Noeth Dreamingfifi

At my very own apartment!

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 00:48:07 GMT

Getting set up in our own apartment has been a fun adventure. Fir the first couple days, we were sleeping on an air mattress that was flat by the time we woke up, and the only chair in the house was the toilet. All we had to eat was the "Chow Mein" my nonna cleaned out of her pantry, which is basically expensive ramen noodles. Yetch! We had an electric stove, but nut no pots or pans... so we were using nothing but a hotshot. At least now we can whine about it to our future children.

Then, all of the donated furniture arrived, and suddenly I could cook! First meal: Pancakes. They were heavenly, but maybe that's because they were the first.

The best part of it all? I get to wake up to this.

Other than that, I've been drawing like a maniac. Tons of portraits:
Jethro Atop a Cliff
Ivan, Five Years in the Future
Jethro in the Car
Ivan in the Car
Jethro Reading
Random Transsexual
Random Anime-style Portrait
Rianna, Pres. of the Anime Club

And some Fanart:
Ghost in the Shell
Fullmetal Alchemist
Blood+

And finally, the best out of all of them! Another picture from The Coffin's Occupant!
Bagheera

Now, I've gotta go home to mooch off my parents a little. Sayounara!

AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH!

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 20:54:27 GMT

The server for my website is starting to piss me off. Well, not starting to, it officially does. No matter what I do, I can't get the server to display the Naming Traditions or the Essays. It behaves as if the files don't exist! So, I have to set up camp somewhere else and link back to them. The thing is, I don't have any other ad-free places to post my website on besides the one I'm on now. Looks like it's back to tripod with my tail between my legs.

I still have a mountain of updates to do on the website too... *groan*. The textbook is almost ready for reposting, (I really ought to take it offline while I don't have the time to correct student's homework) and I have new material to put up in the Time section. I have several essays to finish too... That, and tomorrow I'm moving into my first apartment with my fiancé. I have no time. I really shouldn't be posting here right now.

I've officially severed myself from the fanfiction writing community. I just don't have the time to write fanfiction anymore. If I write, it has to be papers for class or something that'll earn me money. *pats The Coffin's Occupant* However, I'm going to keep my website online for everyone. I won't be able to write as much of the content, but I'll accept essays and such and post them. I'll keep the beta readers section going too.

Anyways. I have to finish packing.

じゃあ!

I'M BACK!

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 23:30:23 GMT

I've actually been back for a while, but I've been far too busy to keep up all of my internet stuff. Seriously, I don't have time to do everything. At the moment, I'm just kinda letting my linguist friends care for the visitors to my website, I've dropped all of my fanifiction communities (yeah, I went into withdrawals for a little while there) I post art on DeviantART every once and a while. All of those classes means that I can sketch while I'm taking notes, so a lot more artwork is on it's way. Lately, the pictures I draw are scenes from Oroboros. L O O K Y! It's heavily inspired by some of my friend's art styles. One is very anime, the other is is very comic-book like. I've got a sort of middle ground going on here.

Anyways. The Coffin's Occupant. Not having a computer for a month really slowed my progress. I'm getting back on it slowly but surely.

I love learning Japanese. After French, it feels so easy! Everyone says that it is so hard to learn, but I like its structure. I think French was harder for me because it was so close to English. I surprised myself by how quickly I learned the new alphabets. Kanji is hard, but not near so bad as everyone makes it out to be. It's like learning what all of the little roadsigns mean. This language is very tidy. I like tidy languages. English upsets my nit-picky nature. Too many exceptions! I want a language that follows rules, gosh darn it all!

I also love my linguistics class. For all that stuff with Sindarin, I taught myself linguistics. I'm finally learning all of the proper terms for concepts that I have been using at an unconscious level, which means that I developed a good linguistic competence for a language I could only imagine hearing... which is a really weird idea, now that I think of it.

Now, I know how to say "I love Trevor!" in one more language.
Toreboru-san ga daisuki desu!
ﾄレボルさんがだいすきです｡

Life is busy as all heck, but I'm loving it.

New scenes from The coffin's Occupant as I finish them.

I hate computers.

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 18:33:12 GMT

I just received my sparkly new computer. Well, it's not new; it's my dad's old work laptop. I was in the midst of installing Windows XP when the CD drive broke down. I had just finished reformatting the harddrive too! WAAAAH!

What makes all of this worse is that I'm taking 18 credits this semester and most of my classes require me to download my homework off the internet. Et tu, drama?

/wankery

So that's why I haven't been answering my e-mails or attending to forums or other things like that. I have no working computer unless I beg off someone else.

Getting Around Writer's Block

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 20:57:47 GMT

Believe it or not, I've been trying to get through writer's block on The Coffin's Occupant. All I've been able to do lately is change the story with massive background story changes. So, I decided on a radical movement. I'll write the story backwards, end to beginning. The end is what changes the most often anyways. I've written at least a dozen climatic scenes. Most of them are pretty good, but it means that the rest of the story would have to change significantly. At least, this way, I'll be building the story around its result.

Of course this has several problems. The characterization might end up not being as fluid or strong moving this way. I'll have to comb through it carefully, and make notes on what all I need to accomplish in the earlier scenes. Luckily, I don't have to do much of the mystery this time. We won't know the whole backstory by the end. Marianne's dreams will be significantly shortened. She'll see brief glimpses of him from other times and lives that she's met him.

Without further ado:

Marcus stood abruptly. "Brother!" he exclaimed. "Why, you've hardly changed! A little sickly, I hear, since your arrival."

Alex nodded. "Marcus, I..."

Marcus cut him off with a hand gesture. "Come, sit besides me, brother. Surely, you want to know how everyone has been doing during your absence."

"Yes, I have wondered often," Alex said quickly. "Father said he had something important to discuss, but then... I think I fainted."

Marcus' face blushed and his knuckles turned white.

"Do you know what happened that day?" Alex whispered. "Do you know what he meant to say to me?"

"When did you mean to tell him the truth?"

Alex looked confused for a moment, but then shrugged. "When he asked. I think he was beginning to suspect. He must know by now. Why didn't he come here himself?"

Marcus struck Alex in the face so hard that blood exploded around his fist. "You killed him!" he hissed, glaring daggers and Alex as he stumbled back, his eyes watering.

"I didn't..." Alex began, but Marcus cut him off again.

He held a small black book in the air. "This is my father's journal. In it, he describes how you twice rose from the dead, the second time, in some sort of demonic form. That day, I returned home to find everyone in the house torn to pieces! And you!" he was screaming now, "you were curled up on the floor, their blood covering you, shreds of their clothes still tangled in your fingers. You were asleep. At first I thought the murderer had attacked you as well, but then I found my father's journal, open to the last entry." He flipped through the pages to one towards the end, and showed the bloodstained paper to his audience. "When I pulled the knife out, his eyes changed color. They are now a startling green and the pupils are shaped like spear-points, standing on their ends. I hear him stirring behind me..."

Everyone turned towards Alex. His face had lost all color. "I didn't kill them, but I know who did," he whispered.

"Evil has many faces, even friendly ones," Marcus said. He tossed something soft and limp onto the table, wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. "Do you know what this is?" He pulled an army knife out of his pocket and stabbed the object. Alex doubled over, grabbing his chest. "Perhaps you've been ill because there isn't a heart in your chest!"

"Stop," Alex moaned.

Marcus ignored him, and stabbed the heart again, this time twisting the blade, making Alex fall from the chair, shaking.

"He'll come again; he'll kill everyone!" Alex shouted from the floor.

"Are you possessed, or did you make a deal with the devil?" Marcus laughed. "Well, I know how to deal with that. I've been studying these past months." He signed a cross over the pitcher of water and dumped it over Alex's body. Then he took a silver cross necklace and fastened it around Alex's wet neck.

"Material things can't stop something that isn't made of material."

Marcus ignored him still, and pulled out a smooth, wooden rod that had been sharpened to a point. "One thing I am curious about," he said testing the point on his finger. "How old are you actually?"

