Wrighter's Bloc

Writing Prompt! gasp

Thu, 04 Oct 2007 04:37:49 GMT

Writing Prompt: A woman with a meat lasagna and a large bottle of Jim Bean.

New Community

Mon, 13 Jun 2005 00:58:31 GMT

Introducing A new community, thought up by myself and ohsoawesome_08 the basic idea is, if movies, video games and TV shows can have soundtracks why not books? We also decided to extend it to fanfic, because fic IS the written word.

So, if you have a song, playlist, album, artist or diddy that reminds you of a certain book or fanfic, if you want to see what others recommend, or if you just want some new music, join! bibliotrack

x-posted everywhere (mods, delete if not allowed)

EDIT: Link fixed!

Sorry.

Tue, 22 Feb 2005 07:45:42 GMT

Sorry to do this, I know advertising for other communities is horrible. I'll only do this once, I swear.

I just created a community called thefirstline.

It has the same premise as the challenge I posted. I don't know if anyone tried it, and just didn't post. Just thought I'd throw it out there.

Mel })i({

Challenge.

Tue, 22 Feb 2005 07:08:01 GMT

Since I was the one that posted the challenge to begin with, I figured I should post this thing. I wrote it up a while ago, but it's so ridiculous, I was scared to post it. Whatever. It was fun.

I was lost. I had managed to get myself lost in the largest More For Less I had ever had the misfortune of entering. More For Less is like WalMart, except… worse. Once I heard that a cockroach the size of a barn cat swallowed a customer whole.

Somehow I had become separated from my best friend, Marcy. I wasn’t quite sure how it happened. I wasn’t even entirely sure how she had the power to make me walk into one of the places I hated most in the world. Yet, there I was, lost in a More For Less with nothing more than a pack of gum in my pocket.

Stupidly, I had believed Marcy when she said, “It’ll just be a minute.” I believed her and left my purse in her car. Along with my cell phone.

She had wanted to make a quick run to that horrible place to run a few quick errands. I had no idea what those errands were, however, so I had no idea how I would find her. I suppose it was my fault for ending up in that particular predicament. Had I just stayed in my bathrobe, feet propped up on the table, pint of ice cream in my lap -- instead of agreeing to go with her -- things would have been better. And, if I didn’t have such an affinity for shiny objects, I’d have still known where she was.

Marcy, being the speed-walker that she is, had flown through the hand-print stained glass doors of the store. It was quite a struggle to keep up with her determined-to-get-somewhere-quickly strides. We had passed by a display case full of watches, rings and bracelets, I let out an “Oh, pretty” and that was that. Marcy was gone -- on her mission. I was stuck with Ruben, one of More For Less’ employees, a rather perky sixty-year-old man who, after not much conversation, told me that he had just had his gallbladder removed. When he had offered to show me the scar, I panicked a little and scurried away, even though there was a lovely ring I had wanted to purchase.

After I got over the initial panic of being lost in a giant store, my worse childhood nightmare come true, I started wandering down every aisle and examining every section. I went through Personal Care, Electronics, Maternity, Toys, Athletic Equipment, Tools, Sportswear, Furniture, the Photo Department. I didn’t go anywhere near the grocery area, however. The thought of buying, let alone looking at, produce sold at More For Less gave me the heebie-jeebies. Just seems like something someone shouldn’t do, like buying life insurance out of the back of someone’s car.

Eventually, after passing through every section twice, I decided that Marcy had been kidnapped, or she had abandoned me. The sheer amount of people swarming the store, like flies on rotting meat, were starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I wandered aimlessly until I found myself in the furniture section again. There was a plump, blue recliner waiting for me. I sat down, trying to ignore that the armrests were stained with a dark, hard mystery substance.

“Comfy, ain’t it?” I heard.

I hadn’t been sitting there for long. I looked up and saw another one of the More For Less employees. “Yeah,” I said, hoping the short, terse response would make her realize I didn’t feel chatty.

“You got blue furniture at home, too?”

“What?” I asked, sighing in annoyance.

“To match that chair you’ve taken such a liking to. Would be mighty sad if you hauled that home and it didn’t match your other furniture.”

She was about my age, twenty-two. Her hair was bleached blonde and she had a distant look in her eye -- like maybe not all the lights were on upstairs.

“I’m just waiting for someone.”

“Then you can’t sit there,” she said. She threw in a small smile.

I glared at her for a few minutes before saying, “Does it bother you that you’ve sold your soul to the Devil by working here?”

She pursed her lips into a hard, straight line. “Gotta pay the bills.”

“Huh.”

She walked away after that. I was able to enjoy one of my favorite past-times, people watching, for all of ten minutes before Miss Lights Out showed up again. This time she had company.

“What seems to be the problem?” the man asked. He had a very impressive beer belly and was sporting a rather attractive comb-over.

“Nothing,” I said sweetly. “I was just testing out this chair, trying to get a feel for it, ya know? And then she comes along and tells me I can’t sit here anymore.”

“Is this true, Frenchie?” Comb Over asked.

“No,” Lights Out replied, quite miffed.

“Yes you did,” I replied in a sing-song voice. “How can I know if this chair will look perfect in my living room if I can’t get a feel for it?”

“She does have a point, Frenchie,” Comb Over said. “And, as you know, Rule Eighteen in Section Twelve clearly states that a customer can sit in or on any piece of furniture for a maximum of thirty minutes if it will help them decide if that piece is suitable for their needs.”

My mouth was hanging open. “You’re kidding!”

“Oh, no,” Comb Over said, seeming to be rather proud of the fine establishment he worked in. “We have very strict rules around here. Frenchie knows better.” He turned to the blonde. “Why don’t you go over and work in the produce section for a while?”

“There are bugs over there!”

Comb Over’s eyes bulged. “Ut!” He shook his head furiously. “Ohnay ockingta abouta othey ugsbay!” he whispered harshly.

“Wha?” Lights Out asked.

“You’re not supposed to mention the bugs,” I said. “You might scare away the customers.”

“Oh! Why didn’t you just say that, Billy? My name might be Frenchie, but that don’t mean I actually speak French,” Lights Out stated.

Comb Over looked pained as he watched Lights Out walk away. “I’m terribly sorry about that -- she’s a little…”

“Slow?”

“New.” Comb Over smiled. “Maybe if we can keep that… bug… thing between us, I can get you a discount on that chair.”

“I need to feel it out some more.”

“Oh, of course. Of course,” Comb Over said. “Take your time. I’ll be right over there -- just call me if you need me.”

After deciding that my life would be over if I decided that I actually needed Comb Over, I got up from my stained chair and started to roam around again. I am now convinced that only the weirdest people shop at More For Less. And yes, I realize that I just insulted my best friend.

Since I was bored out of my mind, and a little scared, I decided to go to the bathroom. Why? Why not. Sometimes, if I’m early for a meeting or an appointment with my cat’s shrink, I’ll simply go into a stall and stand there, passing the time. I’ll even flush the toilet simply because I don’t want anyone to think I’m just hanging out in a public restroom to pass the time. So, there I was, standing in a stall, picking away at my chipping nail polish, when I heard someone talking in the stall next to me.

“Come out of there!”

I assumed she was on the phone.

“Get out of there now, Rodney!”

Then I heard splashing. Now, with my very active imagination, I started to conjure up all kinds of images of what could possibly be splashing in the ceramic bowl. I peered under the wall of my stall, just enough to see that the woman next to me was on her knees, facing the toilet. So, I had to wonder, was she talking to herself and playing in the toilet? Or was there something alive, named Rodney, having a good ol’ time in the undoubtedly contaminated water?

“RODNEY!”

That caused me to jump and whack my head on the clunky, plastic toilet paper rack. It also caused my curiosity to spin out of control. I’m convinced my curiosity will be the death of me one day.

“You okay?” I asked, knocking on the stall’s wall and rubbing my head.

“No! Rodney’s in the john!” she yelped back.

“Err… do you want help?”

“Yes! I’d be wantin’ some help!”

I stepped out of my stall, after flushing the toilet and washing my hands -- so the woman wouldn’t think I was crazy -- and stood outside the woman’s stall. It felt like I did a few months prior, when I let my co-worker set me up on a blind date. I met him at his apartment, which, sadly enough, looked much like a public bathroom.

I knocked on her stall, feeling like more of an idiot than usual, and waited for her to open the door.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Rodney’s always giving me such a hard time.” The woman was rather large, with a mustache thicker than the one my Uncle Greg has. It’s always so hard to talk to a woman who looks like she has a caterpillar living on her upper lip. She smiled and I saw that she was missing her four front teeth. “Rodney’s in the can. Could you just fish him out? Don’t worry -- the water’s clean. I flushed already and I only went number one.”

I grimaced and waited for her to dislodge herself from the stall. I then stood there, staring at the bowl, wondering if this was the day my curiosity was going to bite me in the ass. I didn’t hear Rodney splashing anymore, and feared I’d have to fish a dead creature out of the bowl. I inched closer, as slowly as possible, just incase the thing was alive and poisonous.

Splash! Hiss!

