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.