"Don't do it!" Alex yelled. "I'm older than India!"

"Foolish claim," he muttered, and plunged the stake downwards, towards the place Alex's heart should have been. Alex lifted his hands to protect himself, and the wood pierced his right hand and pinned it to his chest. Alex's back arched and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he fell limp.

His eyes were open wide, gazing at the ceiling. Everyone crowded in for a better look, but Marcus shouted, "Stay back! Stay back until we are sure!" The room held its breath, waiting and staring.

Marianne's skin suddenly prickled, as if the room was icy cold instead of stuffy from the many people inside.

An hour passed, and nothing happened. People began to wander away, their faces blank. Had they witnessed murder or redemption? Marianne wondered. When finally Marcus made moves to pack up, Marianne slipped to Alex's side and touched the pierced hand. It was still warm.

"When you bury him," Marcus whispered behind her, "Make certain that the stake is still in his chest." She looked up at him, and found, to her surprise, that Marcus was crying. "He was my brother too," he muttered and turned Marianne away from the corpse. "He must have been possessed, thank God he can find peace now."

Marianne tried to say something, but her throat choked her words.

"What peace?" a deep voice said behind them. They spun around. Alex stood up and yanked the stake out. "His own brother killed him."

Every muscle in Marianne's body begged her to move, but she couldn't. From Marcus' stricken expression, she could see that he couldn't move either.

Alex walked smoothly over to the table, unwrapped the heart and stuffed it into the hole in his chest, which healed itself in seconds. "Now he won't have to use mine," he said cheerfully. He put the hand with the hole in it in Marcus' face and laughed at his expression as the hole dripped blood onto his shirt.

Then he turned his attention to Marianne. "Oh, this is interesting!" He walked a quick circle around her. "No doubt, you are her reincarnation. No wonder he stayed by you. Tell me, can you see who I really am?"

She felt her voice and lungs relax so she could speak again. Marianne studied his face, but all she could see different were his green eyes, which practically bulged from his head, they were so large. "You aren't Alex!"

"What am I then? You could see me when you bound me to your husband, can't you see me now?"

Marianne shook her head.

"Disappointing. They must not have trained you properly. I'll show you. I am Deva-Baghira, the god of war. No weapon has pierced my hide, and none shall ever do so. Bow before me, or be struck down!" The wounds vanished instantly. Alex's body sprouted a luxurious black coat of fur and lengthened. His clothes ripped apart at the seams as his body swelled and took a new shape. He fell onto all fours, a monstrous black panther.

"Bow!" the beast roared, the echo of dying men could be heard in its voice.

Marianne fell to the ground right away; her knees couldn't have held her upright no matter how hard she tried. Marcus however, still stood, a cross dangling from his fingers. The great beast swatted Marcus across the room easily. He struck the wall with bone-shattering force. When the paw touched the floor, Marianne heard the echo of war drums. It rolled her over and brought its face close to hers. "He would try to commit suicide if I killed you again."

"Where's Alex?" Marianne whispered.

"He's asleep. He won’t awaken until he’s healed enough."

"Where?" she began to say, but her body froze up and she couldn't move. The panther bound out of the room. No matter how hard Marianne tried, she couldn't move to warn any of the screaming voices in the halls below.

When the screams stopped, the beast returned. Its fur dripped with blood that glistened in the moonlight. It sat there for a moment. A distinctive rumbling, like thousands of charging feet striking the earth, came from its throat, a god of war’s version of a purr. Finally it walked over to her. As its paw descended, as though to crush Marianne underfoot, it transformed back into Alex’s injured hand and landed softly on her chest. Her head and neck relaxed so she could turn and look up at the transforming beast. The fur turned into Alex’s long, unbraided hair, stuck to his skin from the blood Deva-Baghira a bathed in. All that was left were the bulging cat’s eyes.

“He won’t wake up for a week, in the least. Don’t let them bury him.” He leaned over Marianne, blood dribbling from the hole in his chest onto her white apron. "Understand? Don't let them bury him for a week. He can't wake up until his heart beats on its own."

Marianne nodded. The cat's eyes shrank away into Alex's brown ones. Alex crumpled to the floor like a discarded rag doll. His blood-covered chin landed on Marianne’s chest, his eyes wide but staring at nothing. They disturbed her, so she quickly closed them. His skin was still warm to the touch. As she stood up, she realized that that was all that he wore. The beast had ripped the last shreds of cloth off. She left the room with the intentions of finding a blanket to cover him, but all thoughts of Alex's modesty vanished as she wandered the halls.

Everyone was dead. The lord and lady, who had been preparing for bed, their daughters, the butler, the footmen, the kitchen staff, they all were murdered, but not just killed. They were shredded. Were these mounds of flesh she really saw truly people? This couldn't be real; it had to be some sort of nightmare. She stumbled away from the mansion in the darkness, cutting through the gardens to the fields. An hour later she trudged through the front door of her house. Her mother almost passed out when she saw the blood on her clothes. Marianne was numb; she couldn't answer her mother's questions. She couldn't get her voice to obey her at all. The only sound she could make was a strangled sob-like moan. She hardly noticed the constable speaking to her. She didn't even know when he had arrived.

The doctor came too, and the priest, and the entire village. She was looking at the world through some sort of hollow cage that she couldn't break out of. She didn't care if she got out or not, but instead let herself sink father into her mind. She didn't stop them when they buried Alex among the victims of the massacre. Three months later, she stopped eating. Mrs. Addison spent the days talking to her daughter, knowing that Marianne's spirit had moved on long ago. Midwinter, Marianne's heart finally stopped beating.

Hmmm... better not let my mom read this one. She hates anything violent. I'm not set on how Marianne leaves the story, except that she doesn't stop them from burying Alex. This end seems almost too passive for her, but how do I end it otherwise? I'll let that sit while I work on the scenes working up to it for now.

Excerpts from the journal of Charles Branbury

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 03:13:37 GMT

Well, I decided to write some backstory. This'll never appear in the final version of The Coffin's Occupant, but it's nice to have it written out anyways.

It takes place in some little mountain village, somewhere exotic and extremely isolated. The dates aren't set yet either, because I'm not settled about the timeline quite yet. Anyways, for this, the setting isn't as important as what happens emotionally. I might end up made this a short story, however. It'd be cool, don't you think?

Excerpts from the journal of Charles Branbury

Today we finally reached our desolate destination. The natives are friendly here, if not frightened, from what I see in my observations. They are not Muslims like the people at the bottom of the valley, which I give to their isolation. They are happy to trade with us, and have an extensive goldware craft here.

Today I walked amongst the people in the village and came across a skinny young man nothing like the villagers. His skin is of a far paler tone, and if I had to guess, I’d say he came from Asia, perhaps northern tribe in Indian. He was dressed very richly; some of the finest gold jewelry decorated him. Even his braid was jeweled. He ran away from me upon seeing my face. I asked one of the village elders, through two translators, who the young man was. According to them, he has some sort of god or demon living inside him. The most astonishing thing, however, is that they claim he has lived over five hundred years. No one can recall if he came to them or was born there, but they all agree that he hasn’t aged a day beyond 17 years. The two versions of the story are that his mother burst into flames upon giving birth to him, and the other version is that the wind dropped him by the village gates, covered in burn scars. According to them, the scars have now faded away, and that he will heal quickly and completely from any injury. I have arranged to meet him tomorrow.