“AH!” I screamed, backing up and slamming into the woman’s stomach. I bounced back, looked at her and screamed again. I looked back at the toilet and saw Rodeny’s sopping wet rat body appear on the toilet seat, on his hind legs waving his evil rat arms in the air, trying to assess the best way to rip out my jugular.

I ran as fast as I could, out of the bathroom and through Sports Equipment. Then I slammed into Marcy. “Where have you been? I… there was a… how could you? I… I HATE YOU!”

Marcy laughed. “Sorry I took so long.”

“I don’t care to hear anything you have to tell me. We have to go now. Never make me come back here again.”

We left the store, me leading this time. I refused to talk to Marcy until we were in the car, out of the More For Less parking lot and at least halfway to my apartment. I tried to erase the images of Rodney, the rat the size of Cuba, waving his evil arms at me.

I took in a deep breath and asked, “What the hell took you so long, anyway?”

Marcy shrugged. “I was filling out an application.”

I’m not quite sure I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life.

Mel })i({

Mon, 21 Feb 2005 05:16:00 GMT

Woohoo! I finally got my internet up and working so that I could post my story thing for bufflie's challenge. So yes... here is my challenge story for the sentence: "I was lost."

I was lost. And the fairy tale ending that I was promised I thought was far, far away by then. I had just walked out on one of the worst dates that I had had in, well, ever, and I couldn’t seem to find my way back to my apartment. I had lived in this city my whole life, and for some reason, I couldn’t figure out where I was. Maybe it was the fact that the man who was my blind date happened to have made me want to slit my throat right there in front of him while he was poking at his salad and telling me all about his horrible dating life. I had to admit, though, that before he opened his mouth, I probably would have fallen for him, but then out came the most depressing babble that I had ever heard. What is it with people who think that others want to sit and listen to them complain about how many bad relationships they had? I don’t want to sit and listen to that. Especially when I was forced to be there because my best friend thought that I needed help with my dating life. Okay, so I didn’t have such good luck with relationships, either, but I sure as hell didn’t go on dates and make that my priority of conversation.

As I finally reached Hawthorne and was able to hail a cab, I knew where I was. Being lost in the city you knew better than the back of your hand was embarrassing, and rather sad. I was just relieved that there was no one around or with me who would have known that I was lost. I had convinced myself that I was to never do anything like that again, and then my friend begged me to do it, and I gave in. That was the last straw. From then on I was going to handle my own love life and my own dating life.

Just as I got into the cab, a man got in as well but from the opposite side. “Excuse me, sir. I think you have the wrong idea here. I had this cab first,” I said. I didn’t feel like being a perfect angel, but I wasn’t completely rude about it either.

“I’m sorry. This is the last cab around, and I need to get home before my wife gets upset,” he replied.

“You’re married?” I couldn’t help but ask such a stupid and time wasting question. He was rather attractive, and fairly familiar looking, and to hear that he was married was sort of upsetting.

“Well, no, actually. I’m going through a divorce. She’s technically still my wife, but she won’t be for long. Is there a way that we could share this cab? I really need to get back to my place so she can take her stuff,” he said.

“Sure,” I simply agreed. “How old are you?” I asked. He looked like he had to have been around my age, and I wondered why, if he was that young, would he be getting divorced so soon.

“Twenty-five. And if you’re wondering why we’re divorcing so soon, well, it just didn’t work out the way we planned.”

“You read my mind,” I replied. “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“We got married too soon. We’d known each other for only a few months, and then once we got married it all just went down hill. Things were okay for a while, and then we were basically just lying to each other and ourselves about how we felt. So, the decision was mutual that we get a divorce.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do. You can’t always say you’re sorry, you know. Not if you didn’t do anything.”

“Okay,” I sort of hesitated after that. About to apologize again and then catching myself, I said, “I’ll remember that.”

“Good,” he said as a smile crept across his face. And that smile was what helped me figure out who he was. I went to high school with him, but in high school, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he would have spoken one word to me. He was the guy who laughed at me and my friends for being smart and for not dressing as cool as the people he hung out with did. He wasn’t the star football player or anything, but he was, of course dating the head cheerleader and though he was the cutest guy at my high school, he was also the rudest. I could never figure out, though, whether or not it was because he was completely and utterly whipped by his girlfriend. But as I sat in the cab with him, I wondered if he had grown out of that. It had been about seven years since we had graduated, so maybe he was different. Or maybe he just didn’t recognize me. That may have been it. I know that people can change, but he just never seemed to be one of those people.

I wanted so badly to ask him his name, but I just couldn’t bring myself to uttering those few words. But it had to have been him. As my mind and mouth struggled with each other, we sat in silence in the cab until I said four simple words, “This is my place.” As the cab stopped, I looked over at him, and he looked hesitant, as if there were a few things on his mind that he wanted to get out. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” And I got out of the cab.

“Wait,” I heard from the other side of the vehicle as I looked up and saw him getting out of the cab as well. He ran over to me and stopped, almost short of breath.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Molly? Molly Adams?” he asked me.

He recognized me, and he remembered my name. All I could say, but with a smile, was, “I go by Maggie, now.”

“So it’s you. It’s really you,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s really me. Why?” I had to know why he wanted to know that it was me so badly.

“Because I’ve for so long regretted not doing this.” And the moment after those words escaped his mouth, his lips were softly placed on mine.

I pulled back and asked, “What was that for?”

“Because, for so long, no matter how badly I teased you in school, I loved you as well.”

“You what?”

“I fell in love with you freshman year, but you wouldn’t even speak to me, so I went with Annalise for so many years.”

“Why did you tease me so badly?” I said as I held back a tear. I didn’t want to start crying, but I couldn’t help it.

“I don’t know. I think it was just because…,” and he stopped as the cab driver behind him started honking. He walked over to the cab’s passenger window and gave the driver money. The cab drove away as he came back toward me. “I didn’t know what to do to hide the fact that I was hurt that you never said one word to me ever, so I figured that…”

“That if I hurt too, then you would feel better?” I asked.

“Yeah, except that it still hurt me too, so I kept doing it because I couldn’t face you. And then we graduated, went to college, and I never saw you again. But I’ve loved you for, what, eleven years? And you’ve never left my mind. And I’m sorry to have brought this on you, but…”

“David,” I cut in, “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just shut up,” I said, and as a look of disappointment swept over his face, I placed my lips on his and became entranced in his kiss.

And just like that, I fell in love. I didn’t have to go on a blind date to find it. All I had to do was get into a cab, and fate brought the one person I never would have imagined into my life. Fate does some interesting things, but I was so glad that it did that one thing, otherwise, I never would have found the love of my life, and the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

Help?

Thu, 27 Jan 2005 20:20:54 GMT

This is part of a Mary Sue parody I'm writing. It's a Harry Potter, Sailor Moon and Lord of the Rings crossover, intended to be set over 1991-1997, although that looks to make it horrendously long. *grimaces*
Anyway. I'd like some thoughts on this part, especially the last scene, because I'm not quite happy with it.

Snape tried not to twitch as another strange girl was revealed to have his family name. It was a little difficult, though, when the hat shouted, “Slytherin!” and she looked up to the table he was seated at to give him a grin to stop the muscle in his cheek from twitching.

Sitting next to him, Professor Quirrel was nearly as bad. Possibly more so, since some of the other members of staff had noticed. Given that none of the girls (or boys) had been revealed to be his relatives, Snape couldn’t understand the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s twitching.

The next girl’s house was called out (“GRYFFINDOR!”) and she took the hat off and glared at Snape before jogging off to the Gryffindor table.

Although he glared at the Gryffindor table externally, internally Snape smiled. At least one of them hated him as much as he hated her. This was more the world as he knew it.

The next one and the one after her appeared to have no such hatred of him, and he wondered what he had done to deserve these… creatures.

Oh yes. That.

He rubbed the upper part of his left arm absently, frowning at the House tables. He didn’t remember the love potion being strong enough to be able to convince him, Severus Snape, Master of the Sixty-Eight Ways of Chasing Away Women, to produce this many children.

Snape didn’t believe in deities, but had he done so, he would have considered that the Goddess of Luck had made a point of turning her back on him.

After all the students had been Sorted and the hat taken away, the house tables had an unusually high number of students seated around them- apart from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. The faces of those students displayed an interesting variety of emotions, from relief to confusion to slight jealousy and, in one case, thrilled joy. The students around her had edged away, with the result that she was happily unhindered in her search for the perfect drumstick.

At the teacher’s table, Dumbledore sighed. With all those students, he doubted Hogwarts would experience anything resembling normality. It had looked to be such a promising year, too, before they’d arrived.

“I must admit, I didn’t think Sybil’s charms were really going to work,” McGonagall murmured. “Still, perhaps we’ll be fortunate and lessons won’t be disrupted too much.”

“Unlikely,” Snape said, scowling at one particularly happy student who shared his last name and was chatting amicably with Harry. “My classes will undoubtedly be lucky to learn anything this year, between these and their usual lack of either intelligence or retention.”

“I think you’re being a little harsh,” Professor Sinistra said, reaching for the plate of roast beef. “They can’t really be that bad, can they?”

“You’ll see,” McGonagall said grimly. “Pass the potatoes, will you?”

