” the child asks her, fierce loyalty in his eyes, wanting to protect his mother from whatever she is afraid of.
“Oh, my boy. So perceptive you are,” she sighs as she ruffles his hair. But her hands are still trembling. Tynan trembles with her as he feels his senses assaulted by her fear, her pain, and its underlying rage. As the wave of feeling tides over, leaving his knees weak and his mind numb, a flame of anger lights in his childish heart. She has used him, his gift, to make him feel what she feels, to make him unable to refuse her, for he cannot bear the idea of hurting her.
“Why can I not go to the Dragonniers? To join my father? To see Trevano Wingback? You don’t want me to go,” he insists, seeing her shake her head. Her denial fans the flame of temper. “You made me feel. Made me sense your fear and rage. You know you did!” Tynan argues angrily, for despite the fact that the boy loves Eliesa and would do anything to please her, she has just forbidden him his greatest dream.
Tears gather in her eyes the pain and sadness written on her son’s features. The young woman feels her heart bleed, knowing her child believes she has betrayed him.Immediately Tynan feels remorseful. Eliesa has been hurt, her heart has been broken too many times to count, and he is ashamed to have pained her once more. The boy hugs her waist again, forgetting his anger, forgetting his own pain, wanting only to comfort hers. Eliesa lets herself fall on the ground, holding him fiercely in her arms as she starts to cry.
“My son, my son,” she murmurs, kissing his curly brown hair, “if you only knew how much I love you. How much I want to protect you from all those that would hurt you.” She sighs, and a sob hiccups out of her throat. Surprised at the unelegant sound, the boy stills in her arms. His mother, so ladylike, so distinguished even when she is knee deep in mud, has hiccupped. A spurt of laughter escapes Tynan. He tries to restrain it, but he cannot help but render in to a bout of snorting giggles. As he shakes from laughter, he unsuccessfully tries to apologize to his mother for having ruined the solemn moment, but the effort of getting out the words through his giggles is too much. Lifting her head from her embrace, Eliesa tries to scold him, and seeing the helpless expression on his face, gives in to a smile through her tears and ruffles his hair playfully.
“You are an imp,” she accuses him, arranging him in her lap as she crosses her legs before her, but she is unable to keep her forbidding expression. He smiles up at her, and everything is right in their world once more. He sighs and settles contentedly in her arms, waiting for her to explain.
“You cannot go to the Dragonniers, Tynan.”
“Why not?” he asks, the slight edge of temper in his voice. “My father is Dragonnier. You told me so. I want to become a Dragonnier, too. And I’ll be better than him, and I’ll make him pay for leaving us here, for using you and never wanting to know me!” Eliesa’s mind reels.
“Who has told you these things?”
“Everyone, mother.”
“Those things about your father? But no one…” Tynan interrupts her.
“No, no one knows he was a Dragonnier. But they say that about Nianne’s father. He was a Dragonnier, too. And he got her mother bellyful and left. She’s never seen him since. I’ve never seen my father either, and we’ve always been alone. So my father did the same thing to you that Nianne’s father did to mistress Leanna, right?”
“Somewhat…” Eliesa hedges.
“I want to make him pay for hurting you.” Fire burns in the sea-green eyes. “I want to be chosen to have a dragon, and I want my dragon to beat his. To prove to him that I exist.”


So of course that's not it, the prologue isn't even finished and it sorta sucks, since its a little too "easy" I'll have to gove it a twist somewhere. What you need to know. Tynan is the son of the greatest Dragonnier and the most powerful traitor on the planet. Namely, Trevano and Eliesa. Talk about imposible love, smile. I've decided I'm gonna keep Eliesa and Trevano alive. It'll change from orphan heroes. That gets old. They might even get their happy ending somewhere along the line. Other things that are NTK, um, Tynan does become a dragonnier, somewhat, he cannot lie and senses dishonesty and malice along with people's thoughts if he touches them. I think. It might make it all too easy so I might take that out. But all in all; that's just about it. He gets a griffin instead of a dragon. Griffins being the symbol of truth of course and yaddi yaddi yadda. Are you bored yet? just kidding. Ah, well, my duty of the day is done and done more or less well, smile. I'm for bed. Ta!