After a long description of how exactly I am supposed to act towards him, I was brought before him. He sat on an alter covered with fine cloth and jewelry. The translators introduced us, but the young man didn’t do anything but stare at us for a long while. We knelt there so long that my knees began to protest. Finally, the young man said something, which was translated to me as “I wish to see them.” He hopped down and walked straight up to me. He touched my beard, which is blond, and inspected my face closely, peering into my eyes for a long time. Then he began to babble, but not in the native’s language. One of the linguists’, John Missingham’s, mouth dropped open, and he scrambled to my side. “He’s speaking in some form of Gothic!” The young man stopped, confused, and repeated what the linguist said to me. Then, he started talking in Latin. I have no gift for languages, but I studied Latin at Oxford, years ago. I understood enough to know he was asking us questions about the meaning of our presence. John and he spoke for hours in Latin. From what I understand, John was telling him what had happened after the fall of Rome. When we left, John explained to me that the young man knew European history up to the fall of Rome, and that his Latin name is Pardus, the Latin word for “leopard”. He has requested that we call him by that, and that he will come to see us.

Today, the young man came to us. He spoke with John most of the time, though he is picking up English at an astonishing rate. He has begun to ask me questions. The English word he seems to love best is the word “why”.

Another surprise: Pardus can read! He demonstrated for us Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, Chinese, Cuneiform, Egyptian, Sanskrit, and some form of hieroglyphics that none of us had seen before. He is mastering English so quickly that we no longer need two translators; we only need him. His insight into their culture has made documenting it far easier, and we will be able to leave a good deal earlier than we originally thought we would. Surprisingly, he can’t speak French, German, Dutch, Spanish, or Italian.

I have little time, as we are packing everything as quickly as possible. Today, a tragedy has struck the village. People are panicking. From what I hear, Pardus was walking along the cliff’s edge, and the wind picked him up and took him away. We have been asked to leave.

Our trip down the mountain is grim. It’s hard to believe or understand that Pardus is gone. John is particularly grieved. He hadn’t finished writing a summary of the native’s grammar.

God is truly mysterious. Today, a rockslide buried two of our pack mules and killed John. He moved slower than all of us when we heard the rocks coming, and one of the native boys swears that he saw John stop the mules all together. We dug him out and buried him with a wooden marker. We also found Pardus today. He was as the bottom of a little gorge, tangled in the bushes. The most astonishing thing is that he is still alive. He’s broken many bones; we guess that he attempted to land feet first. He can’t move, and our doctor assures us that he will soon be dead. Never the less, we’ve decided to bring him with us. The doctor put splints on as many of the breaks as possible and bandaged his abrasions, telling us at the same time not to keep our hopes up. Pardus smiled at me, but I don’t know if he recognized me or if it was the laudanum.

We finally have reached the valley. Pardus is healing very well, and miraculously has no infections. He can move a little now, but he doesn’t speak to anyone.

Today we asked Pardus if he would like to go to England with us. We were hoping he would say something, but instead, he only nodded.

We’ve reached the port! Adam built Pardus a wheelchair, seeing as his arms are now healed enough to pull himself around. His abrasions are nothing but scars now, and his arms and legs and mostly straightened out. His lower back was completely crushed in the fall. The doctor believes that Pardus will never walk again.

Today, Pardus spoke to me. He asked me why I was taking him England. I told him that we wanted to learn more about him and the village, and he seemed satisfied. He then asked me if he would be living with my family. I asked him if he wanted a golden throne as he had in the village, but he laughed. “I am no God,” he said. “I’m unlike you, but I am human.” He put emphasis on this word, as if its meaning was something precious. “I would like to be part of a family, not a slave, in a chair.”
“You are still in a chair,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “Not forever. I will walk again.”

I’ve decided to adopt Pardus. He thanks me at every chance he gets.

We have reached London at last. Tomorrow, I will introduce Pardus to my wife, Julia, and my son, Marcus, who must be 12 by now. I haven’t seen him in so many years! Pardus is excited. He smiles constantly and puts on his English clothes with pride, but he refuses to cut his hair. He rehearses manners and proper greetings at every chance he gets. We have covered the script for introducing him to my family countless times.

I no longer know if adopting Pardus was the right thing to do. My son and wife are furious with me. Julia thinks that I have been unfaithful to her, and Marcus thinks that I have tried to replace him as the first son. Pardus tries to be friendly, but they refuse to speak to him.

Marcus’ tutor arrived today. Pardus and he get along very well, and he is truly amazed at Pardus’ fluent understanding of Latin. Pardus has volunteered to help Marcus with his Latin studies. I think this is a marvelous idea. If my son takes a liking to Pardus, my wife will surely follow.

Today, we were surprised to find that Pardus enjoys needlework. He embroidered a pillowcase with cross-stitches, and asked Julia to teach him more. Marcus teased him, but Pardus shook off the comments by saying that he couldn’t do much else in a wheelchair. I think they are getting closer.

Pardus told Julia that he remembers his father faintly, but that his parents died so long ago he hardly can’t recall their faces, and he had been wandering ever since he was a little boy. The stories he tells of his adventures are truly wondrous and sometimes exaggerated. I told Julia that he has a very active imagination, and not to believe much of what she heard. I think she is starting to believe that Pardus isn’t my son. She told me that I didn’t have half the imagination to come up with stories like that.

Five years ago, falling down a mountain crushed Pardus’ lower back so horribly the doctors agreed that he’d never walk again. They said that his back had been broken. Today, he was able to stand. He confided in me that he had been slowly regaining feeling in his legs ever since his arrival in England. His legs are weak from disuse, but his insures me that he will soon be walking. The doctors don’t know what to tell me, besides that it is a miracle.

Five years later:
Marcus has just returned from Oxford, for the holiday. He speaks of poetry constantly. When he set eyes of Pardus, he exclaimed, “Why Brother! You haven’t changed a bit!” The more I think about it, and the more I turn back to the page that I drew the first picture of Pardus, the more I search for some sign that he has changed. He no longer has any trouble with his back, and he still appears no older than 17. I can’t help but remember what the villager’s believed. I asked him about the day that he fell from the mountain, and he smiled faintly. “I had hoped John would find me,” he said.
“How did you know you would survive to see John again?”
He thought carefully for a long while. “I didn’t know.”

Today I asked him how old he thought he was, but he didn’t answer. 27 simply didn’t seem likely.

Pardus should be thirty years old today. Something is different about him, perhaps even supernatural. Maybe not a fallen god, he’s too humble for that, but something. I can’t help but think that he speaks Latin fluently because he lived in Rome. We know so little about our world, even with the wonders of science. I recall myths about fountains of youth and stones that grant immortality, and suddenly they seem logical. I need to test my theory, however. He should have died from that fall. I will attempt to kill him, and watch what happens.

What have I done? Pardus lies at my feet, a knife in his heart. He has been dead for twenty minutes. His eyes stare up at me in disbelief. What have I done? I will pull the knife out now; hide my crime somehow.

Perhaps not all is lost. When I pulled the knife out, his eyes changed color. They are now a startling green and the pupils are shaped like spear-points, standing on their ends. I hear him stirring behind me__________________

The End

Waddiya think?

Goin' Camping and Gettin' a New Computer!

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 22:32:27 GMT

Well, today we meet some people that my dad is friends with online, and we go camping in Yellowstone with them. This is another record-breaking forest fire season, so I'm a little nervous.

Good news though: once my dad is done fussing over his old laptop, I get it! It's from 2000, unlike what I'm using now, which is from 1998. It's much faster and has lots more memory.

Gah, gotta go pack my sleeping bag. Be back in a five days! (Then I have to pack for college, which I leave for on the 25th. Where did summer go?)

Where have I been?

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 19:15:05 GMT

Well, I've been at college. I just finished an intense immersion French course, and I'm happy to announce: Je ne dois pas étudier maintenant le français! I'm moving onto Japanese.