–––

The class traipsed up to the West Tower of the castle, carrying telescopes and chatting among themselves.

“Quiet, quiet!” Professor Sinistra called, clapping her hands together. “This is a very serious subject, and you will not get far if you insist on talking all the time!” She pulled out a ring which carried several keys, picked the one for the door of the West Tower and hesitated, seeing that the door was slightly ajar.

Perhaps Filch had come up earlier and forgotten to lock the door after him, but she doubted that. Filch was very particular about locking doors.

Somewhat nervously, she pushed the door open. The class followed, some still talking.

Upon hearing the door creaking as it opened, the two students who had come up to the West Tower turned to face it, lipstick smeared on the boy’s face. It wasn’t even a nice hue of lipstick, and it certainly didn’t go well with the girl’s fluro blue mascara.

Sinistra’s face turned red. “Out!” she shouted at the two. “I have a class in here now! Ten points from both your houses!” she added as the two scurried past, turning to watch them.

About halfway down the flight of stairs, though, the girl turned around and stuck out her tongue. The red of Sinistra’s face turned darker. “Twenty points from your house, girl!”

Once in the room, she stopped dead, having seen what had been missing from the two students- several pieces of attire. There was one piece she wouldn’t even have thought of calling attire.

One of the students peered at that piece curiously. “What’s that supposed to be?” he asked. “An artistic representation of chains? Pretty poor representation, even if it’s meant to be abstract art. I mean-” here he picked it up, touching as little as possible- “those lacy roses, you wouldn’t find anything like that growing on chains.”

Sinistra shook with fury. This was her area, how dared they desecrate it?

“Professor?” another of the students said.

Remembering where she was, Sinistra shook her head slowly. She had to focus. Who knew what the students might get up to, otherwise?

“Defiling my area,” she muttered, glaring at where the two students had been.

In case anyone is bored :)

Wed, 26 Jan 2005 06:05:32 GMT

Hi, all. I just wanted to post something on here since it seemed to have up and died. I hope you don't mind kippurbird, but I wanted to post a little challenge.

This isn't my own original idea... but there is a magazine called The First Line (website: www.thefirstline.com) where all short stories for that one issue have to start with the same first line. Then, since you have a group of people from all walks of life with different interests, you get stories that go in all kinds of directions.

Anyway... I wanted to just throw a sentence out there, and then you guys (if you feel so inclined to participate) can just post your stories and we can marvel at everyone's wonderful imaginations. Wonderful idea, yes?

So the sentence is: I was lost.

I hope someone participates. And it really is a fun challenge. I've already attempted two and a half.

And... to keep the same rules as the magazine/site, it should range between 300 and 3000 words, no more no less.

Mel })i({

Supernatural abilities...

Tue, 11 Jan 2005 21:17:03 GMT

I am about to write a story, and it came to me, that, I only know a few of the true supernatural abilities. Those being telekinesis, telepathy and teleportation. What else is there?

Thanks,
HtW

Help Wanted!

Sun, 02 Jan 2005 14:40:46 GMT

I've recently begun work on a Draco centric fanfiction. I was playing with the idea that, whilst he may not be entirely redeemable, certain circumstances would probably cause him to turn away from being a Death Eater.

The idea kind of grew into it's own plot. I haven't finished the first chapter yet (i'm a bit stuck on how to end it), but i was wondering if, nevertheless, any of you wanted to give an opinion on the story so far. I am particularly interested in how my characterisation of Draco himself is.

Title: Through a Mirror Clear
Summary: When his rivalry with Harry Potter finally comes to head, Draco Malfoy attempts to cast a spell that has been banned from use for over six hundred years. Now, he must deal with the dreadful consequences of his actions.

The throng of people inside the busy station was beginning to make him feel very dizzy. They were seemingly unrelenting forces that rudely pushed, shoved, prodded and poked. He felt hemmed in, but then he had never been particularly found of crowds. Having so many unwelcome people in and around his personal space just set him on edge.

A hand clasped the blond teenagers’ shoulder, grasping a little too hard for his liking, but he made no comment on it. He doubted his mother’s reaction would be a pleasant sight.

“Draco?” She asked. A seemingly simple query, but it held more to it then the casual observer could know. There was very little that was simple anymore.

“I’m fine. Where were you?” He demanded. Narcissa’s mouth creased into the thinnest of lines, but she held back a retort. Scenes such as this had been a repeated event all summer, but there was a great difference between arguing behind the closed doors of your home and arguing in public. To the Malfoys, it was all a matter of how you presented yourself. How others judged you.

Not that the opinions of others in regards to us could sink any lower as it is, he thought, with an angry clench of his jaw. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t in prison any longer - actually, neither he nor his mother was entirely sure where he was - but it didn’t matter. Their name was tarnished, soiled, and nothing could repair that level of damage. Father could not simply slip the authorities a ‘donation’ and have it all be forgotten, as he had done in the past.

No, nothing was simple anymore.

The Malfoys reached the barrier that led to Platform 9 ¾. His mother stopped and looked at her only child for long while. There had been a lot of awkward little moments such as this, ever since her son had returned home for the holidays. Narcissa had never really discussed anything that had happened over the year, she had just not known how to broach the subject without causing a fight or having her son storm off in a rage.

Watching the wizarding families walk past, chatting happily (some throwing the pair of them dark looks that they thought she would not notice), she felt a horrible pang. Narcissa missed Lucius dreadfully, but she understood the reason for the lack of contact. It was very likely their mansion was being watched, and it wouldn’t do for him to be caught again.

She didn’t think she could handle that kind of pain a second time.

“Aren’t you coming through?” Draco enquired in his usual bored drawl.

“Er, no. I thought maybe you’d find it embarrassing to have you mother saying goodbye to you on the platform.”

That, he thought, must surely be the weakest excuse in the known world.

Narcissa would rather invent an appallingly bad lie than be open about the real reason for her reluctance – that she did not wish to endure any more judging glares than she already endured.

Whereas I must suffer alone.

He was being rather too harsh on her and he knew it. If he had had any choice in the matter, Draco would quite happily have hid away on a remote island and stayed put for the rest of his life. But as it was, he did not have a choice.

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the handle of the trolley with his trunk on it and turned to face his mother.

“Well, goodbye then.”

She smiled. “Godspeed,” she murmured. An old joke between them. It raised the first real smile from Draco in a long time.

“Yes, you to.”

Then he turned and walked swiftly through the barrier.

For the first time since he had begun Hogwarts, he desired nothing more than to turn around and walk back through again, back to the Muggle station. Where no one knew his name or what his father was.

*

It took Draco a little while to locate those two idiots he called his friends. It wasn’t an easy task, trying to walk up a train carriage when you were tripping over first years every other step.

“There you are,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle as he pulled open the sliding door of the compartment they had chosen. They were not alone, he noted. Sitting in a corner, holding a conversation in an undertone was a dumpy girl with thick glasses and an undersized boy with large eyes, which gave him a truly sickening angelic look. Draco recognised them as fellow Slytherins in the same year, but at that moment their names escaped him.

He sauntered in and sat down across from the two great lumps. “Couldn’t you have found somewhere that was unoccupied?” Draco demanded with a scowl. The two students in the corner looked up then and glared openly at him, before returning to their conversation.

Goyle grunted something about the train being really packed this term. Draco accepted that, and the conversation died right there. Talking to Crabbe and Goyle required both incredible patience and a Moron to English Dictionary. He had neither. However, Draco also had little choice when it came to friends – it was either these two or no one.

Well, perhaps Pansy Parkinson. Not now though. The ‘Dear John’ letter she had sent him over the summer had spelt that out clearly enough.

She hadn’t even had the guts to dump him in person. Then again he doubted, had he been the one doing the dumping, that he would have done it face to face either. Such a thing required a good deal of tact, which he sorely lacked. The confrontation part was better off skipped. No unnecessary beating around the bush that way. You could cut right to the chase.

For a while, Draco sat and watched the countryside flash past the window. Green, green and (just for a change) more green.

Desperate for anything to alleviate this monotony, he instead listened to what the pair in the corner were discussing. Judging by their non-stop chatter, the subject was utterly riveting. Although, he sincerely doubted he would find it so.

“...My uncle swears that is what happened. I mean, the Ministry is completely downplaying the whole thing, no surprises there. You know they tried to stop him writing his book? Cut his funding and everything - ”

The girl waved her hand impatiently. “Yes, I know Blaise. You’ve only told me a hundred thousand times before. What I want to know is, what is behind that curtain thingy? I mean, where exactly has he gone?”

There was a pause. The boy, Blaise Zabini if Draco remembered rightly, gave a deep sigh and shrugged. “I don’t know. Uncle Theophilus never actually got to the bottom of that one, but he has his theories. Are you getting every word of this down Malfoy, or would like us to go over the parts you missed?”

Draco flushed pink at being caught out, and quickly set about gathering up the remains of his dignity. “No, that won’t be necessary Zabini,” he growled.

Blaise shook his head. The girl leaned across and whispered something to him. Zabini shot Draco a sly look out of the corner of his eye and promptly collapsed into giggles. This kind of behaviour was likely to be something he would endure all year.

He could hardly wait.

