troubled sleep

=waves= Just me trying to make my muse cooperate so I can start actually writing things again. I'm sorry to say that I have been unable to write anything lately for a variety of reasons it doesn't do to dwell on…something has been standing in the way. Maybe now I can start to break that down and become less of a lurker and more of an actual member of the Pen again. Or maybe not. I'm not completely sure what's going to happen yet. But for now, hello again. -----------------------------)( “I’m dancing. And I can’t stop.” The call was supposed to be about a friend, a friend who may or may not have secretly needed help. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she was concerned; she couldn’t help it. She had seen too many deaths this year, too many to allow anyone who looked as though they needed help slip through her fingers. He felt the same way. That was why both had stepped in, trying to do whatever was necessary to help their mutual friend. It turned out the friend had needed help, and was doing better now that assistance had been sent along. That out of the way, small talk ensued. He tried subtly to convince her to come to church. She tried not so subtly to assure him that she was doing just fine without a church, thanks just the same. It was then she started to move, and that the movement became a slow dance. And so she danced. Weaving back and forth in the semi darkness of the screened in porch attached to her house, all the things she wished to banish forever from her memory rose unbidden to the front of her mind: the ashen, silent faces as the friends of the first suicide moving dreamlike through the day; the feeling of all the air being sucked out of her house as she sat in front of the computer, reading the words that would change her life; In memory of Ashleigh Webster, it had said, we will never forget her; the pale faces of her own friends as the reality of the second suicide, Ashleigh’s suicide, sunk in. The tears that wouldn’t come. The tears that wouldn’t stop. A million memories. A million regrets. A million feelings without name. The congregation of students jammed into the tiny conference room in the high school guidance office. The faithful keeping up the vigil over the collected flowers and photographs. A pair of tilted almond shaped eyes, so bright in life, looking up dully from the pages. Each memory had a step, each image a movement across the rough brown carpet. He continued to talk, also in motion, albeit a more subdued movement. Walking home from church along the street of his own neighborhood, he drank in the warm spring night—warm enough to be considered summer, really, but with a breeze that blew away the cloying humidity common to the region. He had a strong sense of chivalry, always had. He liked to think it came from living in a house full of women. With them, it was either learn to respect the opposite sex, or fall prey to the glares and grudges of all four. He had three real sisters, including his twin, but had gained more in the innumerable girls at school who had practically become his sisters over the years, attacking him with the same good natured wit his biological sisters employed. Losing Ashleigh had been like losing a sister. This loss had prompted him to take on his new mission: care for everyone whenever he could. Both the deaths had done their part to unite the community—for now. But once the two suicides became nothing more than an old, painful, memory, he would continue on, helping where he could. In his eyes, life was fragile, and a little extra bubble wrap never hurt anything. Both paused, cell phones in hand, feet still moving, and looked up at the sky. It was just after sunset, and the afterglow still remained; great streaks of red and purple and orange reached across the sky like a child’s finger painting, tinting the clouds being blown around by an impatient wind from the west. The wind seemed eager to be on its way, over to the waiting Atlantic to join up with more of its own kind and to skate across the ocean to warm the coasts of Africa. However, the trees and houses and buildings of the suburban town struggled against the wind, holding it captive in flags and windsocks. “I seriously can’t stop dancing.” “What?” He asked, confused. “I’ve been dancing all day, only now it’s worse. I can’t stop. I can’t…stop.” She said, close to tears. He paused again, contemplating. “I told you, Sarah will be alright.” He said, referencing the friend they’d been concerned about, the one whose well being had prompted his awkward