I've already figured out my name: アルビニフィオナ or 白白美. In Rōmaji: Arubini Fuiona or Shiro Shiromi. My name means White of the Whites. Fiona comes from an old Celtic man's name, "Fionn". When the Latin-speaking conquerers took over, they thought it made a good woman's name and added the feminine A at the end. That's why I added "-mi" for good measure. Albini is easy to figure out. Albini-Albino... duh. The Japanese word for "White" is "Shiro", et voilà: Shiro Shiromi. Interesting fact: My grandfather, Frank Bessac, speaks Mandarin Chinese fluently and studied it in China right before the communist take over. His adventurous escape from China is one that surely a movie will be made of someday. There's already been a book or two written about it. To set the record straight: he wasn't in the CIA or OSS. He was just a translator that caught up in the fray of a collapsing country. Surprisingly enough, he was given a Chinese name, which was also "白" (but pronounced "bai" if memory serves me correctly. It also means "white"). It's an interesting coincidence, don't you think? Kanji are cool!

I just realized something. Japanese will be my fourth serious human language. Go me!

I've been rewriting The Coffin's Occupant again. Yes, again. I promise that this version will blow you away. I'm changing the POV from 3rd person omnipotent to 3rd person limited: Marianne's POV. I'm also expanding the story significantly. Things that were glossed over in the beginning before will be gone into detail, and the discoveries that lead to the end will be staggered. There's a completely new end to the story now, and it brings back Marcus Branbury! It also gives Marianne and Deva-Bagira more active roles, and takes away the Deus Ex Machina problem that the story has been fighting with. It also goes into more of how Devika locked the God of War into Hanatiza.

What do you think of a series from The Coffin's Occupant? He's lived through a lot of history, five millenniums of it, to be exact. I think I'd call it "Oroboros", and it would work backwards from The Coffin's Occupant. Next would be "Death of Cesar" or something like that. Alex would watch the collapse of Rome, and somehow meet Devika's spirit again. His name at the time: Pardus. Then we would travel even farther back in time, and witness Hanatiza in the depths of despair, traveling around China in its Golden Age, trying to find a way to die, then giving up and deciding to try his hand at learning as many trades as he can. It would be called something like "The Secret of Silk", and Hanatiza's name would be "苗" or "Miao". At some point, he'd meet Devika again. Then even farther back. Hanatiza is fighting for control over his body with Deva-Bagira during a series of bloody wars in India that would become the mythos of Ramayana. He's called Kumbhakarna, a Rakshasa. This one would be called "The Defeat of Ravana". And finally, how Hanatiza managed to get a God of war trapped inside him: "The Plague's Messenger".

Waddiya think?

The Engagement Ring

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 23:44:33 GMT

Isn't it beautiful?

I'M GETTING MARRIED!

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 02:54:26 GMT

He proposed to me! I have a ring! I'll post a picture of it when I get my hands on a camera.

"I love Trevor!" in every language I can think of at the moment:
J'aime Trevor!
Se amo Trevor!
Melon Drevor!
Melanyë Trevor!

A Good Omen

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 00:35:21 GMT

I don't believe much in omens, but today is the day that I think my boyfriend of three years will propose to me. Two weeks ago he took my parents out to a fancy restaurant, I haven't been told what exactly about, but else could it be? He also asked me what color of metal I prefer in jewelry.

While making him a clover crown like I always do, I found SEVEN four-leaf-clovers and one five-leaf clover.

Do you believe in omens?

A New Writing Project

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 18:38:13 GMT

I have another story with the same sort of tone that The Coffin's Occupant has, except it has a female enigma. I started writing it a while back, but never got beyond the first chapter. Should I continue it?

“Sold!” the auctioneer bellowed. A statue was wheeled off stage and another one took its place. The statue that was being rolled onto stage was of man in full Victorian dress, sitting in a fancy chair. His arms hung laxly by his sides and wagged back and forth as he was moved. His head was tipped forward as though he had simply nodded off to sleep, and a large hunting knife protruded from his chest. A girl watched its progress in the television, intrigued by the statue’s grotesqueness. The image was fuzzy from the UHF channel the auction was being held on, yet it was clear enough to see that the statue was wearing a rich brocade jacket and complementing breeches.

The auctioneer began to drone loudly, “This next piece stands on itsown. It is titled ‘Adieu to the Gentleman’, nicknamed ‘The Greeter’ because he was the statue that sat by the door in the exhibit.” The girl felt a shiver up her spine, imagining opening a door to a dead body.

“What’s this?” the girl’s mother asked sharply, making her jump.

“Some artist is auctioning off all of the statues in her gallery.”

“Yetch,” the woman said looking at the grotesque statue on stage. “You’re too young to see stuff like that.”

“Isn’t eleven old enough?” the girl pleaded, turning back to the television screen.

“Nope.” The mother hit the “off” button. “Eleven is 26 years too young.”

“Just because it creeps you out doesn’t mean it creeps me out,” the girl mumbled under breath, listening to her mother leave the room.

Once her mother was gone, she turned the volume down on the television set so she had to be right next to it to hear it.

“Sold!” The statue was wheeled off. “This next piece is a set of two. It is titled ‘Isolde and Tristan’. Isolde, nicknamed ‘The Sleeper’ for the number of people who have fainted in front of her, is on the right. Like her partner, she is made out of painted clay. She hangs from two thousand minuscule threads in this iron cage to give her the appearance of floating.” The camera zoomed in on Isolde. Her arms were extended like bird’s wings and her hands curved like claws. She wore a tattered grim-reaper-like robe, and her long, straight, light brown hair hung dramatically. More disturbing than her aggressive posture was her face; it was plain and looked as though she was passively asleep, simply enduring her cage.

“Tristan, nick-named ‘The Soldier’, is made from painted clay and encased in a block of plastic, seen on the left. He kneels with his arms bound behind his back and his head bowed in tragic prayer. Starting at 500 dollars…” The camera zoomed in on Tristan. His colonial soldier’s uniform was splattered with mud, and a noose hung around his neck. There was a deep cut on his left cheek, and some of his curly, dark hair escaped his ponytail and stuck to his face.

The girl sat up and touched Isolde’s face in the television set, enthralled, and half wishing she could grow her hair that long. Suddenly Isolde began to sway back and forth on her strings, and attendants in black t-shirts with the word “STAGEHAND” stenciled in white rushed out to stabilize her.

The little girl leaned closer to the television set, suspense built as the statue rocked wildly in its cage. A few people in the audience screamed as it hit the sides with loud clangs. The attendants reached through the bars and grabbed it, stopping it in mid swing. The camera zoomed in on Isolde’s face again. The statue’s eyes opened and looked directly into the camera, right into the girl’s eyes. In that moment, she heard a voice with a heavy Irish accent speaking inside her head.

“MY NAME IS MÁIRE.”

Fifteen years later:

The girl was in front of a television set, but now she was a security guard in a government building. She was watching the hall monitors in a bored way, waiting for something or nothing to happen.

“You know,” her coworker said, massaging his eyes. “In movies, the security guys are always the first to go. It’s like we’re expendable or something.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, half listening.

“Maybe one of us security folks have confiscated a few too many of them Hollywood Folk’s drugs.”

“Yeah.”

“Therefore, if an alien gunman arrives, we know that we are toast.”

“Yeah.” Her coworker looked at her and smiled.

“Addy, you’re falling asleep again.”

“Ye-huh? Whadamiss,” she mumbled.

“An old lady picked a wedgy in corridor 3a, and a woman dragged a screaming kid from the Department of Motor Vehicles and gave it a spanking. Other than that, not much.”

Addy rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her mind. She had been having a daydream, about what, she could never remember. Whatever it was, her mind wanted to return to it. A name slowly drifted back to the surface of her memory. “Máire,” she whispered to herself. Máire had been her imaginary friend from the moment that she floated out of the television set. Addy and Máire had enjoyed each other’s company, until Máire had started telling her to do things. At that point Máire started being mean, making things happen to Addy, making her get sick. Finally, Abby told her pediatrician about Máire. The doctors took her to a psychiatrist, and Addy was diagnosed with schizophrenia. They forced Máire to stop talking in her mind, but she was always present. She had always loved and envied the way Máire’s hair floated around her, affected by every tiny breeze but unaffected by the wind. She had been so jealous of Máire’s hair that she had grown her hair out like Máire’s, but Addy’s hair was a darker brown and subject to being oily. Suddenly she felt nauseous, and a sharp pain rose in her stomach.