Around lunchtime, just after the witch with the trolley had been round, a familiar face walked past his compartment. Draco stiffened the minute he saw those glasses and that scar, and found himself resisting the urge to leap out of his seat, slide open the door, and attack. A smirk crept across his face as he gleefully pictured wrapping his pale, spindly fingers around Potter’s throat and squeezing the life out of him.

That would be just for starters. Then there would be his insufferable friends to deal with. Oh, what he would love to do to them.

Of course, Malfoy would never actually do any of these things, as fun as they were to imagine. He sighed ruefully. If one thing had become very apparent last year, it was that (as much he hated to admit it, even to himself) Harry knew a lot more curses than he did, and he wasn’t afraid to be downright ruthless his use of them. A trait Draco would have admired, had it been present in anyone else.

As it was, it was merely infuriating. Why did he have to best him at everything? Why did Potter get all the adulation, and for doing what exactly? Getting himself a scar, that’s what! A disfigurement. Perhaps he had done a few things some people might see as heroic…all right, a lot of people...

It did not matter how many times Draco indulged in such inner diatribes, the resentment burned fresh and new each time. Gnawing away inside him like some starving, stray animal was a feeling he was so used to, he had learned to all but ignore it.

Jealousy.

I will show them though, he vowed once more. I’ll show him that I am his better and then he will be very sorry he ever rejected me.

All he needed was the right opportunity.

Rising from his seat, Draco strode out into the main passage and looked up and down, trying to see where Potter had gone. After a swift search, he found him, back with his friends. He stood just out of sight, debating how he should approach this one. None of them could do magic at the present, so he would not have to be concerned about that.

And yet...he didn’t want to go in. Not alone. Malfoy had no idea how long he stood there, debating whether or not he should barge in or just leave it for another time (the train had the distinct advantage of having no teachers present, which he would be lost when they got to Hogwarts.) In the end, the choice was taken out of his hands when the door slid open and Ginny Weasley stepped out.

She stopped in the carriage doorway when she saw him, and her nose crinkled in disgust as she slid it shut. No fear though, he noted. That bothered Draco, a lot more than he liked to admit, even to himself.

“Is there some reason you’re stood out here like a leftover?” The red head asked, irritably.

“Funny you should mention leftovers, I imagine that’s all you ever get to eat at your house – the rubbish your brothers have scraped off their plates,” he snarled, refusing to be intimidated by a Weasley, much less the only girl in the clan.

“You know, Malfoy, some creativity would be appreciated.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked off down the carriage. Turning back to the compartment, Draco saw that none of the nitwits inside had even noticed what had transpired. Potty and Weasel were chatting away, Hermione was reading and already had her Prefect badge pinned to her uniform (reminding Draco that he really should put his on soon) and Neville Longbottom was observing it all with an expression of benign content.

It made Malfoy feel rather nauseous.

Reluctantly, he returned to his own compartment. Goyle was amusing Crabbe with something, hard to tell of what nature since neither rarely spoke above a grunt. Blaise and the girl were talking again, though he noticed they kept their eyes on him the whole time.

As if I’m interested anyway, he thought sneeringly. I mean, ‘a curtain thingy?’ You can’t less riveting than that!

Evening drew on and at last the end of the tedious journey was in sight.

Draco’s stomuch clenched unpleasantly. He realised that his trepidation of before had developed into full-blown dread.

Everything he had taken for granted had crumbled with the imprisonment of his father. Lucius had orchestrated it all in one way or another. Their respectable image had been upheld through father’s manipulations. The fact that Voldemort had returned to full power once more was kept out of the press because of him also. For a while it had been a most effective proverbial stick to beat Potter with.

Even his own sense of self worth had come from Father. It was Lucius who had encouraged Draco to try and stand high above the crowd at Hogwarts. To show them all just how superior Malfoys truly were to most of the common rabble that made up the bulk of the school population.

Buying his son a place on the Slytherin Quidditch team had been in large part to help achieve that.

Now? It all lay in ruins.

The Hogwarts Express began to slow down. Blaise started fussing with his trunk, apparently afraid he had (yet again) forgotten something. Draco thought him a pathetic little creature. In fact, he rather reminded him of a House elf, with those overly large eyes.

“You know what I’m like, Daphne,” he moaned as he rummaged frantically, innumerable objects and books coming to hand as he did so.

“After five years, I’d like to think so,” his friend replied. “Oh, leave it! If you’ve left any of your books behind, I’ll lend you mine.”

At long last, they pulled into Hogsmeade station. Rising to his feet, Malfoy began to bark orders at his minions, desperate for something or someone to take his bad mood out on. As he stepped on to the platform, he spotted Potter again, just ahead of him. Draco quickly quelled the rage that rose within him once more. Now was neither the time nor the place to indulge it.

There would be the right and proper time for that. Later.

If it was the last thing he did, he would show Potter – and the rest of the world – what he, Draco Malfoy, was truly made of. Perhaps he could even restore some respectability to the Malfoy name in the process, though it was highly unlikely. Mother had said that they should both accept that the ship had sailed on that front. For the time being, at any rate.

That would stop this year being his year, though. Not in the least.

*

Also, i don't have a beta reader at the moment, so if anyone here would like to do it, please do say.

A question and a cookie

Sat, 27 Nov 2004 04:30:48 GMT

So I'm writing this historical fiction (set in Dark Ages England), and I want to know if any of you lovely people know where I can find something of what life was like in that time period.
I've tried Googling it with no success, so I hope one of you can help.

Mm, lovely warm blankets... nice roaring fire... I think I'll just stay right here...

"Lady, wake up!" My maid's voice rang through most irritatingly. I pulled the covers over my head.

"No, go away or I shall have you put in the stocks. Again." I rolled over.

"Lady, you must rise!"

"I will have that same wretched boy pelt rotten tomatoes at you."

"Get up, milady!" the insistent wench cried. "There is a suitor to see you."

"I will collect the foul things myself, you impertinent servant," I warned her, "and when they pelt them at you and call you 'slag' and 'hoor' I shall laugh most cruelly at you." I focused on getting back to my happy calm place, where I could sleep more.

"I'll go tell your father that you're not interested in a suitor, then; I'm sure he'll be pleased about that." The stupid wench knew she had me there, and the proud tones in her voice boasted of that sorry fact.

"Oh, bother, I'm up..." I let myself be directed by her frantic tugging, sitting in a chair while she brushed my hair out. "Ah! I would like to have some left when you are done, if it isn't too much to ask for!" She splashed water on my face in reply, waking me up most coldly. Jerking me to my feet, she pulled my apple-green surcoat on over my lace shift, slipping a kirtle about me the color of the hills of Eire, which I had only seen once, quite distantly, upon the very peak of the castle turrets on a clear day.

After holding out my feet for the matching slippers, I stood up and was ready to go, giving myself a look over in the mirror. I was pleased with what I saw, opening my blue eyes as wide as I could, trying to give the impression I did not just wake up. Maire had coiffed my hair very well indeed, and the light blonde looked good with the greens of my clothing.

I just wished my nose wasn't so thin. I absolutely abhorred my nose. It was far too pointy to be a regular nose. No one in my family has a nose like mine, and my brother was dropped on his head on flagstones when he was a babe. There was only one possible explanation why my nose was irregular.

Satan made his home in my nostrils.

Perhaps I could convince this newest suitor of the fact and he would leave me alone. I tripped lightly downstairs, greeting my mother and father with a curtsey, and a kiss for my mother's cheek. To my suitor I turned, and while curtseying low as I could, gave him a glance over.

Fat, with a balding monk's fringe of hair round his temples, turning from dormouse-brown to gray. He grinned appreciatively, and I saw he was missing most of his God-given teeth, and that the rest were yellow and gaping.

This was not my Prince Charming.

"Princess Catherine," he said, his voice as oily as overcooked rabbit for dinner. "What a pleasure to finally meet you. I have heard many great things about you."

"That's me," I said in my most simpering voice. "Catherine the Great."

He laughed -- this wasn't going well. "Wit as well as beauty. Quite a deal, quite a deal." Was I a cow, to be appreciated and applauded before my owner-parents? No. No, I was not. I was Catherine the Great, and I wasn't going to be married at thirteen bloody years old.

I pulled out my biggest weapon. This would be the jousting spear that would knock his fat bottom from his slow, plodding horse.

"Satan lives in my nostrils. Do you want to see?"

After he ran from the castle, my father bloodied my lip. It became all puffy, and hurt most troublingly, but t'was worth it.

Plot Bunnyness

Tue, 23 Nov 2004 03:29:42 GMT

So, I have a plot bunny. It's a very nice bunny and I'd like your opinion on the workability of said bunny.

It's an Angel bunny.

It starts right around when Liam was turned. One of the whores that he was using finds out that she's pregnant, with his kid. She goes to the grave of Liam to cry about how her baby's never going to see its father when Darla shows up. She hides in the bushes and sees Liam raise up as a vampire and decide to go on his delightful killing spree. She manages to flee the village. Fast forward twenty years. The woman has had her child, a boy, and yet is still in fear for their lives. She's had the boy raised in the church to protect him. They're walking along and run into Angelus and Darla. Angelus is rather delighted to see her, so that he can finish up old buisness. And just for the fun of it, they decided to turn the boy - young man-. Only after the boy is drained and turned, does Angel find out that the kid is his.