call in the first place. She remained silent. “We just have to be there for her…” It was then that it dawned on Him what was really bothering Her. “Oh. This is about Ash-“ “No.” She said, cutting him off. She paused, then mumbled: “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know anymore.” “Well, I really think…” he said, embarking on one of his well meaning, if almost painfully rehearsed, lectures. She closed her eyes, half in fatigue, half in annoyance. Here came another one of his speeches. It was then she felt…she wasn’t sure what it was. A presence? A comfort? A whisper: Time is fleeting. When we love, we open ourselves up to hurt. To love a lot is to hurt a lot. But at the end of the day, love is eternal. Surprised, she stopped. It was like coming out of a dream, her feet stood steady beneath her, the invisible red shoes that had kept her moving suddenly gone. Inexplicably, she smiled. It felt strange at first, and she realized just how long it had been since she had really smiled. A small chirp by her ear drew her out of her reverie and back to her phone conversation. Apparently, her phone told her, the battery was low, and if she didn’t stop talking it would have to shut off. “I have to go.” she said as the phone chirped again. “What?” He said, stopping mid-lecture. “I have to go. My phone’s dying. Bye. See you tomorrow.” “Oh. Ok, Bye.” He said quickly, not wanting to waste anymore of her battery. Afterwards, he continued to walk, hands in his pockets, towards his waiting home. “Goodbye.” She flipped the phone shut, ending the call. She started to go inside, but paused at the door to the porch, and turned around, illuminated from behind by the light from indoors. “Goodbye.” she whispered to the encroaching darkness before disappearing inside. Outside, night continued to fall and the wind continued eastward, past the little suburban town and onwards towards the horizon.

Thank you eternally, Sweetcherrie! I'm sorry to say that I have a bit of a problem when it comes to typos...so, Appy, I'd be glad for all the help I can get. Thanks to both of you guys for reading

Wow! I'm not dead!! After another extremely long absence I'm dropping by again!! So if anyone actually remembers me, HI! And Hello to everyone else as well! Hopefully this time my stay will be of some duration, but if life-outside-my-computer once again stops me from being online as much as I'd like, here's a story until next time. This story was inspired by a really bad rp that I crashed over the summer called "Not your average fairy tale"(the irony was that it *was* a cliched fairy tale, and I joined it as a random commoner trying to steal jewlery from the 10 sage princes/princesses on an epic quest to save the world), the fairy-tale-esque Disney movies that I had to watch with my little cousins this summer, and, to an extent, Waiting for Godot. Of course, it was also inspired by lots of other things(such as listening to my friends whine about not having prom dates last May), but I've rambled enough as it is. And yes, I know it's long, but give it a chance? -------------------------------------)( Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince, the only son of an aging king and queen. Hoping to secure their son’s future happiness, the wise king and noble queen called for all marriageable women in the land to come to their palace on a hill to present herself to the Prince. Among the flocks of women who flooded into the palace on that fateful night, there was one maiden so fair, so poised, so gentle that she seemed almost unreal. The prince gravitated towards this beautiful maiden, and the two were married, bound together to live happily ever after. But life isn’t perfect, and happily ever after doesn’t always fit at the end of every story. When the dust settles on the dance floor of one of those fabled balls, as the decorations are taken down, what remains? True, one maiden leaves the ball a princess, but what about all the others? Whatever happened to them? -----------------------------------)( “In Grimm’s name, I hate these things!!” Mira said, leaning back in her chair. She sat at a long table dressed in crisp linen and decorated with colorful flowers and drapes of fragrant greenery. The table was packed on all sides with women equally crisp and colorful, each in a bright silk with an even brighter smile as they tried to win the attentions of the ball’s resident Handsome Prince. Meanwhile, across the large banquet hall, men and women swirled in time with a string quartet that was a good fifth out of