Feral

“Anyone that touches him answers to me,” a cool voice interrupted them. In a collective movement, all heads turned. A leather-clad young woman was leaning against a wood pillar, flicking a throwing knife high in the air and catching it off-handedly.
“Shame on you, Ivo, for playing with him so. You need him. You cannot afford to have him killed. And neither can I.” She pushed away from the wood. “The first one who takes one more step towards him will meet his end at my blade.” All the soldiers tensed. It was a vow of protection; Hawke would learn later that it bound her to him for a lifetime.
Her luminous blue eyes assessed the men around Hawke, faltering to a stop as she considered a burly guardsman. The man was sneering.
“You would kill me, woman?” The entire assembly fell quiet. A guardsman standing next to him, whom Hawke recognized as the one that had brought him before the clan leader, grasped the younger man’s shoulder and shook his head, his words urgent, but the challenger shrugged him off. The gaze of the other three guardsmen around him hesitated between the blue-eyed woman and the man. As they saw her wolfish smile, they quietly stepped away from their comrade. She threw her knife down with a flick of her wrist. It sank to its hilt into the wood floor.
“Can I play, Ivo?” Her voice was husky and mocking as she questioned her leader. Ivo, who had turned sharply when she had issued her challenge, came to her side. Hawke saw him lean to her ear, urgently murmur a few words. She shook her head. He lifted a hand and caressed her cheek. The young woman turned her face sharply away and angrily pushed him back. Hawke saw her draw another knife from her sleeve, as her eyes narrowed in rage. Ivo backed off, a grin on his face.
“I’ll teach you a useful lesson,” she snarled at him, angry. “Watch, brother, this is how I treat those who challenge me!” She walked to the center of the room, slid the knife back into her sleeve, then pointed to the guardsman. Her gaze locked onto his.
“Come!” she commanded. Hawke saw wild fear invade the man’s eyes as he was compelled to move forward by the command in her eyes. He started. She was psychic. Was she mutant? Feral? She had to be, for her to hold such power.
“Draw,” her cold voiced intoned. Incapable of any other reaction, the man drew the broadsword at his side. Her eyes released his, and she unbuckled a leather strap on her belt. A whip fell into her hand. Then Hawke saw the anger in the guardsman’s face and knew she had released the compulsion. The guardsmen around them backed off, forming a neat circle. Hawke edged away to the side, not knowing where he would be safe, but he realized the men’s attention was no longer on him. The guardsman was looking questioningly at his fellows, wordlessly asking the weaknesses of the woman who stood before him, but all shook their head and would not meet his eyes.
Finally he gave up, and started circling the woman warily, his sword drawn, his eyes watching her every move. She just stood, an arrogant smile on her full red lips. As he stalked around to her back, he suddenly tensed. He had not made a move that the long whip had wrapped around his sword arm. Her movements flowing with incredible speed, the Feral flicked the knife she had sheathed earlier on into her hand, pulled hard at her whip, and made him fall towards her, twisting her body and flipping him over her shoulder onto the floor. She fell onto the guardsman, one knee pinning his sword arm to the floor, the other in the center of his chest, and pressed the blade to her opponent’s throat. The entire room was silent, and all heard the whispered answer to the man’s challenge:
“Yes. In an instant.” Then she raised the knife and drew a shallow, bloody line from his temple to his jaw. “The blade is poisoned,” Hawke heard her say, “you will bear the scar for the rest of your life. I hope it was a lesson well learned, guardsman.” Then with a flick of her wrist the blade disappeared again and she pushed herself up, leaving the guard stunned on the floor. She looked at her silent audience.
“You will meet your death at my blade,” she repeated, then walked towards the door. Just as she was about to cross it, she paused. She turned to face her leader, her eyes hard.
“Ivo. That includes you.”

For the love of Orlando Bloom

I have to write something. So sayeth my best friend, and I quote, for the love of Orlando Bloom. I love my best friend. She's cool, she's wacky, she needs help... the world should love Melinda Poitras. Let me see... what do I have in my load of stuff that I haven't posted on here that's actually good?? Hey; I know... I wrote this to freak out my sister... it worked, somewhat. Anyway, its not all that good and its macabre, but what do I care? You're the only one that reads this...
Side note: my grandmother just gave me a lollipop that looks like and eye out of its socket. Yes, I'm eating it. It tastes like coke. I love my grandma.