Fast foreward to present day, when Connor is still a baby boy. The son comes looking for Angel in an effort to unsoul him. Apparently when Angel got sould it had some adverse effects on him, because they were more than sire and offspring but father and son. He rather get rid of that. He then finds out that Angel has a nice baby boy and decides that well, hell that ain't fair and decides to get rid of Connor as well.

And that's all she's got.

I'm insane...

Fri, 12 Nov 2004 02:40:02 GMT

Okay... I've written the prologue to my original novel...I guess I might as well post it up here...

"Your choices have been made?"

"Yes, Lord Father. We've all Chosen."

"As have we. Is all in readiness?"

"Not yet, Mother Theia. My Chosen still needs something, and Zentalian's
is still too young."

"No. All is well. Set your Chosen on the path, Kairos. Send him what he
still needs. Our Chosen will need time, as well. He is not yet what we
need him to be. He requires intervention. Fire is a driving force. Your
Chosen will bring all together, he will carry them to readiness with him."

"Mother Theia, Lord Father... Are we right to do this? These are our
children, we have nurtured them, sheltered and cared for them... Now we
are sending them into danger and pain."

"My poor sweet darling... I know she's the best I could Choose, but it's
cruel to do this to her and her beloved."

"Julani, Selania, We do what We must. It is cruel, but necessity often is.
They are necessary. Their destiny will be a heavy burden, but it will not
be in vain. We cannot act directly. Even We are bound by Our nature. You
four, lesser powers that you are, can touch Our creation as We cannot."

"We two must work with a gentle touch, or we risk all that we have brought
into being. You may act more directly, as you often have. But as lesser
powers, you are also more vulnerable."

"Vulnerable to what, Mother Theia? We're gods, what can any mortal force
do to us?"

"Show some sense, Kairos. They just said it. We're lesser powers. Besides,
they've grown beyond what we expected. Especially the human wizards. It's
hard to say what their limits are anymore, particularly in groups."

"Zen! You can't honestly be saying you think they're a THREAT to us!"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Kai. Hothead. They don't all love us, you
know. Some think we're too involved, we're smothering them. Some think we
aren't doing a good enough job. Some are just flatly evil."

"But-!"

"Zentalian is right, Kairos. Hard as it is to admit, some of our children
have always turned away from us. Some may even be powerful enough to strike
at us."

"Not you too, 'Lani..."

"Kairos. Be silent. They are correct. There is danger to you four, you must
be careful if you insist on intervening directly at any time. As always, the
long term future is uncertain. But if you would take the time to look instead
of deny, you would see that the most likely futures at the moment involve an
attempt on you. The nature changes from future to future, but the fact remains
that you are endangered."

"We do not wish to see you harmed. You are our dearest children, our firstborn,
created part of the world. You are of it and it of you. You are one, as you have
always been. If any attempt to wrest that from you, the consequences could be
dire."

"This creation, this world of yours, Ariath, is dear to Us. I do not wish to
have to bring about its end."

"End?!"

"Lord Father, please-"

"You can't! Our home, our people! My darling windlings..."

"We won't let it come to that."

"It must not. This is why we have Chosen. Our children, our warriors, will
be shield and weapon. Children must someday become adults, and it is their
time. We cannot save them. They must save themselves. Set your Chosen on the
path, Kairos. It begins."

So... that's it. Yeah, it's supposed to be a little vague and ambiguous. Things will be explained later in the story.

Day-dreaming, Home Movies, and Fairy Tales

Wed, 06 Oct 2004 01:52:05 GMT

So this is in response to challenge #2... yeah, giving you some interests for the list.

1.) Day-dreaming is tons o' fun, and I personally think that all writer's would have interest in that, lol, seeing as having a large imagination requires some breaks in which, we day-dream. :D

2.) Home Movies are just fun. I thought that it was an interesting thing, but home movies are way cool.

3.) Fairy Tales... what good writer would have an interest in fairy tales? lol...

If you want anymore (seeing as I didn't see any other responses) just let me know. :D I have tons!

~L~

Kyle Rayner, PPC, and elves (Or Kippur gives herself a plot bunny)

Fri, 01 Oct 2004 05:04:16 GMT

It was one of the weirder crossovers that the Department of Improbabilites had encountered. Well it wasn't as bad as the fic where Thranduil was lord of the Nazgul, but was still really weird. Alec and Verra walked Kyle Rayner down to the PPC's fictional psyhc. The fic writer had decided that Kyle was not only the Green Lantern, but Galadriel's long lost son as well. The ring, the writer had decided, was also a missing ring of the elves. Kyle was rather confused speaking a combination of gibberish and Greyelvish.

"Don't worry," Verra said patting him on the shoulder, "Everything will be all right."

Alec nodded and patted Kyle on the butt, "Yes, just you wait. We'll get you straight again in no time." This was said a bit sadly. Apparently the writer had also decided that Kyle and Legolas were soul mates and had to make mad passionate love all the time in many different ways. He was going to be in for a long haul.

They left him in the gentle hands of a nurse and walked back to their Response center, Verra saying, "Just because he was temporarily gay doesn't mean you get to pat his butt."

Okay, Need Some Pointers.

Thu, 30 Sep 2004 14:47:42 GMT

Hi, this is my first post here. I need some good old constructive criticism on an original fantasy fiction piece i've been working on.

Any pointers you can give me are most welcome, even if you hate it.

The Lost Kingdom

Prologue

The darkness was complete. With no moon in the night sky, and few stars visible, the world below was rendered a conglomeration of dark shapes and deep shadows.

It was not even the middle of autumn, yet the island of Ersa had been plunged into a cold snap, which had lasted for several weeks now. With little light and freezing temperatures, the landscape held an eerie blue tinge that made it appear frozen and desolate. The inhabitants were filled with a sense of foreboding and most of them wisely chose to stay indoors. Only a fool would venture out on such a night – one that bespoke of ill omen.

In the middle of a wood thick with dense fog, a man was running for his life.

Weaving erratically through the trees, his breath burned in his throat and he had stopped being able to feel his legs what seemed like hours ago. In reality it was probably only a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds. Beads of sweat trailed unheeded down his forehead to sting his eyes and blur his vision.
None of it mattered. What mattered was that he kept moving. If he kept moving there was the possibility that he might live. He very much wanted to live.

Athaine risked a glance over his shoulder but couldn’t see anything. However, his instincts told him they were still behind him, lurking. Waiting. The heavy, damp fog made it almost impossible to make out anything at a short distance.

Gasping in the freezing air, he stumbled slightly as his legs started to buckle, but he did not fall. He swore under his breath and successfully bullied his lower body to keep going. It seemed as if his weight had somehow increased tenfold, even though he had wisely shed the heavy and overly grand cloak he had been wearing earlier. Every breath felt as if he were gulping down a mouthful of razor blades.
Why? Why had he agreed to go on this mission? Why had he and his brothers had to insist on taking this into their own hands?

The answer came immediately, their resolve made together yesterday well remembered. Because you all felt that this was personal. It was your people they had hurt, and is not you, after all, that they look to for protection?

Gritting his teeth in response to the painful stitch that was already ripping through the right side of his stomach like barbed wire, Athaine briefly wondered what had become of his brothers Artair and Breanan.
Don’t think about them, a voice within him barked. Just run. They can look after themselves.
So could he, normally. But these were hardly normal people he was fleeing from. As he had witnessed with his own two eyes, they were wizards and powerful and dangerous wizards at that. To think that Artair had dismissed them as mere trouble making vagrants when he had first been brought news of their brutal assaults.

If he felt he could spare himself the breath, Athaine would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all.
Squinting through the writhing mist, he noticed that he was approaching a much denser part of the forest. Without breaking stride, he glanced left and right, trying to judge, which was the clearer way of the two. After a quick mental deliberation he chose left and raced on.

As he ran in a more westerly direction, the trees seemed to be thinning out a little. Athaine did not know whether that was fortuitous or not. While the trees were obstacles in some ways, they also provided a modicum of cover, which might well prove essential should things take a turn for the worse.

Well, I made my decision. My biggest hope, my only hope is that I do get to live with it.

The path ahead was becoming ever clearer and Athaine silently thanked the prompting of fate that had led to him choosing this route. For the first time since the chase had begun he truly believed that he might make it. That this nightmare would end and he would come out exhausted but otherwise unscathed.
This thought spurred him on.

Come on. You can do it. Come on.

It wasn’t to be.

Athaine felt a sudden tug at his right foot and knew in that instant he was to be doomed after all. Everything slowed down dramatically as he fell forward, foot still trapped under the tree root that had tripped him. He threw his arms out to break the fall. Heard a cracking as his full weight fell onto them and knew he had snapped his left wrist.

For a few seconds that stretched to an eternity there was total silence.

Time speeded up again and the horrifying pain of his broken limb flooded through him. It was unimaginable. Athaine threw back his head and screamed. He screamed at the injustice of it all. He wasn’t supposed to die like this, hunted down like some terrified animal. He was supposed to die happy, content having lived a long and healthy life in the privilege and comfort he had always enjoyed.