tune. “What, Mira?” a stocky blonde girl sitting next to Mira asked around a mouthful of cake. She was stuffed into a revealing green gown that was, at present, almost completely covered by a large cloth napkin. Overall, she seemed more interested in the plate in front of her than in Mira’s laments. “I said, Gretel, that I hate these things” Mira repeated, waving a hand in the direction of the dancers, revelers, and other party goers, implicating them all in her dislike. Shaking her head in pure hatred, she caused some of the steadily wilting flowers entwined in her hair to fall out onto the table “I really do hate them.” “Yes, well, at least the food is good.” the blonde, Gretel, said polishing off her slice of cake and moving on to attack a mound of cookies. “Gretel, can’t you think of anything other than food?” Mira asked irritably. “Of course I can! Like...like...” she glanced around the large room, searching for something other than the buffet tables to focus her attention on. “Like...who’s that?” she asked, jabbing her fork in the direction of a particularly glowing maiden over by the dancers. Mira scoffed. “I don’t know, some new kid with dewy eyes, flaxen hair, and a pleasing figure.” Mira said unhappily, refusing even to glance in the mysterious girl’s direction. “Oh Mira, I don’t know why you have to be so mean all the time.” Sighing, Gretel grabbed a cookie and settles back in her chair, preparing herself for a long rant. “Excuse me, Gretel, you know exactly why I have to be so mean.” Mira said fervently. “ Do you realize that you and I and most of the other girls here have been riding the Freakishly Handsome Fairy-Tale Prince circuit for over three years without a single bite? If I have to attend one more ball, masque, fete or some other party created for the sole purpose of marrying off some prince, I am going to scream!” Mira said, pounding a hand on the table for emphasis and causing nearly every glass on their part of the table to jump a good half-inch in the air. “Well, you should have told me that before I signed us up for Prince Valiant’s ball next Tuesday, now shouldn’t you?” Gretel replied before taking an indignant bite of her cookie. “I did! Several times! I said that...wait, I thought this was Prince Valiant’s ball.” “No, this is Prince Charming’s ball. Didn’t you notice the family?” Gretel said, directing Mira’s attention over towards a pair of thrones along the opposite wall. The two monarchs seated there smiled and waved at the dancers, clapping and being the very essence of charm. “Prince Valiant is next Tuesday, and then three weeks after that we’ve got that Fete for Prince Extremely-Good-Looking. Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.” she said, noting Mira’s grimace. “We’ve only been doing this for two years, not three. Even less than that if you count the time we had to spend underground after you poured wine of that French Prince...what was his name?” “I don’t know, I don’t remember...He was a beast, though, so hairy! The story was that he angered some enchantress who changed his palace into something resembling a den of evil and transformed the prince himself into a huge monstrous beast, but personally I think he was just born that way. Besides, it was only water, and the stain did come out...after some scrubbing anyway.” Mira said, close to pouting. “Well even so, we haven’t been completely ‘without a bite’, as you put it. Weren’t you engaged to one of those triplets we met in Wales?” “Ugh! The Princes Brave, Noble, and Wise. Don’t remind me.” Mira groaned, sinking into her chair as though she wanted to hide under the table. “I was engaged to Prince Brave for two days–two days! That’s it!” “Well, I am surprised. You were so enraptured with him. ‘Gretel,’ you said, ‘I’m finally going to live happily ever after! I’ve finally found my Prince!’” Gretel said in a tone more admonishing than cruel. Though she still grinned wickedly over at Mira around a large scone. If Mira looked as though she had wanted to hide under the table before, she now seemed prepared to sink under the floorboards. “He was alright for the first few hours, but after that...! After spending one full day with him I was so fed up that I told them to go jump out the window. And, being Prince Brave, he did it. He landed in a reflecting pool below the window and only broke one leg, but that was still enough for his brother, Prince Noble, to challenge me to a duel to defend his incapacitated brother’s honor. Meanwhile–and this was the worst part– Prince Wise spent the entire time giving me stock tips and investment advice!” Mira shook her head, upsetting her flyaway brown hair even more. “After two days, I just couldn’t take it anymore!” “Well, there you have it: you were engaged, you could have stopped coming tot these little fetes, but you chose not to. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for that. But Mira,” Gretel said, her tone shifting from admonishment to sympathy, “really, it will get better. Now, I’m going to get a little dessert. By the time I get back, I want you looking a bit more cheerful, alright?” She stood up from the table, plate in hand, but didn’t move until she got a reluctant nod from Mira. Once she had her nod, however, Gretel moved quickly over towards the buffet tables and out of sight. When she returned several minutes later, Gretel had her heaping plate balanced in one had, and, much to Mira’s annoyance, the arm of a pretty little slip of a girl firmly in the other, all the while beaming with a warm smile that lit up her entire face. “Mira, this is the girl I was telling you about. You know, the one we saw over by the dancers. She’s new to the Handsome Prince Circuit, so I thought I’d bring her over and introduce her to some of the girls.” Gretel said cheerily, briefly directing a hard look towards Mira, willing her dark haired friend into silence. Mira moodily complied, but no amount of friendship with Gretel could stop her from eyeing the new girl with wary dislike, like an animal sizing up the competition. The girl was just as Mira had predicted: she was a thin, trim little upstart with prefect hair(it happened to be long, blonde, and cascading down her back in luminous, luscious locks) and a pretty dress(it was a deep blue silk, cut low in the front and whose hem swept across the floor in little ripples. The colour also set off the filthy rotten upstart–er, the girl’s perfect cerulean blue eyes). Plus, standing next to Gretel’s bulk and ill fitting gown that was at least three balls out of fashion, all the new girl’s best qualities were put into sharp relief. Mira could almost feel Prince-who-ever-the-heck’s gaze turning towards this little newbie. “Girls? Are you listening to me? Gretel asked, still hovering around the table. Mira looked up along with most of the other women around the table–most of whom grimaced and glared in exactly the same way as Mira. “Now then, this is...Sar..Sario..” Gretel paused and pursed her kips, brow furrowed in concentration for a moment before turning to the girl she had brought with her. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to say your name one more time for me.” “Sarioptawaptaukuaki do Neretiana the third. But you can call me Sari.” the girl–Sari– said in a voice that resembled water cascading across pebbles in a tiny crystal stream. There was another collective grimace among the women at the table. “Thanks, So, girls, this is Sari.” Gretel said. Some attempted a half hearted wave, and there were a few mumbles of ‘hello Sari’, but most just stared. “Alright, so Sari, I’m Grete, as I said, and this is my friend Mira.” Again Gretel glared down at her friend, and Mira gave a weak little wave. “Hmm...let’s see, that girl over there, see the place one with the short dark hair and puffy sleeves? That’s Snowy, wave Snowy, will you?” “Snowy...what a unique name. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Sari said in clear, ringing tones. Snowy just glared icy from her seat. “Her real name is Wilhelmina, but as cold and heartless as she is, we thought Snowy, or Snow White worked better.” Mira added in a low voice. “Mira!” Gretel exclaimed, releasing Sari’s arm to wave a finger chidingly at Mira before turning back to the newcomer. “Don’t listen to her, Sari, it’s not Snowy’s fault. She’s just been out of sorts lately. See, she choked on an apple slice at a ball once, we all thought she was dead, laid her out and everything. Well, suddenly a bunch of princes showed up, each claiming that they had always loved her, but never realized it until it was too late. Very sad.” Meanwhile Snowy, who was still very much within earshot, continued to glare. “Especially when one of them bent to kiss her forehead, once last time, he said.” Mira added. “Oh oh oh! I remember that!” an energetic girl with a high pitched said, leaning over from her seat across the table. She had very very very long hair that was also very blonde that was plaited over her shoulder and disappeared under the table. “Poor guy lost his balance half way down and had to throw a hand down on her stomach to catch himself. Suddenly, out