The Carousel
The night is still and dark. The sliver of moon that shines sluggishly through the night is fading, as if tired, leaving its place to the waiting darkness below. Clouds drift through the sky, obscuring the stars. Wind whispers through the trees, and its murmurs seem almost hostile, almost menacing. The night is watching. Waiting. The gate of the abandoned parc eases open with eery silence.
In the dark, hidden in the wild, overgrown vegetation, a little girl trembles in fear. A whimper of sheer terror escapes her as the trees around her bow to a violent gust of wind. She starts to cry, soundlessly praying for someone to come, for someone to find her, but suddenly the wind stills. She risks a peek from behind the trunk of the tree where she has taken refuge, the leaves she is sitting on cracking under her. She winces at the sound. She knows, as only a child could, that there must be silence now.
Then the gate closes, creaking on rusty hinges, and she jumps as the bolt that secures it clangs into place. The beat of her little heart picks up. She is trapped now, truly trapped in this nightmare. She hugs herself for comfort, for warmth. The warm summer night has suddenly gone cold and angry.
The clouds above her drift away, letting the moon shine upon the parc once more, and the wind picks up its now familiar tune. The light of the crescent orb falls upon the center of the plaza, illuminating an ancient carousel; once luxurious and elegant, it is run over with mold and creeping plants. The child feels fear creep over her as she sees the figures upon it. The wild eyes of galloping, colourful horses and the chipped wings of fantastical beasts are tarnished and worn by time. Under the light of the crescent moon, the brilliant gold of the rambards is naught but a sickly yellow, the bright colours of old are tainted with gray. The paint is chipped, the wood is worn, and the carousel stands, a witness to centuries passed.
Music begins to play from the carousel, soft, gentle and menacing. The trees begin to shiver in the wind and the little girl takes a deep breath as the light of the moon falls upon the tombstone beside the merry-go-round. Tears of terror she does not feel begin to fall upon her cheeks. The name that has been engraved in the cold granite has long been worn away by the passage of time, and yet she sees that the soil looks as fresh as if a body had been burried beneath the stone yesterday. She begins to tremble, starts to back away from the tree she was hiding beneath, that suddenly seems all too close to that terrifying tomb; only to find herself with her back against another towering oak. The rough bark digs into her clawing hands, making her bleed. She whimpers, wanting to scream, as the music continues to play, as the carousel begins to turn, pushed by the wind, creaking and shuddering on its base.
A voice rises in the wind. The childish giggle whispers through the trees, carried by the menacing wind. She shudders as the innocent laughter crescendoes into hysterical cries, she starts to cry in terror and fear, silent sobs shaking her shoulders. The silhouette of a young boy, dressed in a sailor suit and his head crowned with a white and navy blue berret, shimmers into sight. He gallops on the back of the carousel's black-winged stallion, his wind-blown hair is mussed, his clothes are wrinkled, his eyes are mad, and his white shirt is stained with crimson blood.

Muahaha... preferably to read on a dark and stormy night. I was wondering if I could freak people out with what I write... tell me, please do, tell me if I succeeded. Its not the best thing ever written but its... evocative enough. The subject freaks me out a bit, so of course I had to write it down and see if it would still scare me... and others, while we're at it (another evil laugh).
Okay, that was fun, and now I have to go eat lunch. Buh-bye, people, or person, as the case may be. Love ya, Moona, you're the only one that actually reads what I write. Though of course you have other qualities too...
Claire

Summoner's Song

Rain pounded into the earth, the black clouds over head growled with distant thunder. Night was falling, but the light of day had long since surrendered to the darkness of the storm. She pressed her face to the window's cold glass, the dark room behind her lit by a single oil lamp, and she sang.
Brief, violent lightning occasionally illuminated her face, and it seemed she cried, the drops of rain running down the glass of the window she stared out of like tears upon her cheeks. Beneath her breath, she sang a child's lullaby, and the eery chant carried through the storm, a silent wail of terror and pain. At its sound, the animals in the surrounding forest fell silent, trembling in their burrows and nests, and dogs whined and cowered under tables. Horses snorted and stomped nervously in their stalls, and it seemed even the trees waved in grief, the wind crying out their pain.
Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, even as a child. The song she sang was wordless, a chant meant to comfort and heal, but the pain in her heart rendered it a keen of undying grief. And those lucky humans that caught at its sound felt the need to fall to the ground and weep in despair. For even as it was beautiful, even as it was sad, they knew that they would never hear its like again. It was the song of the Sumner, and not meant for those of their kind.
Lightning struck the sky once more, flying accross hair as black as night, and eyes as blue and deep as the storm-tossed ocean. Tonight this child inherited her birthright, the voice of the Sumner and rejection of her own people, for they would never understand her calling, her purpose. Tonight, she found the song in her soul, and tonight, her father was dying.
She threw the glass panes open and stepped out onto the rain-drenched porch, her voice rising, transcending the child's melody, the falling rain melding with the tears on the cheeks. And even as sobs captured her throat, her voice held strong and true, as she heard her father's song fall and slowly fade away from the world's weaving of sounds and melodies. Her voice rose higher, the thunder answering her plea with a violent roar. The rain fell harder upon the ground, pounding as she raised her hands to the sky and threw back her head. And finally she felt her father's life extinguish, she felt the last rasping breath upon his dry, chapped lips, the flutter of his lashes as his weary eyes closed, and she knew they would not open again.
Only then did she allow herself to fall to the wet stone tiles, her arms around her knees, curling on the ground like a wounded, dying animal. Now she screamed, and her body convulsed with the strength of her sobs, her heart breaking, broken. And the rain calmed its drenching torrent, the thunder quieted its roars, and the wind broke its maddening whispers, comforting the child, gentling the passing of the only one who would ever truly understand her world, sharing the pain at the loss of the only person she had ever loved. Yet she knew that their grief was no equal to hers.
The Sumner had died, his voice reborn in his heir, and the world's songs could be sung once more. The earth mourned its soul's singer, but the earth had seen countless seasons, countless lives, and though the Sumner was more precious than most, his life was a brief flicker of flame in the bonfire of her existence.
The Sumner's daughter wailed her sadness and pain, and the earth keened with her, the trees' leaves whispering of the Sumner's passing in the wind, the storms calling his name as their mighty waves crashed against the cliffs, the thunder rolling mightily in the dark, clouded sky. The child rose, rain pattering unfelt upon her, cold wind making her tremble.
The servants came out of the house, the butler murmuring condolences, the viscount's valet stiff and looking abandoned, and her nursemaid even crying as she wrapped her in a large quilt. As they made to bustle her through the door, she stopped them. The three looked at her in askance.
"My father is dead," she told them. They looked at her, amazed, for it was the first time she had spoken in her entire life, the first time they had ever heard her voice. They nodded, carefully. Her tears dried, and she rose shattered eyes to the heavy sky.
"Leave me," she commanded brusquely, her voice not that of the child she was. As they retreated, she walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked over the forest that lay before her. She knew her duty, her calling. It was what she was meant to do, what her father had dedicated his life to. Her voice rose once more, and her chant was peaceful, quiet, comforting after the storm, the violent roar of her dark emotions. She felt her heart lift at her song. She walked down the steps, still singing as the rain drizzled around her, and stepped, her feet bare and touching the earth, into the forest. She walked there, among those she was meant to hear and to keep, singing, offering them comfort and peace. Her eyes were still sad, her heart still ached, but the song eased her burden. The Sumner's daughter walked to the cliffs and stared out at the restless sea. She smiled, a sad, broken smile, and her song faltered to a stop. Her father had died. Already the burden of her enourmous responsibilty made her stumble. She was meant to sing the earth's soul, to call forth the seasons, to chant for the waves and the birth of the trees. Her name was Moira, and she was the Sumner.