Not like this.

Desperately, he scrambled to get to his feet, ignoring the throbbing from the rapidly swelling wrist but his body had finally given up altogether. His legs simply refused to support his weight and he fell back down.

This couldn’t be happening. Suddenly, it had all become far more real than it had seemed before. The nightmarish haze Athaine had existed in when he had been running was gone and everything had sharpened into solid focus.

Death was approaching. Although he could not see them yet, what they brought with them was almost tangible in it’s shadowy presence. Do you wait to meet it or do you fight it? The common inner battle one suffers when they are staring Death directly in the face, no matter what guise it has chosen to meet them with. Like all those who are mortal, Athaine had hoped the time would never come when he would have to make such a choice.

After several more attempts to rise to his feet, Athaine gave up entirely and lay down, looking up at the sky. The stars were gone. Blanked out by the veil of vapour and the encroaching blackness that seemed to be blotting out everything around him. So dark was the world that he could barely see the boughs of the tress that rose high above him. The entire world was already in silent mourning for a stolen life.

Only now did he realise how cold it was and he did laugh then, an awful choking sound. How very fitting for the day one dies.

Approaching footsteps crunched the ground at a leisurely pace. The wizards knew they had their prey cornered and defeated.

Athaine closed his eyes and waited for them. He spared one final thought for his family and sent a quiet prayer to his forebears.

I wasn’t supposed to die like this.

Chapter One

It is considered an unarguable fact by all that shepherds are skilled in lies.

Their stories are well known throughout Ersa and still often used to save dying conversations or parents in need of entertainment for their children at bedtime.

These yarns spoke vividly of terrifying encounters with disgustingly ugly trolls armed to the teeth and they with only their staffs for protection, and facing down fearsome dragons as long as the island itself.
Sighs and scoffs met yet another telling wherever it may be but they all were eager to hear them again nevertheless. After all, they supposed, the shepherds had to find some method of alleviating the isolation and sheer boredom of their duty and they certainly knew how to craft a fine tale.

So when stories began to reach many ears across Ersa whose apparent origins lay with the Dale Valley shepherds, it was assumed to be another flight of fancy from the herders. Another one of their fables to recite by the fireside.

It quickly became apparent though, that these were no mere tales of pure fantasy as before.
They were not in fact stories at all, as first believed, but eyewitness accounts, which graphically described devastating plunders on some of the small, isolated communities close to where the herders dwelt. They relived the horror of watching helplessly as wooden huts were burned to the ground whilst the perpetrators danced and laughed, crops trampled and all but destroyed and animals brutally slaughtered, one by one, screaming all the while.

Initially, it was regarded with sheer disbelief. Even judging from previous standards this was far-fetched nonsense to say the least. Why, the last time settlements had been sacked in such a ruthless manner, it had been an extreme period for the island in general.

The blood chilling detail seemed not to register with any who rubbished them. Of course it wouldn’t. Everybody, without exception, wanted to forget all about the war or at least drive it to the back of the mind where it would be examined seldom and privately.

That every single thing the herders had reported was true was unthinkable.

Then news came direct from the Ersan capital Carthel itself. Whispered quietly at first but quickly became the talk of every inn and none were left unversed - Carthine had been sacked. Carthine was an outlaying town near to the city, mostly populated by military personnel and those rich citizens who did not care for the hubbub of the city. That such a town could be laid waste over one night, right under the ruler’s nose no less, was truly frightening.

Finean, widower of their king and therefore current ruler, raged from the castle and sent out her finest soldiers to find those responsible else her wrath at their failure be felt. Then raged some more for good measure. Her senators choose to stand about lamenting, perfectly useless as always.

Her subjects responded in their own various ways. Some employed draconian security measures immediately. These were mostly the well to do towns such as Heathlen in northeast Ersa. Others were more watchful and wary than anything else. As for the rest – they did nothing.

Those more ‘on the fringe’ as the saying went, of society observed it all with mixed feelings. The elves, particularly the Quel-Sîn, feared the finger of blame would be pointed at them soon enough and duly made themselves scarce.

The wizards just sat back and watched with the same cruel amusement they observed everything with.
Last of all, the nomadic Nelwen felt terribly afraid. Afraid at what it all could signify for them. The Elders in particular had reason to be fearful because although everyone pretended otherwise, the war was very far from forgotten and they had made dangerous enemies back in those turbulent days. Ironically, all in the name of peace.

Outwardly though, they appeared untroubled.

*

The day dawned bright and sunny for the first time in weeks. Although there was still a chill to the air and a sharp frost on the hardened ground the people rose to greet the morning with a good deal more enthusiasm than they had done for days. It was as if the cold they had endured for a half-month had been but a dream they had all been slow to wake from.

In the northeastern town of Nidderton, they had an extra surprise awaiting them when they woke. A most unusual sight at the very centre of their town greeted them and they stopped to stare in wonder, all thoughts of their usual daily business clear forgotten.

Half set up stalls teetered precariously in a precise row, desperately held up by their owners. Those who were not in charge of a stall were hurrying back and forth with wooden poles or goods grasped in their hands, helping out their fellows as best they could. In between all of this chaos was a good amount of shouting, though it was more excitable than angry.

To the Nidderton residents it was all a somewhat baffling sight to behold, but to the Nelwen, those busy setting up the stalls for their market, it was a tediously familiar routine. Normally, the March Wardens of the Nelwen would be free to enjoy the confusion and clamour as their duty was to stay and guard the nomads’ chosen encampment from looting or any other such threat but that was not the case for Teran that day – blast her own sense of generosity.

She had offered to help Whitman, the one and only wizard in the tribe whose stall was packed with magical potions and trinkets that none had ever known to work at all, and naturally he had seen that as an offer to do nearly everything for him. As she should have known he would. If it were not for the fact that Whitman had been a good friend of her parents, Teran would well have told him outright enough was enough. As it was, she allowed her anger at being so wilfully exploited to show on her long, pointed face and Whitman, not wanting to push a March Warden too far, relented and allowed her to go.

“Well, go back to doing nothing then,” he grumbled with a dismissive wave of his hand; as if Teran were a fly he’d very much like to swat. “I honestly don’t mind. A face like that is going to scare away my customers anyhow!”

To an outsider, such a remark would have seemed unconscionably rude but she knew Whitman and they did not. Instead she laughed.

“I’d think the fact that your love potions are merely made up of the juice of the dandelion flower would frighten them off more effectively than I ever could,” she remarked with a mischievous smile.
The wizard raised an eyebrow in challenge. “You wouldn’t, would you?” He meant the tone to be jovial but there was a definite flicker of unease evident.

“Not today Whitman, not today.” With that she set off back to the camp leaving a frustrated wizard in her wake. Good, let him stew awhile.

Teran set off to find the leader of the Wardens, Friseal, so she could learn where her assigned post was to be. She was a competent though unremarkable archer. Since she harboured no obvious talent for any of the profitable skills, such as weaving, treasured by the Nelwen thus her vocation was as defender. From the obvious dangers and the not so.

There were far more secrets lurking in the pasts of these simple, innocuous people than any could guess. Even Teran could not claim to know everything there was to about the Elders and the forming of the Nelwen all those long years ago in the southern forests of the Oyeni.

Presently, she found Friseal, polishing a hunting knife outside his tent. He looked up when he heard her approaching footsteps. He nodded at her, acknowledging her presence and confirming her identity both but made no other expression on his grizzled face. Teran expected none.

“There you are,” he said briskly, returning to his polishing. “I want you on the north side of the woods. By the ridge, if you know where I mean.” The woods in which the Nelwen had made their home for the next month or two climbed steadily uphill until it opened out at a clearing beside a steep, rocky cliff face that lay to the left. A subtle death trap of nature’s own device.

The pinnacle was roughly a mile from camp and Teran did not appreciate the long climb she had ahead of her. With all that had happened on Ersa of recent however, she did not begrudge her leader the desire for extra precaution; therefore she accepted her position without argument and went to pick out her prized bow and a quiver of arrows. Wardens were not the kind for indulging in idle pleasantries with one another and expected none from others.

The walk wasn’t as tiring as first feared but as the sun gradually rose higher into a sky of forget-me-not blue, Teran began to feel uncomfortably hot in her dull, heavy, grey-green cloak and dearly longed to take it off. But that would mean she would just have to carry it, as clothing was not something abundant enough for her to simply discard. It would just be an added nuisance.

After a small rest, sat with her back to a tree trunk in the shade, fanning herself in a desperate bid to cool down even just a little, Teran finally reached the pinnacle.

Looking around the clearing with a sharp, practised eye, she searched for the usual sign of where her exact lookout post was situated. She spotted it quite a ways up one of the tall, majestic oak trees that made up the forest of Nidderton – an arrow imbedded in the trunk.

Not more climbing! Teran thought exasperatedly as she wearily began to hoist herself up the branches. At long last she reached her assigned place, nestled in an ‘l’ between the trunk and one of the thick boughs. Not the most comfortable place but she had endured much worse in far more unfavourable weather conditions no less.