pops the bit of apple, right into his face!!” “Yes, that’s what happened. Poor Prince Courageous, he never did get the full use of his left eye back, did he?” Mira asked. Meanwhile, Sari looked shocked, and Gretel stared down at the pair of gossipers disapprovingly. “No, he never did.” the girl from across the table said with a giggle. “ Anyways, Sari, I’m Rapunzelle, but all the girls just call me Zelley. I don’t usually just jump into other people’s conversations, normally I’m much more polite, but–“ ”Yes you do and no you’re not.” Snowy muttered moodily from her spot two seats down from Zelley. “You stay out of this, Snowy,” Zelley said complacently, clearly unfazed, “Anyways, so I don’t always intrude like this, it’s just that I’m afraid you’re standing on my hair.” Again, shocked, Sari jumped to the side. Looking down, she realized that the beautiful golden carpet she had been silently admiring had actually been a long plait of hair, complete with bows and everything. “Oh! I am so sorry!” Sari began sweetly, “I simply did not-“ ”Oh don’t worry,” Zelley said, waving away Sari’s concerns. “Talia here was using it as a pillow earlier.” she explained, bemused, unconcerned smile never leaving her round face. “Talia?” Sari inquired, turning questioningly to Gretel. “This is Talia.” Zelley said, indicating the figure in the chair between herself and the every scowling Snow White. It was easy to see why Sari had missed Talia at first. At a glance, she appeared to be nothing more than an off center piece of decoration as she was asleep with her flower entwined hair spread out over the table. However, once you got over the fact that she was asleep, she was quite pretty. Beautiful even. “Is she...is she alright?” Sari asked, all polite concern. “Oh sure, she’s just had a little too much tonight, she’ll be fine tomorrow.” Zelley said, patting Talia firmly on the back. The sleeping beauty didn’t even stir. “Once she gets over the headache, anyway...” Mira whispered before turning to look up at Sari. “It’s a pity she isn’t awake, Talia has an almost impossible life story. Apparently she used to be a hippy. She changed her name to Aurora and had a set of twins she called The Sun and The Moon. She has a thing about sharp, pointy objects, though. She won’t get within inches of even a fork. Once, at one of Prince Slightly-Rotund’s masques–“ ”THIS STUPID SOUP!!” A girl sitting next to Mira rather unexpectedly shouted, throwing her gilded soup spoon down in disgust. “Oh no, not again...” Snowy said, head in her hands. “Goldie, this is Sari. Sari, Gol-“ ”I’m perfectly capable of introducing myself thank you, Gretel! I’m Goldie Lochs. That’s L-O-C-H-S, like the lake, not like the hair. Though I do have golden locks.” Goldie said trying, unsuccessfully, to flip her short cap of unruly yellow curls over her shoulder. “And let me just say that if I ever grew my hair out to the floor I would never just let people stand on it.” she said with a contemptuous glare at Zelley. “No, I would take good care of my hair, I’d-“ ”It’s not as though I asked her to stand on it!” Zelley shouted back. “Yeah well-“ ”That’s lovely Goldie, Zelley, but that will do.” Gretel said, eyeing both girls menacingly–or at least as menacingly as she could manage. Still fuming, but afraid of one of Gretel’s infamous lectures, the two settled back into their seats. Gretel smiled warmly. “ Now, Goldie, what seems to be the problem with your soup?” “It’s too COLD! First it was too hot, now it’s too cold! I asked for a bowl that was just right–do you remember when I detailed it out to that cook?– but noooo! I’ve had to send my soup back seven times tonight! Every time they apologize profusely–lying through their teeth!– and bring me another bowl that’s either too hot or too cold, never just right!!” Goldie said, sticking out her upper lip childishly and preparing for a good sulk as she stared down at the offending soup. “You think this is bad?” Mira asked the increasingly alarmed Sari. Sari responded with only the tiniest of nods, but she had grabbed the back of Gretel’s empty chair in front of her for support, and though still mostly serene and beautiful, her crystal blue eyes had reached the size of saucers. “You should have seen her even when first came in, of course she had to sit in every chair in the hall until she found one that was ‘just right.’ Quite ridiculous really.” Again, Sari just nodded weakly. “Well, “ Gretel said, noticing Sari’s discomfort and patting the girl encouragingly on the shoulder with her free hand. “There you have it, Sari. Mira, Snowy, Zelley, Talia, and Goldie. All the regulars. “Wait! What about Ella!!” Zelley interjected, voice rising to an even higher pitch with concern. Idly, she played with a lock of her straight golden hair while Goldie fingered her own messy curls furiously. “That’s right, however could I forget Ella? Has anyone seen Cinderella?” “She’s probably off cleaning something. That’s all she’s good for. Cleaning. Unless she’s smuggling cleaning products over the border, that is.” Snowy said grumpily. “Smuggling cleaning...surely you must be joking!” Sari said. The poor little girl looked about ready to fall over but for Gretel’s steadying hand. “No, it’s true!!” Goldie said, coming out of her pout for a moment. “ She got mixed up in that mop-and-broom smuggling scandal. She’s lying low until things quiet down.” “Ahh, I see. Well, perhaps you can meet Ellsa next time, Sari. Until then, here we are, and we’re happy to have you with us.” Gretel said, trying to cheer up her little charge. “Yes, thank you.” Sari managed after some moments. “I do have one question, though.” “What? I’d be more than happy to answer.” “What is the cow doing here?” Sari asked softly. “Well-“ ”Who? Snowy?” Mira asked, mock confusion masking her face. “We already introduced her, remember? Though frankly, I’m not sure why she’s here. Perhaps-“ ”Mira!” Gretel said before adding “Snowy!” as Snowy tried to lunge at her offender from across the table. “Calm yourselves, girls.” she said, holding a hand out between them. Mutually deciding that it wasn’t worth it anyway, both Mira and Snowy moved back to their seats. Again, Gretel smiled. “No, I think she means the cow next to Snowy.” Zelley said, indicating a bony milk cow with bows and ribbons tied around her ears. “Isn’t she just adorable? I bought her off some kid on the way over here. Quite a bargain. I just gave the kid a handful of beans, told him they were magic. I was going to sell her, but once I made it to town I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then I found out how much she wanted to go to the ball tonight so–“ ”Girls!!” Gretel whispered suddenly. “It’s him!! It’s the Prince! Smile girls!” The entire table quite literally swivelled in the direction of the Prince as every girl turned to face him and smile. “Hello ladies.” Prince Charming said, flashing a grin that made even Snowy giggle. “I know I speak for the entire Union of Freakishly Handsome Fairy-Tale Princes–of which I am a charter member–“ he said with another dazzling smile, “when I say just how good it is to know that we can always count on your regulars to attend our balls.” “It’s...it’s...it’s our ppleasure, Prince Charming.” Zelley blurted before covering both her mouth and her coloring cheeks. “No, ladies, it’s mine.” Prince Charming said charmingly. The table full of girls beamed, and a few swooned. “I was just introducing this new girl, your Charmingness.” Gretel said, indicating Sari. “May I present–“ ”Sarioptawaptaukuaki do Neretiana the third” the Prince said, reaching out and kissing Sari’s hand. “Yes, I know. I was wondering if Lady Neretiana would do me the honor of dancing with me.” “How...how could I refuse.” Sari replied, voice as musical as ever. “How could you?” the prince echoed, smiling another dazzling smile before pulling Sari gracefully off towards the dance floor. “You know, she could have at least said goodbye.”said Mira. She had been one of the first to regain her senses after Prince Charming left and had watched Sari allow herself to be borne away without a single look back. “Or nice meeting you.” Zelley added sadly. “More like nice knowing you.” added Snowy. “Look at the two of them over there dancing.” “They’ll probably get married...” Goldie said wistfully. “Yeah, and I bet we won’t even get invited.” “As usual” Snowy added morosely. “You know, I really hate these things.” Mira said, settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. “I really do.” “Oh well, look on the bright side, hmm?” Goldie said, sitting down and setting her heaping plate before her. “At least the food is good.”

Wow, I'm glad to hear that I wasn't the only one up until the wee hours of Monday morning!! I finished shortly before two am this morning...and the ending most definitely caught me off guard! Oh well, at least there was no random Harry shouting for pages and pages on end like in Order of the Phoenix. That *really* started to bug me after the first seven straight pages of it. Also, I'd never heard the theory about Ron being Dumbledore...it's interesting, though.