The back of a book

Have you ever asked yourself what attracts you most in a book? The cover, the back story, the editor, the format? I have to have a really good cover. There are times I didn't read a good book just because of its cover, and finally when my mom had nagged at me sufficiently I would read and exclaim in suprise. Still, the back of a book is always important. In class I amuse myself by writing the prefaces (is that what you call 'em?) to the novels I want to write. Here are two, for a novel called Night Dweller and Dark Dawn, of course:
Dark Dawn
There are those that are chosen:
Elaina Steele is a Dome Citizen, accepted in one of the world's last remaining strongholds of civilization, priviledged for her superior genetic code and her unusual intelligence. Bound by unbreakable laws, restricted by a rigid set of rules, there is only one thing she longs for:
Escape.
There are those that are rejected.
Ethan Wolfe does not belong. Born Human, he was promised to the Mutant race by a man he never knew, forever tearing him between two worlds as different as night and day. Abandoned and angry, there is only one thing he fights for:
Survival.
Those that are ignored:
Number 6178 does not exist. Unknown to the Dwellers, he livese deep within the Dome's foundations in a highly developed medical lab, his every movement monitored and analyzed, his fate decided before he was even born. Defying his purpose and the very laws of nature, there is only one thing he dreams of:
Freedom.
And those that are hated:
Phoenix Morrighan is the most feared predator in the Subs. Feral, the daughter of both human and mutant races and a highly trained assasin, she hunts the man that destroyed her life and had her brother killed before her very eyes. Alone and bitter, there is only one thing she lives for:
Revenge.
Brought together, bound by the chains od duty, passion, hatred and revenge, each has a choice to make, a challenge to face.
A war to survive.

Night Dweller (a bit more romantic than Dark Dawn, same format, I guess...)
There are legends.
Nochestrella Aragon is Were. She is the descendant of Kelion, ancient beast god of the Amazon forest indians, her bloodlines are royal and her soul is pure, yet she does not join the Lycan packs in their hunts. For Nochestrella is Jaguar, her eyes gleam green, and she is tainted by the blood of the Vampyre. But the legends of her people destine her to be a queen, fearsome and powerful, and the ancient chants depict her battles and foretell her triumph over the despised Immortals. Though she is fated to be the mate of Gabriel, leader of the packs, and to lead her people to their golden age, she longs only to be left alone, running free in the wild rainforest of her birth.
There are myths.
Cian Macdaere is Immortal. He is the Vampyre prince, meant to lead his kind in the final battle that will see the Immortals triumph over the despised Lycans, and that will pit him against the WereLeader, the powerful shapeshifter his people have dreaded for centuries. The myths say that he will emerge victorious in this mighty battle only if he drinks Lycan blood, but he knows that if he does so, he will forever be bound to the enemies of his kind. Determined, resolute, he enters the Shapesifters' domain, only to find he had has been betrayed. Barely escaping with his life, Cian runs into the forest, and wakes up to dicover a girl with gleaming eyes waiting for him.
There is Fate.
On a solitary hunt, Noches stumbles onto an unconscious man, lying wounded only a few steps away from her den. Against her better judgement, she taked him in and tends his injuries, only to realize when he awakes that he is Vampyre. But before she can push him out the door and away from her peaceful life, Lycans accuse her of treachery. Suddenly on the run for her life, she knows she will only find sanctuary among her ancestor's kind, using their weakened pince as a bargaining chip. She thought she'd be safe... until unwelcome feelings for the man she is fated to destroy threaten everything she thought she was meant to be.
There are legends, there are myths, there is Fate. And there are those that defy them.
Ta-da. And when I'll write that particular book, I know not. Have a good week, people.