Now began the dull task of watching, listening and waiting. If there was one thing Teran could say she had seen little of in her time as a March Warden, it was attempts to assail their camp. Petty thieves aside, there hadn’t been anything particularly worrisome. Certainly nothing that necessitated the tribe to have no less than six Wardens.

Teran frowned. Whatever the Elders had done or been part to in the past, surely it was not terrible enough to require quite such excessive security?

She thought again of the sacking of Carthine.

Yes. Yes, it well could.

She shuddered. If what she and the others had heard was correct, there had been real fury in those attacks and yes, murders. Someone, somewhere, had a score to settle, although they had probably lost all sight of what it was by now and only lived to slake their bloodlust. Which would only grow more and more parched as time went on.

Such sobering thoughts served to ease her frustration so she sat back and looked and listened and waited.
Glancing to the right of her post, Teran took a few precious seconds to drink in the marvellous view she had before her, a rarity and opportunity not to be wasted.

Nidderton was nestled in a valley between the great mountain range called simply ‘the Backbone’ and the straggling green Heathlen Hills. The mountains Teran could actually see straight in front of her, grey and majestic, the peaks capped with snow all year round.

Usually, when the Nelwen were staying in this particular area of Ersa, they would hold their markets in Heathlen. For years they had sold the beautiful clothes the elves wove, the delicious food the other women baked and the clever craftwork of the men, which ranged from pleasing little ornaments skilfully carved from wood to children’s toys, there. They had come to know it’s people well and they them.

However, if their encounter a week ago was anything to judge by, it would be a long time before the Nelwen would sell as little as a clothes peg in Heathlen again.

As they had rode up to the gate leading to the town, a guard had appeared at the hatch built into the side and ordered them to leave immediately. Angrily, one of the Elders, named Cynric, had demanded to be allowed entrance.

“We are no thieves nor plunders,” he had explained with forced patience.

“And we are taking no chances,” answered the guard curtly before slamming the hatch in the gate shut, ending any further attempts at pleading and arguing before they could begin.

So the Nelwen were forced to relocate. Fortunately, Nidderton had not been far away and was, crucially, a prosperous town where they were ensured a profit.

But if these murderers are not caught, things will no doubt get worse for us, Teran mused as she idly scratched one of her pointed ears, a trait inherited from her mother, who had been of elven-kind. Fortune had always been favourable to the tribe but good luck was no permanent entity and an ill wind had been blowing of recent.

By mid afternoon, Teran was beginning to feel rather drowsy, no doubt a result of the combination of both boredom and the heat. Friseal would soon be sending a relief thankfully and the thought was a comfort. Not long from now and she would be back at camp fixing something or fulfilling some duty or other before taking up her evening post. There was never a shortage of things to attend to either way.

So when she first heard the rustling, Teran naturally assumed it was the relief Warden. But quite some time passed and yet nobody appeared.

Noiselessly, Teran descended from her post with her bow in hand, crouched by the side of the tree trunk and listened intently to her surroundings. She caught the sound again, fainter than before. Most likely it was just an animal nosing around the undergrowth for food but it was best to investigate nonetheless. The noise had originated from the upper west side of the clearing. Swiftly, she jogged across the grass, stopped and listened. There it was again. Teran walked cautiously forward into the trees and bushes, ears pricked. The rustling sounded once more, to her left, accompanied by another distinct sound – heavy, choked breathing.

This was no animal.

“Who is there?” Teran demanded, nocking an arrow into her bow and raising the weapon in clear view of anyone in the vicinity, showing that she was well armed and not to be trifled with.

A cough, a wheeze and a single, croaked word: “Help.”

Puzzled, Teran searched for any sign of the invisible speaker but came up empty handed. Whoever it was, they were hidden well.

It could be a trick; she reasoned and glanced around more warily. Bandits were known to use such tactics when intending to ambush a victim. A bow was a good weapon for picking off people from a height but fairly useless against a group on solid ground and hand-to-hand fighting was not something Teran could claim to have any aptitude for. In hindsight, it had been unwise to descend from her post so readily.

After a few moments thought on how she should proceed, Teran asked, “Where are you?” She braced herself. Nobody rushed out to attack her, so she took that as an encouraging sign.

Directly to her left a twig snapped in the dense bush and a man slowly, painfully, crawled out from under it. His hair was matted and filthy, clothes torn and from his face and exposed flesh she could see he was covered in nasty looking welts, such as those left on the skin after the fluid blisters of a burn have burst. He looked up at her with an expression of pure exhaustion, of one who has endured all any man can endure and has but given up to despair.

Thoroughly shocked, Teran could think of nothing to do or to say. After a long silence she eventually stammered, “In the name of Gilda, what devil did this to you?”

But the man had gone into a faint and could say no more.

Gingerly, Teran attempted to lift him but his dead weight was too heavy even for a woman whose arms were made strong from pulling a bow, a far more taxing task than it appeared to be. Loath to abandon the stranger in such a state, she tried several more times to lift him in her arms but was left frustrated and rather distressed.

Faced with no other choice, she turned on her heel and ran as fast she could, faster than she had ever done in her whole life, back to the camp, screaming at the top of her lungs for help.

Hey Kip!

Thu, 30 Sep 2004 05:05:22 GMT

Got an idea for a chellenge (yes, this is me procrastinating on the interests challenge. You try writing something for cookies. It's hungry work).
Someone on deleterius put up an OT message about an assignment she had to do in English, and I thought it was majorly cool. You are given two sentences from published books. The first must start your story. The second must end it. What comes in between is up to you. Fun, no?

Challenge Number 2

Mon, 27 Sep 2004 02:15:52 GMT

Challenge Number two: Or in which Kippur is really lazy.

We need an interest list for the community. So instead of trying to come up with intersts by my lonesome I have decided to let you decided what shall go on it. BUT since that is not much of a challenge, there is more to it.

First: The three items for the interest list must come from your own interest list. Put them in the subject heading so, I being lazy can find them easily.

Second: Write a short something with them.

Three: ... umm... there is no number three, but if you have more suggestions for the interest list go for it.

Meh.

Sat, 25 Sep 2004 11:42:35 GMT

Kips, this is entirely your fault. I now have my own LJ, solely because I wanted to join this and would have felt silly using a PPC agent journal for it. Expect drabbles of my own semi-in-progress novel sooner or later. For now I'll have a go at the bubble thing.

She watched the shimmering rainbow sphere drift slowly downwards, face calm and thoughtful. The soap bubble was beautiful, but fragile and delicate. If she dared to touch, it would shatter in a small mist of liquid, and it would be as if it had never existed at all, save the memory of it. If she didn't, it would eventually touch down on the unforgiving ground and suffer the same fate. Was all beauty so short-lived and easily destroyed? Perhaps.

She didn't reach out to touch. Beauty would not die by her hand. She watched the bubble drift slowly downwards, the rainbows on the surface shifting as the angle of the light changed. Finally, it reached the ground. There it popped, leaving only a small damp area to mark that it had been. A small damp area, and a memory.

I know it's very very different from the other ones. ...Good. I like to be different.

Death of a Bubble

Thu, 16 Sep 2004 09:03:51 GMT

I'm reposting this into a separate post incase no one was going back to check the original Challenge 1 entry. Who would have thought that this challenge would be this... well... challenging. My first one was long and horrible... I hope this one is better :)

“Do I look okay?” Chris asked his wife.

Sarah came up behind her husband and smiled at him. “You look wonderful.”

“Are you sure?” Chris asked.

“Positive.”

“Maybe I should–”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Sarah interrupted. “You look fabulous. Now, go! You’re going to be late.”

“Okay, okay!” Chris said, grabbing his hat and briefcase. “I’m going. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sarah waved goodbye to her husband. “Good luck!”

Chris had never been so nervous in his life. Today was the day he was going to propose a new idea to the company. If it ran smoothly, there was almost a guarantee that he would get a raise.

In no time, he was in his usual spot on the Soaptrain. He sat quietly, minding his own business, clutching his briefcase to his body. He was repeating his speech over and over in his head.

“Next stops, Dove Street and Palmolive Ave,” the announcer’s voice sounded through the train.

His office building was just down the street from Palmolive Ave. When the Soaptrain slid to a stop, Chris got off and quickly headed for the steps. He hated taking the Soaptrain. If he could get the raise he was hoping for, he’d be able to afford his very own Soapcar.

He was a little early to his meeting, which made the partners rather impressed with him. He stumbled over a few of his words, dropped his pen a few times, but over all, his presentation was a huge success. His boss, Mr. Wand, pulled him aside after his presentation to tell him that he not only wanted to give Chris a raise, but he wanted to make him a partner as well.

That evening, Chris, ecstatic, hurried out of his office building, his head cluttered with excitement. He was so lost in his happiness, that he didn’t realize he wandered into a bad part of town, a short distance from the Soaptrain depot.

“Hey!” he heard from behind him.

He turned around to see a group of menacing looking individuals. That’s when Chris knew he took a wrong turn.

“Please,” Chris said, backing up. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Don’t care,” one of the individuals replied. “You’re in our turf.”

Chris was surrounded in an instant, his briefcase still clutched to his body. “Please.”

“Should we clap him, boys?”