“Oh, good God!” she exclaimed.

“What?” her coworker said, leaning over to see her monitors better.

“It’s that time of the month.”

“Thanks, I needed to know that,” he mumbled, settling himself back into his chair. “I’ll watch your monitors while you go to the bathroom, d’accord?”

“Thanks,” Addy said, and made a run for the bathroom, praying that she had a pad in her purse. The feeling grew worse, and she tried to remember if she still had any painkillers with her. Her mind entered a thick fog of confusion, and Addy panicked, breaking into a run to the restroom. As she shoved the door open, her knees gave out. A figure appeared, a clear face in front of her. The face had long, light brown hair and eyes that stared down into her soul.

“DO YOU REMEMBER ME, ADDY?”

Addy passed out.

When Addy awoke, it was dark except for the lights on the computer that measured her pulse and made sure she was still alive. “Good evening Adelaide,” a cheery voice said; a cool hand touched her forehead. “You gave us quite the scare. How do you feel?”

“I dunno,” Addy moaned. “How long have I been asleep?”

“A little over a day. One of your coworkers found you unconscious on the bathroom floor. I have a question, were you taking any prescriptions?”

“Yes,” Addy said, trying to remember its name. “Whachamacallit… something another for schizophrenia.”

“It appears that you forgot to take your pill yesterday.”

“That would explain it,” Addy said, remembering Máire’s appearance.

“Explain what?” The pleasant voice came closer.

“Máire came back,” she said closing her eyes tightly. “My imaginary friend. She forced me to memorize an address. I don’t understand why. Why do you want me to go there? What will I find?” she yelled at the air. “You’re not real; you’re just a chemical imbalance!”

“I AM REAL. COME, SEE ME FOR YOURSELF.”

“You aren’t real! Go away!” Addy screamed, curling into a ball, shutting her eyes tightly.

“I WON’T.”

The kind voice became louder, whispering in her ear, “Ignore Máire. Your doctor is coming; you will be safe very soon.”

Máire laughed. Her voice changed; it was soft and gentle.

“COME AND SEE ME; I’M LONELY.”

“I won’t!” Addy hissed. She closed her eyes tighter, but she saw an image in her head. A great iron cage stood at the end of a barren hall, and Máire was inside, covered with dust, suspended from thousands of pieces of fishing line. Her hair had cobwebs in it.

“RELEASE ME.”

Or should I spend my effort on The Coffin's Occupant instead?

An Experiment/Án Ekspirément

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 17:02:59 GMT

Aþor’z Not:

Ðés áktcuəli éz Iñgléx. This actually is English.

Many years ago, when I was in highschool, I realized how convoluted spelling in English is. At the time, I was starting my linguistic studies, and fell in love with the idea of the letters on the page actually standing for the sounds in the language. So, I made a new English alphabet, with 36 letters. Eventually, I translated this alphabet onto the keyboard. For a lark, I transcribed a Mary Sue parody I wrote a while back into this new alphabet. So, here it is.

This may look like a foreign language at first, but sound it out, and it will make sense. The original: “The Tenth Wraith.”

Of course, I am from the USA (Montana), and I might pronounce certain words differently from you. This is the downfall of a completely phonetic writing system.

To make this a little easier, I listed the alphabet with comparison words for quick reference.
A/a-Father, Octopus
Á/á-bat
Ä/ä-ray
B/b-bed
C/c-church
D/d-dream
E/e-bet
É/é-bit
Ə/ə-but
F/f-fun
G/g-gate
H/h-harness
I/i-happy
Ï/ï-eye
J/j-jump
K/k-cat
L/l-limp
M/m-mom
N/n-never
Ñ/ñ-sing
O/o-oat
Ö/ö-joy
P/p-packet
R/r-ravine
S/s-sorry
T/t-take
Ð/ð-clothing
Þ/þ-nothing
U/u-book
Ú/ú-music
Ü/ü-out
V/v-very
W/w-worry
X/x-sham
Y/y-yet
Z/z-zoo

Énjö!

Səməri: Ä Meri Su hops tu jön ðə kəmpáni əv ðə Wən Riñ tu fəlfél hər prafesïzd destáni. When xi kácez əp wíþ Frodo ánd ðə Wən Riñ an Weðərtap, xi gets whət xi disərvz.

Ðə Tenþ Räþ

Ádelïd, or Ádi, wəz ä trájék keráktər. Bət frst, xi wəz biutefəl. Xi hád ä pərfekt kəmpleksxən ðát xi ləvd tu ádmïr én ði onli miror én al əv Bri. Ánd hər her, dark brün, senxual riñlets ðát dánsd əpan hər xoldrz wéþ ðə slïtest əv muvz. Ánd hər ïz! Lïk pərpəl juelz əv ðə Noldor səm hád sed. Ánd əv kors, xi hád ðə ablégetori kərvz én al ðə rït pläsez. Hər perents wər kéld én ə méstiriəs ánd rándəm ork räd, ánd jəst áz méstiriəsli ánd rándəmli ðe orks hád let hər lév. Səmþiñ əbüt fəlféliñ hər destáni. Nü, áz xi kráxd þru ði əndərbrəx én pərsut əv Strïdər ánd ðə habéts, xi nu hər destáni. Ét wez ðə Wən Riñ.

Xi hád sin ét én ə habét’s hánd áz xi sərvd kəstəmərz én ðə Pránsiñ Poni. Ét wəz so xïni, so pərfekt, ánd ét spok tu hər. Rimembəriñ ðe Wen Riñ’z wərdz, xi kwéknd hər päs. Ðä, ðoz por, əgli habéts ánd ðát sméli ränjər, nided hər.

Ðə buxez grábd át hər her ánd fäs ánd snágd hər kút ütfét ðát xi hád cozen jəst for hər destáni. Ét hád yardz ánd yárdz əv deləkət matiriəl, ánd ét mäd hər luk Elven fer when sin át jəst ðə rït äñgəl. Ðə brámbəlz hád no mərsi, ánd ðə dres tor tu xredz an ðə þornz ánd brámbəlz əv ðə wïld, bət nən əf ðés mátərd, Ádi nu. Iven hər prfekt kəmpleksxən dédn’t mátər. Xi hád tu get tu ðoz habéts. Xi hád tu get tu ðát riñ.

Nït wəz faliñ. Xi wəz berli ə xádo əv ðə biuti ðát rán frəm Bri ərliər. Hər dres wəz nəþiñ bət mədi rágz, kəts ánd skräps kəvrd hər fäs, armz, ánd legz. Hər her hád énəf twégz én ét tu fúl ə banfïr. Ét wəz ðen, when xi almost forgat wï xi hád cəm al ðés wä, ðát xi sa ðə dánsiñ lït an ðə héltap. Ə kámpfïr! Xi kud si ðə létəl habéts, so tïni ánd wərþles, küəriñ əgenst grät blák fégərs. Xi pət én ə fïnəl bərst əv spid.

Jəst áz xi käm skrámbliñ əp ðə hél, wən əv ðə grät blák fégərs käm frəm nowher ánd stábd hər hart wéþ ə smál dágər. Xi stəmbəld, sərprïzd. “Bət, bət,” xi wäld, “ðə Riñ told mi ét wud mák mi itərnáli biutefəl! Ðát ét wud fəlfél mï gloriəs destáni!”

“Ét ház fəlféld yor gloriəs destáni,” whéspərd ðə xádos.

Ðə xádo-men bikäm klir én hər sït áz darknes féld hər trájék sol. Ðä wor krünz, ánd réc juelri kəvərd ðer floiñ kloks. Ë habét krïd üt, “O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!” Ðə wərdz stəng, ánd xi stəmbəld əwä frəm ðə brït fïr ánd ðə näm əv ðə Valië. Ivél kansumd hər badi, liviñ onli ə xádo ánd hər ləst for ðə Wən Riñ.