Well, I guess you're the only one reading, Querida. Ah, well.... Who cares? This time, its about me.
Ever had a good day that at the end doesn't seem like one? That's me right now. By all accounts, I had fun last night (formal at youth group). All right, so it sucked being the odd girl out, newbie that I am, and it sucks that the people I thought were going to hang out with me ignored me in favor of their dates. But really, can you blame them? Instead, I abandoned all pretense of being a cool kid and sat down at the self proclaimed loser table. And losers we were, and fun, we had. Ever noticed that the people that have the most fun at that kind of party are the people that have no reputation to lose? Well, yeah, that's me. Along with me were Annie, Michelle and Jaslin. I was with them most of the night and taught Jaslin the little valse I know. It was sad, yet fun. The unfun part was the fact that I was the oldest in that little group by at least two years, and that always makes one feel kinda lame. Ultimately, it was an expensive outing and I could've saved myself the trouble (not to mention the money), but now I know (or maybe I don't, but I figure I do) what prom is like. I was never going to go to prom unless some prince charming popped out of thin air and asked me anyway, so at least I got a taste of it... Which may or may not be worth it, you decide.
So today is saturday, now closing in on 7 pm. Tomorrow I will go to church even though I'm no longer sure why I bother. Maybe I was just better off alone. But I only have less than two months left, so who's it gonna hurt? Is it strange for me to be afraid of going back? To be afraid to see how people have changed? And there are so many things I should have done here that I just kept pushing back to tommorow and now I don't have time to do them. I read in a book that you never have enough time. Its not that I don't have the time. I'm just tired of everything, tired of what I have to do and say to get through everything, only to find I have to do it all over again the next day. But all this isn't news, is it? Sometimes I wonder why I can't be happy just the way I am. Why I can't just live my life and stop questioning every aspect of it, why I can't just stop wanting to know the how what why where for everything. But if I did, I don't think I'd recongnize myself. There are times I just wish I could leave everything behind, even when I know so well I can't. I'm tired, but I'll get up tommorow. That's the way it goes, that's the way we are. Sometimes I wish that wasn't how it went. But it is, and I'll keep going.

Dark Dawn

These are the first few pages of the novel I'm writing... let's see if anyone reads this apart from Melinda...
Chapter 1
Dark rain falls heavily outside the window. Fire crackles in an ancient chimney. A white-haired old man, wearing worn, threadbare clothes and sitting in a well-used arm chair, extends his wrinkled hands to be warmed by the dying flames. Those hands, and his face, bear witness to a war long past, the weathered skin torn by terrible scars. A child, no more than three or four, is sitting at his feet. The old man sighs as he rubs his hands together. Slowly, the boy rises, and makes his way to the window through the clutter in the tiny room. He stares, unblinking, at the falling sun.
“Grandpa?” The old man nods, to show he has heard the child’s query, then closes his eyes. He is as familiar with the question to come next as the ones after it. It is a ritual between them. Every night, as the boy stares outside the window, he asks the same questions. And every night, the old man gives the same answers. Tonight will be no different. Watching as lights go on in an enormous glass dome, the boy asks:
“What is that?”
“It’s the Dome, boy, the New Los Angeles Dome,” the old man answers in a croaky voice, with a strong cockney accent.
“What’s it for?”
“It protects the Citizens.”
“Who are the Citizens?”
“The Dome Dwellers”
“What does it protect them of?”
“Everything, boy. Even us.”
“Is my Mommy a Dome Dweller?”
Pains revives as memory invades the old man’s mind.
“Aye. She is that.”
“Did my mommy forget me here?”
With all his heart, the old man would like to answer that she did, he would like to answer anything but the cold, hard truth. Children’s hearts should not be broken. But every night, he breaks this one, for the child deserves the truth.
“No. She left ye.”
Pain fills the dark, nearly black eyes of the toddler. He turns sharply from the window and comes to the armchair, scrambling into his grandfather’s lap, burying his face into the elderly shoulder. The old man places his hand on his grandchild’s small head. Every night is the same. Every question, and every answer, is the same. Ever since the boy could talk. But tonight the child instigates a change.
“Ba?” The old man opens his eyes. This isn’t in the ritual.
“Yes?”
“Will you go live in the Dome one day?”
The old man starts, and takes the child in his arms, hugs him tight.
“Never, Ethan. I’ll never be leavin’ ye. I promise ye that.”