“Maybe poking him. I just got a Needle the other day. Brand new – mint condition. I’d like to test it out.”

“I think we should dunk him.”

Chris’ eyes went wide. “Please! Don’t dunk me!”

“We gots a winner boys!”

Chris was grabbed, causing him to drop his briefcase, and dragged into an alley. The thugs laughed as Chris struggled to get free. Chris was then shoved in a large puddle. His death was instant.

Mel })i({

Thu, 16 Sep 2004 04:06:21 GMT

Hello. I am new to this community and I have written my own story to the challenge "Death of a Bubble". It's a little strange... but that's okay. Feedback is cool... I guess. I dunno. I don't really think that I would need feedback on this. But please read.

It's behind the cut...

“Can I help you, young lady?” the store clerk asked the small girl who was staring at a few things in the toy aisle of the department store.

“I was looking at the bubbles,” the small girl replied.

“Do you want the bubbles?” the woman asked.

“Yes. Could you please get them for me?” she asked.

“Of course, dear,” the woman said as her arm reached above the small girl’s head and she grabbed a bottle of bubbles that were just a few inches too high for the small girl to reach. “Here you are,” she said as she leaned down and handed the girl the bottle that contained millions of future soapy suds.

“Thank you,” the small girl said very brightly and very chipper. The small girl walked away from the older woman and approached another older woman. “Mommy, Mommy!” she said as she tugged on her mother’s skirt. Her mother was holding a barely newborn baby in her arms and seemed as if she were ignoring her own daughter.

“What, dear? Mommy’s busy,” the woman replied.

“Look, Mommy. I found bubbles.”

“That’s wonderful, dear. Hold on to them until we leave the store,” the mother said. Just as she said this, the young girl began to unscrew the top to the bottle that held her bubbles. She loved them. She couldn’t get enough of them. She took the bubble wand out as her mother looked at the jewelry that was being displayed in the store. The girl looked at the sticky liquid that was soon to be a thousand and one shiny bubbles. She blew the liquid through the opening of the wand and as soon as the small circular matter released itself from the stick, the look on the mother’s face became terrifying. “What do you think you are doing?” she asked. And just as the second batch of bubbles released themselves… the mother took up her hand, grabbed the bubble wand away from the small girl and swatted each bubble that had arisen into the air.

One of these bubbles was significant, though. It would have been the longest lasting bubble… had the young girl’s mother not burst it unexpectedly. The bubble would have had a long bubble life had the woman really understood her daughter’s fascination in such things. The bubble was dead; in the simplest terms. It had gone onto another place and was no longer the one thing that would have calmed the girl.

As the woman snatched the bottle of liquid from the small girl, the contents sloshed all over and spilled onto the jewelry counter. “Look what you made me do,” the mother said. The woman behind the counter looked at the mother as if she was a horrible person. The small girl did nothing. She blew a few innocent bubbles. But the mother… she had ruined it all.

“Killer!” the young girl yelled.

“Excuse me, young lady?” the mother asked.

“You killed my bubble!” she screamed. “I hate you!” she screamed as she ran down one of the aisles holding the handbags and backpacks. She ran to the clothing section and disappeared into one of the racks of shirts.

“Where are you?” the mother asked. “I didn’t kill your bubble. Bubbles don’t have lives.”

Yes they do, the young girl thought as she watched her mother run around searching for her. Bubbles are my only friends… and you killed my best one.

“Come out, darling. Please. Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…kill… your bubble. It’s my fault. I apologize,” the mother said, finally realizing that her daughter had such a fascination with bubbles that the “death” of one made her sadder beyond belief.

The girl came out slowly from the clothing rack and said while looking up at her mother, “The death of a bubble is a big thing, Mommy. It hurts me when the bubble dies, unless it chooses to die on its own.”

“Okay, dear. I’m sorry,” the mother said. She now understood her daughter’s imagination, and even though she was almost cruel towards her daughter, she would never swat a bubble that her daughter would blow again. She didn’t want to be the cause of another bubble’s untimely death. She had already caused one death of one bubble… she didn’t want to become a serial killer.

Thu, 16 Sep 2004 02:38:06 GMT

Death of a Bubble

George was a little bubble. He was born into a bubble family. He lived with his bubble parents. George didn’t fit in. He wasn’t like anyone else. George, sadly, was shaped like a square.

Kids at school teased him. “Square Bubble!! Square Bubble!!” they chanted. One day, George got sick of the chanting, and decided to run away from home. He just wanted to find a place where he fit in. He left home, and started flying all over the place, searching and searching. Just when he was about to give up, he flew through a window. And looking down, he saw squares! He fit in somewhere! He went over to the squares, trying to talk to them. He noticed that they weren’t bubbles. They were solid. “Well,” he thought, “being solid and a square, must be much worse than being just a square.”

He flew over to them, and said, “Hello!” They didn’t answer back. He kept shouting to them, thinking they couldn’t hear him. They never said anything back. Getting angry, he went over to push one of them, forgetting that they were solid. As he touched one of the squares, he popped! That was the end of George, the square bubble.

**Any feedback is very welcome. I know it's just a silly story, but it was very fun to write, and I would love hearing what you all think about it :-D

Mandas

Fluffy Plot Bunny for Adoption!

Wed, 15 Sep 2004 02:44:08 GMT

I'd love to take this one home with me, but my own hutch is over-crowded and...le sigh, I'm feeling very ADD at the moment and won't be able to finish it.

Plot:

It's supposed to be a fluffy humor story about a group of high school guys and girls-any ratio-in their little group of friends. The girls have started a notebook, the contents of which are secret, and pass it among themselves, revelling in shoving it the guys' face even though they can't read it.

So, the men decide to take matters into their own hands and steal the notebook and read it, which involves a ridiculously elaborate plan. Now, in my little world, the notebook is an analysis on the guys, so the guys use the information to drive the girls crazy/hook up, whatever. It's supposed to be a cute little ficlet.

But, like I said, I can't give it a loving home. Here's a sample of how I saw it going in my head, though...

"They're not even trying to be subtle," grumbled Brad. His whining brought on a bout of groans and eye-rolling from his companions.

"Will you just shut up about that?" said Brandon.

"Of course they're not," said Will reasonably, "They're trying to drive us crazy by flaunting it like that."

"Girls are odd like that," agreed Luke. "They think we actually care." There was a pause as their female friends' notebook changed hands, accompanied by giggling and fast whispers.

"It's driving you crazy, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Guys, we have to get our hands on that spiral," declared Brandon.

"I second the motion," said Brad.

"But how?" asked logic-minded Luke. "They never let that thing out of their sight!"

"So? We outnumber them, especially if we get Dean's help," Will pointed out.

"Okay, so we outnumber them. By one. Or two, if Dean joins. Dude, they could outsmart us while still asleep." Brandon clapped Luke on the shoulder in a faux-chummy way.

"Come on, that's the fun part!"

"We would only have one chance to do it, you know. Otherwise, they'll be onto us, and they'll most likely hate us forever. Or at least until graduation, whichever comes first."

"Adds to the intrigue, my friend. If we do this right, I bet you we can take it, read it, and give it back before they even know it's gone."

"Now you've lost it," said Luke dubiously. Will laughed.

"Oh ye of little faith! We just need to do a little plotting..."

Again, there it is. Take the idea, leave it, incorporate Nazis and space aliens, whatever you please. Just give it a good home!

Challenge number 1!

Mon, 13 Sep 2004 01:19:59 GMT

So here it is: Our first challenge.

Write about the death of a bubble.

It can be a poem, a short story, a drabble, a whatever you want. Post your responses to this entry, and have fun.

Kips.

Middle-Earth fic idea

Wed, 08 Sep 2004 19:23:43 GMT

(x-posted to
docfilth

This is an idea I've had floating around for at least six months or so (those who attended the PPC meet-up in April may remember me mentioning it). I won't call it LotR fic, 'cause it's too far off the main timeline for that. Some of it draws from the old ICE roleplaying material, which is as near to official fanon as you can get.

Date: 2850 TA
Canon Characters: Gandalf, Thrain II
OCs: Thennet, of Woodmen-town

Basic plot: Gandalf recruits Thennet, a respected Woodmen tracker, to help him find a way into Dol Guldur, with two goals in mind: to rescue Thrain, and to find out who the "Necromancer" is or may be working for. Thrain dies in the rescue attempt, and so does Thennet, who sacrifices himself fighting a giant spider, spawn of Shelob, which guards the Necromancer's dungeons. However, Gandalf still feels like the expedition was a success, as he now has the information he needs, and Thennet lived his whole life for the purpose of fighting the spiders anyway.
More on the OC: Thennet is middle-aged, and lost his wife and children to a spider attack some years before. Because of this, he sees no joy in life, having become a hollow obsessive with no interest in the fortunes of the outside world. Initially, he is highly cynical of Gandalf's motives for enlisting his help, but over the course of their journey to Dol Guldur, Gandalf works gradually to rekindle his sense of responsibility for his fellow Men. When Thennet is killed, Gandalf grieves for him, but sees that he fulfilled his importance to the bigger picture, and feels that his life had some sort of closure.

Suggestions, anyone?
</span>