“Wik, ləstfəl mäden, yu ar nü wən əv əs!”

Wouldn't English have been easier to learn if it was phonetic? O, ï kán drim.

GAFF's coming back!

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 05:48:06 GMT

http://community.livejournal.com/godawful_fanfic/2784.html

WAAAHOOOOO!

I recomend

Thu, 14 Jun 2007 21:04:23 GMT

I found a great Ghost in the Shell fanfic! http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2788282/1/

AND I'm looking for people would want word to get around that they're beta reading. I'm making a new section on my website for people searching for beta readers. If you would like to be a beta listed on my website, please fill out the following form.

Name:
E-mail:
Amount of Canon Consumed (Tolkien Books you have read):
Beta Reading Strengths:
Beta Reading Genre and Rating Preferences:
Availability:

Garo 'lass!

Starving College Student

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 04:28:33 GMT

It's official. I'm broke.

This sucks.

But I got an A on my first French exam.

I GOT IT!

Sat, 19 May 2007 03:03:01 GMT

Actually, I've got two things: one is The Children of Húrin, and the other is my own domain!

http://www.realelvish.net/

I received a 10 dollar donation that allowed me to set up the domain. I've been fiddling with it for a few days, and I think I've got it working. Try it out, and let me know if it works!

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Sat, 12 May 2007 06:28:14 GMT

Hello all!

Finals are over! I have no idea how I did on them, and won’t know for a while. I return to school in a week. I’m taking two intense summer French classes, the closest thing to spending the summer in France I can afford. So, for this short week I will be updating things as much as possible.

I also got Vinyar Tengwar 1-46. (YEAHOO!) Dreamingfifi shall be a more informed translator now.

Now, the updates.

Meet Ederchil! He’s the new Adûnaic translator on the website. Sometime in the coming months, expect to see an Adûnaic namelist appear!

The Sindarin Phrase Book has been updated! I only did minor corrections, but there was a lot of them.
Sindarin Phrase Book

All of the Sindarin Namelists have been cleaned up!
Sindarin Namelist
Exilic-Sindarin Namelist
Doriathrin Namelist
Gondorian-Sindarin Namelist
Woodelven Namelist

I’ve set up arrangements to get a domain name. If you would like to see a domain name, please donate!
Why Donate?

There’s a new poll up!
Pollbooth

dreamingfifi

Random Sindarin Quote:
“Edraith anin ialril; edraith anin ardhon.”
“Save the cheerleader; save the world.” -Heroes

Indian Dream

Sat, 05 May 2007 19:30:58 GMT

I've got a new story to show off! This one started out as a prequel to The Coffin's Occupant, but it quickly took a new shape and abandoned its connection almost completely. So, forget Alex for a moment, and wallow in the horror of an insane English businessman in 1843.

WARNING: This story is about a serial killer, from the serial killer's point of view. It is creepy and graphic. So much that it creeped me out, just being able to come up with something like this. If horror stories aren't your sort of thing, by all means, please don't read it.

Indian Dream

Indian heat pools inside the courtroom, and the old man sweats visible streams from under his wig. This courtroom has no women in it. They were emptied out, for men must protect the fairer sex from horrors like these presented this day.

The man who sits in the defendant’s seat is dressed well, a gentleman. His back is straight as a dancer’s and he still has his youthful vigor, though his hair whitens at his temples. All those who know his crimes shudder when his gaze touches their clammy skin. His glance alone makes them feel as though they are choking under his grasp. This is a man who has soiled the human race.

The judge scowls down at the gentleman and hisses, “Marcus Branbury, how dost thou plea?”

“I don’t deny any crime accused of me this day,” the gentleman begins, basking the people’s fear. “However, I wonder if I am to blame. India did this.”

All over the court, people leap to their feet. “What do you mean?” a young man, blushing in the heat shouts.

“India’s demons stole my soul. Every woman, man, and boy I freed,” he pauses to make a strangling motion with his hands, “was captive of those demons. I could see the unholy evidence on their skin! Reptile scales were concealed on every person I freed, and I loved them all so. I had no choice but to save them.”

The judge shakes his head. “Are you aware that no evidence of scales were found on any person you murdered?”

“That is because I freed them from the demon’s grasp!”

“And your wife?” the young man yells. “You murdered her before you ever came to India!”

“The poor beauty. She began moaning of illness from the rocking of the boat and would not be silent! I saw the scales on her lips when we spoke our farewells to merry England. So uncharacteristic was her weeping, I knew she must be possessed. When the boat swayed, she would not give herself to me. She was the first person I saved.”

“Monster!” the young man screamed.

“Dare you call me a monster? I see them clearly on your skin, right above the brow: two green scales, mere glints in the light from where I sit.”

“Silence in the court! Mr. Branbury, what was the reason that you came to India?”

“I managed the shipping of teak furnishings for the Clockwood Company. They required a new businessman in India. The work was dull, at best. Then I discovered a beautiful servant woman named Lydia, cleaning my room. I wrapped her in my embrace; her breasts were so soft, like fresh picked blossoms. She cried out; she rejected me with the same eyes that my wife had. Then I discovered a small, sparkling scale on her left breast. Her tongue turned purple in her mouth when I freed her.

“Then there was the scarlet woman who laughed at me; I never learned her name. She was not a woman, but a Hijra, a castrated male prostitute. She gave me the curtesty of warning me before I touched her, and made jest of my response. She was so strong, but when her blood flowed on my hands, I took in all of her power.

“But oh! The greatest of all the freeings was the last! The native stable boy who made my soul burn with passion that I had only ever had for women before him. I caught a glimpse of him as he tended the horses one afternoon. I insisted to the butler that I speak with him. Within a few minutes of my request, he stood before me humbly in my well-kept office, his head down and hands behind his back.

“‘I speak English.’ He spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward a moment. He was very slender, a boy not yet entirely a man. His skin and eyes recalled the color of soil, but his hair shone black as newly cooled iron and curled deliciously. They were waves like I have seen in good English children: soft and loose. I could hardly constrain my hand; my fingers desired to touch those cropped black curls, to caress them, to stroke them, to follow them to his dark scalp and pull them into place when I was done.

“‘I am Ananta. I work hard.’

“‘That’s a girl’s name,’ I laughed.

“He looked me in the eyes and quickly cast them down again. ‘You want me to have an English name?’

“My throat tightened, so I shook my head. His glance seduced me. His gaze owned me. ‘I’ll have you,’ I said.

“His chin snapped up and he smiled broadly.

“‘Report to the stable manager.’

“He scurried away behind my butler, who put up his nose at my insisting to interview the new stable boy. I think he suspected something then, for that was the last time I ever saw the butler.

“That evening, I found him in the stables, cleaning a stall. I put my hands on his shoulders and massaged the muscles. He froze and turned around, looking up because he was a few inches shorter than me. ‘What are you doing?’ His eyes opened so wide the whites glowed in the pale light.

“I pulled him toward me, but he held up his rake. ‘I must finish before night.’ His eyes were so impossibly large! The entire world could fit inside them; I felt my soul slip into their depths. The natives here have a story about a god who had the entire universe in his throat, so this must have been a similar perversion. I shook my head and hugged him to me. I could feel his body stiffen against mine; he pushed me away. ‘Sir, what are you doing?’

I tried to kiss him, but he backed into the corner.

“‘Please, Mister Branbury.’

“‘Marcus,’ I said, reaching to him. ‘My name is Marcus.’

“‘Marcus, please, I am not a Hijra.’

“I pretended I didn’t understand him, letting him explain, letting my soul drift farther into him.

“‘I’m not a eunuch!’ he shouted and squirmed out of my reach. Manure was on his knees. ‘My heart belongs to a woman!’