“Ba?”
“Yes, Ethan?” The child is older, now, about eight, but the old man is the same, the only witness to the passing years the added wrinkles on his scarred face. The room in which they are is different as well. Two things, however, remain unchanged. The old man still sits in his old armchair, and through the window, the huge dome’s lights are as plainly visible as from their first home.
“Why don’t I have a Daddy?”
Once again, after these few years, the old man is startled. Since that fateful night, four years ago, the child hasn’t mentioned his family, or his lack of one.
“Can I tell ye a story, boy?”
Solemn, the little head nods.
“It doesn’t start with once upon a time, like me tales usually do, and doesn’t end with happily ever after,” the old man cautions.
The boy nods again.
“That’s okay. I want to hear the story anyway.”
“Alright, then. Now, come ‘ere.” The old man pats his knee, and this time the boy comes to sit himself on the armrest, resting his head, once again, on the welcoming shoulder.
“A long time ago, boy…”
“How long?”
The old man cuffs the boy on the head.
“Don’t be interrupting yer elders, boy! I’ve taught ye better than that! It’s my story, and I’ll say it as I have a mind to!”
Having the grace to look contrite, the boy lifts his impish gaze to his grandfather’s.
“Okay, then,” he answers, and with afterthought, adds: “sorry.”
“Humph. Right. As I was saying before being rudely interrupted by a bothersome little tyke, a long time ago. Don’t open that mouth of yours!” he adds, as the child makes a move to do just that.
“Now that I think o’ it, not really such a long time ago, at least not for me. But for ye, yes, a long time. Before ye were born. And don’t interrupt!” he says, putting his hand across the child’s mouth as the boy tried to open it yet again, “or I won’t tell me story.”
The boy nods, and to show his fidelity to the simple oath, zips his lips with his fingers, locks them with an imaginary key, and makes as if to throw it over his shoulder. The old man chuckles at his disjointed pantomime.
“So. A long time ago, there lived a beautiful young woman. Aye, she was beautiful, that un’. Blond hair soft as silk and as shiny as gold, but her eyes were like yours, boy. Black as coal. She was smart, too, real smart. But y’see, m’boy, she lived in the Subs. Why, you ask? She never took the Test. Oh, she could’ve made it, but she never took it because her parents lived in the Subs. They were old, they never would’ve made the Test. She loved them so much. She dinna want to leave ‘em, and that was that. So she never took it. She was a good girl, boy, never doubt it. She loved life! With her, everything was sunshine. Even though she lived a miserable life, she always made the better of it. And one day, a young man and his foster father wandered into the subs of Los Angeles, and what happens usually between young people happened. They fell in love. They loved each other so much, boy! For a time, they were happy. But then disease struck, and took her kin. They just died, just like that. One day they were there, the next, gone. From then on, she was never the same. She became afraid to love. The death of her parents showed her that life is such a fragile gift, and that it hurt so much if life passed away! So she distanced herself from love, and of course, she and the young man suffered of this very much. He did everything to show her his love, but that only made things worse. He loved her so desperately… But she couldn’t love him. She pleaded with him, told him to leave, to never come back, to stop loving her, because she couldn’t bear to see him hurt so much because of her. It caused me a great deal of pain to see that happen. I loved the boy, for he was my son, and I came to love her as a daughter. I never wanted that for either of them. I wanted them to be happy… But one day, he came to me.”
The young boy stares, fascinated, caught up in the story.
“He came to me, and he said: ‘Take care of her, because I can’t.’ And that day he left. He said he would come back, in two years’ time. Maybe then she would look at their love and see past her fears. I stayed with her, for a year. A month after the young man left, we discovered she was three months pregnant. I was a doctor, y’see; a long time ago I had been a very good one. Before the war. There was a life before the war. I’m the one who birthed you, boy. You were such a beautiful little thing. Your mother loved you very much. Not enough, though. When you were six months old, the Dome took a Test. She didn’t want to go, boy. Not at first. But a Dweller came into our part of the Subs. Said he was looking for candidates. Was the first time the Dome ever did that. The world is so small. And he saw your Ma, just sitting there, looking so beautiful. And he decided he had to have her. He was infatuated with her. He courted her for all he was worth, after that. She didn’t want him, she spurned all his advances, because she still grieved her kin, and still loved your father. But he brought her roses, jewelry, wonderful gifts, and a woman is sensible to such things. After a time she warmed to him. She felt flattered that such an important man at the Dome, such a handsome one, was interested in her. I warned her, boy. But she didn’t listen. From the beginning, she hid you from him. He had no idea. And one day, you were about a year old at the time, I recall, he asked her to come and see the Dome. He’d done it already, but she’d said no. He was slick, that un’. I didn’t like him. He didn’t even recognize me, he was my own blood, boy, and he didn’t realize it. I hope you never face that pain.