=waves= Like Zadown, I saw War of the Worlds the other day. It was actually an OK movie and certainly worth the 5.50$ I spent to get in. What bothered me, however, were the plot-holes. Not that I'm saying there were quite a few of them or anything, but if every single electric device straight down to people's analog watches have been knocked out all over the world how can a guy whip out his digital camera and start snapping pictures? How can another guy start video taping the carnage? Granted, that particular video-taping incident was more a stylistic thing than anything else, and the effect was actaully quite nifty, but then what about the news casters? How did their entire vanload of equipment(and indeed the van itself) survive the EMP pulses that knocked everything out even when the news crew was close enough to the alien devices to videotape them and therefore reveal to the Tom Cruise character that the aliens were riding the lightening down into the earth? The music wasn't great either...but then I have a tendancy to notice it/listen to it and comment on a film's music. Though he did make use of a string orchestra and, in highly suspenseful scenes, specifically the cello section. And being a cellist myself, I couldn't help but smile at the liberal use of the instrument--even as people on the screen were probably seconds from death. Oh, and the action scenes were great! Lots and lots of bangs, booms, and people getting vaporized. The ending could have been different though. After all of the running around and nearly dying, all the action and bright flashing lights the movie seemed to just, well...stop. And suddenly everything was nice, wonderful, and happy in the world once again and they cut to a deep voice-over which rambled on about how humans had earned the right to live on earth to a background of micro-organisms. And one really really quick world about Star Wars episode III(which I hope to go and see again today): I am a rabid sci-fi fan and I've always loved the original star wars movies(and yes, I did see them in theatres! Even if I'm not old enough to have seen them back in the late 70's-early 80's, my mom dragged my entire family to see the special edition releases in 1997) but haven't had much to say about the prequels. Ok, I take that back. I have plenty to say on them, but not much of it is very nice so I often refrain from saying it. But Episode 3 resembled the original star wars movies, and that made me insanely happy. Until I went home and re-watched the originals to celebrate. Umm...half of the diologue was nearly re-written(that whole scene between Padme and Anikan on the lava planet? Yeah, change the word 'peace' to 'order in the galaxy' and switch 'Padme' with 'Luke' and you've basically got the big 'I am your father!!!!!' scene from The Empire Strikes back. This was marginally disappointing. But then, I noticed several instances when the originals were all but copied(very last scene of the movie? With Beru and Owen and baby Luke standing on a rise while the two suns set? Take the two older people out, and replace baby-Luke with a rather moody looking 17 year old watching the sunset and you'll have the exact scene from A New hope. Plus there were several plot-holes between the originals and the prequels that didn't quite add up. But all the same, I loved that movie, and I'm glad that Star wars was able to end on a semi-positive note. Oh, and the music was good.

Hmm, I rather like Elizabeth since you're looking for a first name(I know from personal experience that Elizabeth isn't the best middle name in the world.). Julia or Aila, perhaps?