“All air was sucked from my lungs. A shearing pain in my chest exploded so fiercely that I gasped and doubled over, unable to breath. Ananta leapt forward, as if he hadn’t slain my heart a few seconds before. I collapsed, and he caught me. His hands were so gentle as he sat me down, leaned me against the wall. My skin craved his touch, even in his betrayal.

“‘Who is she?’

“Ananta muttered a bizarre Indian name that I didn’t care to catch.

“‘Would you change your mind if I said that you have my heart?’

“He shook his head and picked up the rake.

“My chest felt ready to burst open. ‘Don’t you see that I love you?’ I shouted, grabbing at his ankles. He tripped, but in mid fall twisted with unbelievable agility to land on his hands and feet. I gaped at him.

“‘Please,’ he said, wiping his grimy hands on his pants. ‘I have work to do.’ I held my hand out, and he helped me up and led me to the entrance, shaking like a wounded dove. ‘Let me be!’ he whispered Even his vulgar accent was beautiful to my ears.

“Oh! The pain in my chest, burnt as though hell itself had seeped into my veins. I found the medicine chest and opened a box of opium. Satan’s fires now intertwined with the waters of life within me, yet neither could quench the other.

“I was there when Ananta walked out of the stables. As he turned to flee, I grabbed his arm and forced him to come with me. ‘I love you,’ I explained. I said this over and over, yet still he did not appear to understand. His face contorted as though I laid a whip across his back. He fought to loosen my grip when we climbed the stairs. He pulled at his arm so hard that he lost his balance and his ankle twisted the wrong way. He was easier to drag up the stairs after that. I set him on the chair in my office to explain myself to him. Like a statue, he sat frozen; as though if I ever touched him, I would only stroke pleasureless stone. His black eyes betrayed him. They opened wide and looked right into mine.

“‘I love you,’ I said.

“‘I don’t think you do,’ he whispered, still holding me with those eyes.

“‘I can prove it.’

“Ananta’s eyebrows wrinkled. He opened his mouth to say something, but I kissed him before he had the chance. He struck me hard on the chest, his fingernails cutting through my clothes and ripping the skin. I didn’t let go of his face; I held him to me. I ran my tongue over his teeth and felt them change, felt his face change. I released him. His eyes were very big now; their pupils slits. He pulled away; I saw his scales vanishing into his skin.

“‘Marcus, you bleed,’ he said.

“My chest was sliced to ribbons. The fine clothes I had chosen for this occasion were ruined, but I no longer cared. ‘What are you?’ I whispered, trying to keep my spinning head from drifting away.

“‘I’m a servant.’

“My throat was choking me again. I had to show Ananta how I felt. I had to give him my pain. I had to make him choke on my pain! The next thing I knew his throat was in my hands. He thrashed beneath me, and I held him down with my body, no matter how reptilian he became. I held him with my body until he stopped thrashing; till his eyes, those beautiful, black voids sucking up the lamplight, gazing heavenward and didn’t hide from me.

“I knew that Ananta was dead when I let him fall from my hands that night. I had crushed his neck completely. No more blood moved through his neck where I held it. I knew I had to do something. I knew I had to rid of him. I sat beside him, pondering what to do with his lifeless husk for hours, but nothing made sense. I couldn’t think. My mind ran in endless circles, each conclusion leading to the one I had rejected before.

“In the center of the night, he woke up. The first moments of his re-awakening, I thought my mind tricked me to frighten me. Then he spoke, and his Indian accent was gone.

“‘Why did you try to kill me?’ he asked, his voice harsh and broken from my efforts. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you so badly.’

“‘I saw your fangs, your eyes, demon!’

“Ananta stared at me, shaking his head. ‘I thought a demon was an evil spirit, not a person who refuses to be another’s lover.’ His eyes lured me in again.

“‘Do not look at me!’ I shouted. ‘Give me my soul back!’

“‘I didn’t take it. I couldn’t. I’m not a demon.’ I heard him sit up, taking slow breaths.

“‘Demon,’ I answered, my hands choking the life out of him again. He couldn’t fight me, but I could feel my strength tapping out of me with this deed. I had to ingest more opium to have the strength to stand upright. This time I carried him to my room and stuffed him into my wool chest. Then I bandaged myself and went to sleep.

“That morning, the butler never came to wake me. Instead, I found Ananta sitting on top of the chest, staring at me. The window let light fall on him, and I could see clearly the damage I did the previous night. His neck was swollen half again its normal circumference and an ugly, black color. I could feel his eyes. His black irises dug into my chest, reopening my wounds. I had to cut out his eyes. He didn’t bleed as much as the Hijra did. I put them in my pocket. He wept blood and pleaded with me, asking me to give them back.

“I led him outside, and we walked the early morning streets to the water’s edge. He blubbered in Hindi the entire journey, sometimes squeezing out his throat some civilized English. We entered a small warehouse that I knew the company wasn’t using at the moment. ‘I have a wife!’ he whispered. I threw him down.

“‘I need my soul back. I need to release it,’ I explained to him.

“He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled out my penknife and opened up his neck. As the blood flooded the ground, I could feel my spirit rejoining me. It was somehow stronger with its foray into the demon’s body. I sat for hours with the dead boy, mourning him. He was so beautiful, even with blood in his curls.

“I laid him to rest the way I laid my wife to rest: carrying the broken body to the sea and letting it drift away. I kept his black eyes. They were too miraculous to depart with. The entire universe is inside them, after all.

“When I could no longer see his pitiful body on the waves, I walked home, stroking his eyes in my pockets.

“I returned to an empty household. The entire staff had fled, and in their place was a guard of white-faced soldiers. They could not understand the devastating infection that I see in this reptile land. And you!” the condemned man chokes, rubbing furiously at his neck, “The scales infect your skin, sir! I see them sure as death!”

So, other than being diabolically creepy, did you like this story?

Wahoo!

Thu, 05 Apr 2007 20:42:23 GMT

Well, I posted the first two revised chapters of An Interview With a Woodelf on ff.net, and it's getting a fantastic response! Six new reviews, five people added it to their watch list, and two people added it to their favorites list. I've never had such an explosively positive reaction to a reposted story.

So, yeah, I wrote this just to gloat. People like my story! *preens*

An Interview With a Woodelf

Sat, 31 Mar 2007 21:05:07 GMT

I'm rewriting various stories at the moment, taking a break from The Coffin's Occupant. This one is a multi-chapter fanfiction about a Woodelf named Legrist, trapped in our world. See, about 1700 years ago, he tried to find Cuiviénen, but instead, found himself stranded in a strange, hostile land of mortal men: England in the 4th century. During World War One, he made a terrible mistake, which just might lead to his death.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of anything Tolkien created. I don’t even own Legrist Pilimorion entirely. I don’t own what he is or his name. Sigh.

AN INTERVIEW WITH A WOODELF
The Tape Recorder

Roughly mid-night, a few months ago, a tape was given to me by a man seeking somewhere to spend the night. The mud was so thick on him I had the distinct impression that he had rolled in it intentionally, but my, was he fine! Really tall, broad shouldered, big hands, black hair, gentle face, and you can tell I’m single, can’t you?

I forced him into the shower and put his clothes into the wash with some de-lousing detergent. At one point he poked his nose out the door and asked for a towel. (I live in my second floor apartment alone, so I don’t keep my towel in the bathroom very often. It lives on my pillow or where ever I end up sitting while drying.) When I gave it to him, he smiled agreeably and said in a very eloquent voice, “My name is David, by the way. Thank-you.” Then he looked me in the eyes. They say you can feel it when someone looks right through you; well, he sliced through me to reveal my pitiful little soul; I just about melted onto the floor in one thousand tiny pieces. The funny thing is that I can’t even remember what color his eyes were. But I got his message: “Stop peeking through the crack in the door!”