“You see, he didn’t love her. I know, I was there, saw the way he looked at her. She was… different. I know that his mother would have disapproved, and that alone made her attractive in his eyes. She was a change, a challenge, because she didn’t follow him for his pretty face. He had to use all his wits to get to her. And get to her he did. Since he was so almighty important, he got clearance for her for a day. She went to see the dome. And that night, she came back with stars in her eyes. After that, the game was lost. He showed her the Dome, its beauty, its safeness, its technology. It protected its citizens from the outside world. And she was afraid of the outside world. And he told her to take the Test. That she could pass. And she could. He got to her heart by saying that even if she didn’t pass, he would leave the Dome, and live with her in the Subs. Yeah, right. You have to be beautiful, physically fit, and smart to pass the Test. She was all three. There are different tests for different activities, in the Dome, but she just took, and passed, the Citizen Test. Normally, you have to have a job to enter the Dome, but…” The old man breaks off, and pain twists his face.
“She already had one. She was a mother. She was accepted. The night she got the results of the Test, he asked her to marry him. He didn’t know about you, can’t fault him for that. No one knew. Even she, after a while, tried to pretend you didn’t exist. She stopped staying with me, but she left you here. She’d come, occasionally, probably thought it was her duty to look after me.” He snorts. “Not that old. And she would look at you with such guilt in her eyes. No one knew about you, boy, but she was a mother, was to be a mother, you see? She was pregnant by that son of a … She said yes. She said yes. She broke three hearts that day, though one was too young to understand, and the other wasn’t to know until he came back. She came to me, one last time. Said only to take care of you. Then she looked at you, and you could see that you weren’t her son anymore. It’s not that she didn’t love you, but she’d chosen something else over you. She said that that something was a better life, for her and the child growing inside her. Said she couldn’t take you, because you’d be the son of a Citizen, all hoity-toity, and the son of a Sub. You’d be a bastard. You’re not that. Don’t ever believe it. You’re not a bastard, boy. You’re a wolf. You’re not her son. You’re mine. And Michael’s, your father’s. Doesn’t matter if she gave birth to you, she forfeited all rights to you the day she decided to leave. I never hated anyone so much as I hated those two then. Ironic, isn’t it? Two of the people I should love most. I slapped her, first and last time I ever raised my hand to a woman. But she deserved it. She didn’t even cry. Cold hearted witch. And then she left, and I never saw her again.”
The child is staring at his grandfather, mixed horror and fascination on his face. He knows that this is his story.
“When your father came back, I was left to tell him where the love of his life had gone. You know what’s ironic, boy? He’d become a Citizen, in another Dome. He’d come back to take her with him, where she would finally be safe and happy. And she wasn’t there. I told him that, and he just fell to the ground and cried. Then I showed him you. He loved you the minute he saw you, and you recognized him. He stayed with us for a time, but he became restless. Since he was a child, we had always been on the road, and traveling again had fed his wanderer’s soul. He loved you with all his heart, boy, but you reminded him too much of what he’d lost. So he left. And he too never came back. That’s why you don’t have a Daddy, boy, and why you don’t have a family, apart from me. But I love you, and I hope to God it’s been enough. That’s your story, boy. Your mother’s name was Kathleen Finnegan, and your father’s was Michael Wolfe. And the Dweller’s name was Jared.” A question forms on the child’s lips, but the old man shushes him, wearing a pained smile.
“You want to know how I know his name?” the old man questions, indulging the child’s curiosity. The boy nods vigorously. “I know… I know because Jared was my son, in a way Michael never was.” The child is startled; the old man can see it on his face. He has always made sure that Ethan knows he is not the child’s grandfather by blood, but he has never voiced it so openly. And he can see the surprise give way to fear. Fear that his grandfather will abandon him. The fear pains the old man, for he knows how it grabs at one’s heart. Gently, he caresses the small head, then intently looks into the youngster’s coal black eyes:
“He was my son. Long ago. But you are more mine than he ever was.”
His story is finished, and tears fill the old man’s eyes. One trickles down the scarred cheek. The child raises a small hand to his grandfather’s face and wipes it away.
“I love you, Ba,” the boy tells him, stubbornness etched into his face. And it’s enough. For the first time, during the night, the child does not rise and go to the window to stare at the lighted Dome. He stays where he is, asleep in his grandfather’s lap.

A Dream

A dream I've held in my heart for a long, long time is to write. I've decided to post several of the things I write on this blog. I'm currently writing a book, which I will not post on here except for the first passage, but I also write short stories (they're really begginings of books I don't feel like writing past the first pages, or scenes that I want to write for entertainment but have no desire to continue), poems (which, on occasion, are good, but I do NOT want to become a poet.), and proverbs, or things that strike me worthy to remember and live according to. I want to be a writer and this is a test. To see if people who don't know me can like what I write. To see if the people who do know me understand this part of me. To see if anybody's interested.
If you like what I write, fine by me, leave a post. If you don't, leave a post anyway and critique all you want. I LIKE criticism. People (well, my mother, who else?) who tell me no, no it's good after they've read something that I think isn't get to me.
The first thing I will post on here is a passage called "angel". Originally I wrote it (the first paragraph) for my chinese foster mother who wanted reading material for her english students. Then, the image caught at me and I decided to give it a little twist. Tell me what you think. I'd appreciate it.

Angel
She stood on the cliffs of Mohr, watching as the sun dawned over the horizon, its light glinting off the brilliant waves. She stood, and dreamed, her eyes lost in the hues of the brightening sky. The powerful waves broke on the rock, the mist they created falling on her face, the drops gathering like tears, trickling down her smooth white cheeks. As the flames of the sun’s rays slowly brightened the twilight sky, she sighed, a quiet sound drowned in the ocean’s waves, and feeling the warmth of the sun course through her veins, she smiled, suddenly ethereal, suddenly belonging in the beautiful scene she took in.
The shadows of dawn faded, and as the sun caressed her face with delicate fingers, she seemed to fade, to melt into the brilliant light of the flaming orb. Her winds unfurled, spread, gleaming like jewels. She cried out in joy, and threw herself from the cliff. She soared, and rose into the sun.

Hiding behind the trees, a child watches. Her cheeks are wet with tears, but they are not tears of joy. She watches as the woman soars into the light, crying out in ecstasy, while a child’s heart is breaking in pain.
“Momma!” She suddenly yells, throwing herself away from the trees that hid her, into the light of the Celtic sun. But the angel fades, the creature of glory turns not an ear to her daughter’s plea. She rises in the wind, her joy so strong it denies her any other emotion.
“Mama!” the child sobs again, calling her mother, pleading with her to come back. To come home. But only silence greets her cry. Her mother is gone. There is nothing now, just the sound of the waves crashing against the rock, suddenly angry, suddenly revengeful. The sky, where the sun shown brightly only moments before, darkens as menacing clouds roll over the horizon. A vicious wind whips around the child, as her eyes roll back into her head. Her hand outstretched, she screams.
“Come back to me!” Her voice is deep and resonant, no longer hurt and pleading, she commands. And as her command is unheeded, the wind’s force increases, the waves throw themselves against the rock in violent anger, thunder shakes the sky, and mortals tremble at nature’s wrath. Again the little girl screams, a defiant battle cry to the world that has abandoned her, and she runs, runs towards the cliffs, the cliffs of Mohr, and tears streaming down her pale cheeks, throws herself to the winds, and inside her heart, the heart of a child, she knows, she knows, that her mother will come back, her beloved mother will snatch her away from the deadly rocks below and will sweep her up into the sun. But she falls, she feels the wind at her back, she feels the pain as her small body breaks, slamming into the unyielding rock.
Her slight, tiny form lies broken, the now gentle waves lapping away at the blood on the jagged rock, tinting the water a lovely, pale pink. The little girl’s eyes are wide with pain. The jagged edges of the rock she lies on dig into her back, and she tries to take a breath, to draw in the air that cannot seem to reach her lungs, but she chokes, her broken body convulsing as she swallows her own blood.
“Mama,” she manages to cough. She stares at the sun, disbelieving, horror-stricken. Her mother did not come. And she is broken, like the little wooden doll she threw out of her window one night in a fit of rage, hearing the adults fight beneath her, yelling, throwing, so much anger in their hearts. Her limbs are twisted in awkward angles, her neck snapped. She cannot feel the pain and she knows she is dying. Will she go to heaven? Maybe, maybe they will let her see her mama. But she knows in her broken heart that heaven is not for her. How often has her beloved mother told her that heaven will not welcome her? How often has she said that the gates will not be open? Heaven is a distant dream, a fantasy that she will never fulfill. And the pain in her heart, as she sees the red flames at the edge of her vision, the pain that has never left her.
“Take me, then,” she sobs, but the words cannot leave her mouth. Instead it is a thought that she screams, defying the masters of hell. The world darkens around her, and she knows it is her sight that is fading. The flames are brighter now, and she flinches as they lick her skin. And suddenly a bright light is upon her.
“Daughter of the Nephiliim. Daughter of the skies and earth. You do not die this day. I cast you away from the gates of heaven, and hell will never let one such as you burn in its flames. Rise, let ashes mark your path, and your wings will spread as you bathe the world in blood as you were meant.”
She is drowning, dying in blood. It coats her body, but the drops cannot collect on her wings. They fall and slip away, the feathers staying pure and golden. But there is blood, so much blood, and she feels a hand on those glorious wings, the light touch of a finger. And suddenly her wings gleam, her wings bleed, and the feathers are red, blood-red, and the pain, the pain. It is such that she cannot bear it, and her body thrashes, trying to free herself, to fly.
She rises from the sea of blood, her wings dripping, her body weighted down, and yet she flies, heavy, awkward, rising above into the black clouds until she can see nothing but the spectacular blue sky. And she screams, a sound of pain and heartache and anger, trying to erase her mother’s quiet sigh from the memory of the world. And opens her eyes, her broken body whole once more, the waves crashing around her, the sun shining overhead.