After he was done in the bathroom, I gave him my cousin’s pajamas with my eyes politely closed. He thanked me again, and I swore that I could hear a bit of the Oxford lilt in it. He bedded down on the couch, and I hid in the corner with my computer and my Tolkien books, my writing haven. At some point, when I was having an in detail discussion about whether Balrogs could fly, I found David behind me, reading. I jumped about three feet in the air, but luckily, I didn’t scream. He tapped the screen and said, “If you were one of the most feared demons in the known universe with a very large wingspan, how could you fly in an abyss with such a narrow width?”

I probably should have been wondering how he would know what the width of the abyss was, but I wasn’t. I feared for my life.

Being uninterrupted, he continued. “You are also incorrect in this point: ‘If Balrogs (that ought to be Belryg, if you are careful about the plurals of Elven words) could fly, why didn’t the Balrog fly off of the top of Mount Caradhras?’ Perhaps the Balrog was injured in the battle with Mithrandir, and couldn’t fly as a result?”

He turned to me as though he expected me to argue back. “What do you want?” I asked, squishing myself into the far corner of my chair.

“To point out your mistake there. Belryg can fly. I know it.”

As normal, my mouth started working before my brain, and I said, “You’re a bum!”

He straightened up suddenly and looked away. I wanted to melt into a little puddle of water and evaporate into nothing. “Oh yes, I quite forgot that,” he said. “I must have frightened you. Forgive me.”

I nodded rapidly, thinking that this was the part where he told me he really was the Baltimore rapist on the run from the police.

“Can you keep a secret?” He walked over to the door, where he left his backpack. “I’m not running away from the police.”

My lungs were about to explode.

He tossed a cassette tape to me. “You’ll enjoy this, from the looks of your book collection.”

That was how my involvement began in this adventure. I don’t have much part in it at all, I just typed out the manuscripts.

[The tape is high quality, and when listening to it I could hear echoes, as though they were in a small room. I pictured it as an interrogation room; claustrophobic and so dull it sucks whatever energy you had left into its dirty beige paint. There are two voices: a young man with a really nondescript European accent, and an old man was a deep gravely voice, as though he spent too many years smoking. I’ve named him Grimvoice. He speaks in bold font.]

Please state your name.
-I am Alger Smith.

And your age, for the record.
-I am thirty-one years old.

Really? That’s odd, because your driver’s license here says that you were born in 1937. That would make you, what, sixty-one?
-That is my father’s.

Really? Your faces, weight, and height all just happen to be the same?
-Yes. These things tend to run in family.

Do you know why you’re here?
-Not entirely. I doubt that my father’s driver’s license, and a handful of parking tickets are the true reason I am here.

That accent of yours, is it Polish?
-What is this, the CIA? Why do you care?

Polish, it must be Polish. See, we have uncovered some Nazi files on a prisoner named Algar Miecz, who fits your description to the inch. Apparently this Algar Miecz was a suspected spy for rebels, who escaped their custody. They wanted him caught so badly, they even had a picture of him. Let me see your forearms.
-Why?

Why not? [A brief pause, which I assume is Alger rolling up his shirtsleeves.] Why would anyone but angsting, crying teenagers want a tattoo like that? The numbers match the prisoner number of Algar Miecz. Are you going to tell me that this is your grandfather?
-I still don’t know why you care.

[laminated papers are plopped down on the desk, probably photographs.] 1914: A British man by the name of Algar Smith served in the army, but was discharged after being shot up in 1917. 1921: an Algar Miecz applied for citizenship in Poland. 1941: He was collected by the Nazis, and vanishes for quite a while, but then, in 1955, he applies for citizenship in America as Alger Smith. 1968: he gets his first car, and driver’s license. All without aging a day.
-What are you trying to prove? That you have successfully traced my family history to the first World War?

Do you classify yourself as human?
-That is a very odd question. What do you mean?

I mean, what the hell are you?
-This is illegal, isn’t it? I want a lawyer.

No lawyers. You aren’t human, so we don’t have to treat you like one.
-Please explain, if I’m not human, what am I?

You’re immortal, and your alias, I find it interesting. Alger Smith. I did my homework. It’s a very old name. Ælfgar Smiþ, means Elfspear Smith, and to me, it looks like that was your beginnings. Tell me, do you even have parents?
-Yes. One of each. I’m not the only one in the world with the name Smith, or even with the name Alger. I think you are looking for a way around my Civil Rights. If a judge were to look at me, do you think that this person would see anything more than a crackpot’s conspiracy theories and a man with a few overdue parking tickets?

It won’t matter, because no judge will ever see this. You aren’t in a police station. We aren’t the police. You have no rights. We have spent a very long time looking for you.
-Well, congratulations. You found an immortal man trying to live among mortals quietly. Now that you have heard me admit it, are you going to leave me alone?

Not yet. We want to hear about your life. We want to know everything. Your perspective on our history is valuable to us.
-Look me in the eye, and say that again.

Your perspective on our history is valuable to us.
-You lied. Even a mortal could sense that. What do you really want? Money?

Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don’t want someone to know who you are. Think back to World War One. You told a young man you met there everything, didn’t you?
-He was interested in the song I sang for the dead. He wanted to learn my language.

That young man wrote a few books about your homeland, and they still bring his family millions of dollars each year.
-I didn’t know that would happen. Is that what you want? To write books? Copyright lawyers would be eating that fortune the second it was printed.

We don’t want to just make books. We want someone to help us make sense of the world and where it is heading.
-Not even I can tell you that! I drift downstream, like most people. I don’t intend to have an impact on anyone.

You could still help us. With your immortality, you could be a king, and you could overturn the conflicting religions with the proof of Eru!
-This is your world. I shouldn’t even be here. I refuse. No.

At least, you could open your life to us.
-No. I want to leave. I look into your soul, and I see greed. I’m not an angel, as you like to picture me, but I can see that you want something… physical from me. What would happen to me after you have my life’s story and political point of view?

That is n-
[At this point, the young man started screaming, so loud and high-pitched that the tape couldn’t record it, so there is nothing but loud static for a while, then the sound of shattering glass. Then Alger’s breathless voice whispers, “Namárië!” into its microphone, and the tape ends.]

Garo 'lass!

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 18:18:51 GMT

Howdy all!

I was so busy with midterms and influenza that I didn’t do any updates. Now that it is Spring Break, I’m updating and cleaning things up like crazy.

All of the Sindarin Name lists are cleaned up!
Doriathrin Names
Woodelven Names
Sindarin Names
Gondorian-Sindarin Names

A new section is begun: Time! It has calendars and will have, at some point in the future, timelines.
Time
-Calendars of Arda
-Comparative Calendars of Arda

dreamingfifi

Random Sindarin Quote:
I vellas ardh midh rych în.
The power of a kingdom rests in its horses. – Silk Road: Monks, Warriors & Merchants

No longer a teenager!

Thu, 08 Mar 2007 09:05:58 GMT

Aur-onnad veren enni!
Aur-onnad veren enni!
Aur-onnad veren anim dreamingfifi...
Aur-onnad veren enni!

Yes! At last I can say, "Good-bye, angsty teenager! I am twenty years old now!"

I now consider myself adult. Now I can be miserable without the teenage connotation.

So, what do I want for my birthday? Vinyar Tengwar and Parma Eldalambarion. Mommy and Daddy to rock me to sleep because I'm sick. I wouldn't mind a few extra dollars either.

Ugh and Love

Sun, 04 Mar 2007 18:45:46 GMT

Sorry that I haven't been responding to e-mails and comments lately; I'm pretty darn sick. I went to the doctor, and the doctor said, "Well, it's probably influenza, but these tests don't tell us anything for sure."

And I had to get blood drawn. Gee, thanks. Whatever it is, it's trying to turn into bronchitis now. So, I stay in bed, and my boyfriend babysits me.

You know what? I really love him. He's taken care of me the past few days with a truly loving touch. He's been holding off his life so he can sit next to me and rub my back while I hack up my lungs. He holds my heart gently, so that it can continue beating on its own.

Well, back to bed. I'm really thankful to my parents for giving me this foam pad for my bed.

Yes, that's it. Think positive, Fiona!