=waves= at long last/at the insistance of smallscale_mind_games I am now going to embark on an attempt to buy off my weenie award. I've had it for several months now, and while I've grown terribly attatched to it(gave it a name and enrolled it in private school and everything!) I'm beginning to suspect it to be past time for myself and the weenie award to part ways. . . Also, if I've posted this in the wrong spot/on the wrong board, would someone with magical post-moving powers please do me a favor and relocate this post for me? Thank you!!! ------------------------------)( It was a cold night, but that was all right. It made sense actually. After all, it had been an inconspicuous warm summer night when she first left, leaving little more than a ripple in her wake. It seemed fitting that to-night this section of the Mighty Pen Keep be cold and deserted. But enough about the weather. The thing was that Samarria dy Chalia, better known as Samantha Carmichael, and better known still as Sam, telepath and fugitive was finally returning, at long last, to the Mighty Pen Keep. Her expression was that of a tired determinacy that had kept her walking through cities and countryside and helped her negociate her way across the several planes of existence that separated her former world from that which houses the Keep. Strangely enough for having traveled so far, she carries very little luggage and certainly nothing to contend with the cumbersome cello case she'd rolled out with several months ago. She'd had to leave the cello case, cello, and much of her luggage behind in the last relatively safe town she'd passed through. You see, Sam had been for the longest time abroad doing strange and interesting things such as taking tea with eccentric old ladies who imagined themselves to be Queen Victoria reincarnated, rescuing beautiful monsters from evil rampaging princesses*, stopping off to break into popular Broadway plays, and generally having quite an odd time of it when suddenly an out of place African swallow had arrived bearing a message for her. The message had been encased in a rather stubborn coconut** and Sam had to hock a bracelet in order to buy a hatchet with which to break it open. When she had finally finished happily smashing the coconuts to bits, Sam found a small scrap of purple paper which read in large, friendly letters*: THE WEENIE AWARD. You (there was a blank here in which the name "Sam" had been hastily scribbled), Page of the Pen are hear by presented with the WEENIE AWARD due to the fact that you neglected to participate in the not so recent roll call. You have been officially named MIA and perhaps even A-WOL and are thus encouraged to return to the Pen as soon as is convenient to "buy off" this award. Yours etc., those personages who run the Mighty Pen. P.S. It's usually at this point when a man in a large hot-dog costume will jump out of the bushes and begin following you mercilessly. (Sam, suddenly frightened, looked around warily. Seeing no one, however, she returned her gaze to the paper) However, due to recent budget cuts and re-appropriations of funds we regret to inform you that you shall have to do without the stalker and have to come back of your own accord. Deepest and sincerest apologies. - those personages who run the Pen. Blinking, Sam tucked the piece of paper into a pocket, picked up the handle of her cello case and began walking back in the general direction of the Pen. She had tried several times during her journey to sell the Weenie Award. She once concocted an elaborate story about the award’s magical abilities to try and lure people into buying it from her. No luck. Then she tried burning the paper, but it wouldn't catch fire so she experimented with throwing the paper in a nearby stream. This last approach seemed to work, but five seconds later the WEENIE AWARD jumped right back out again and a few harsh reprimanding words had suddenly been added to the text of the note. Finally, there seemed to other choice, she had to head back. It was then she’d checked the cello and her luggage in a nearby town, then she’d begun the long trip back to the Pen, that accursed piece of purple paper in her hand. At long last, Sam finally made it to the practically deserted Cabaret Room where a few beings sat close to a roaring fire. As fate would have it, they were no one that Sam knew, and had therefore either come to the Pen long before or soon after her absence. Even in this familiar place, Sam felt her habitual shyness creeping back as she built up her mental blocks against any stray thoughts. “Excuse me...I’m afraid I’ve been gone for quite some time...” Sam said nervously. “Would any of you happen to know where to go to-“ she glanced at the crumpled paper in her hand”-to ‘buy off’ the WEENIE AWARD??” there was no immediate reply, but one was hardly needed as just then another a pair of off-kilter European Swallows crash landed on a chair in front of her, sending their burden(a rather small coconut) sailing across the room. Sam trotted over after the coconut and, after a moment of fiddling with it, managed to get the thing open quite easily, something that was quite nice considering that she had left the hatchet with the rest of her luggage. This time, a small green piece of paper fluttered out from between the two halves of coconut. In the same famously large and alarmingly friendly letters that had graced the first sheet of paper, the green note read: Please Wait. Someone will be with you shortly to address your situation. Thank you –The personages who run the Pen. With a sigh Sam flopped into the nearest chair, purple WEENIE AWARD in one hand, green note in the other. Meanwhile the pair of swallows, which had by now quite recovered from their heavy load began to hum a song which sounded uncharacteristically like telephone hold music. *Pardon the hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy allusion! **Pardon the Monty python allusion! ---------------------)( =shrugs= Well, I hardly know if that constitutes well written...or if it was even what we were supposed to do. But I'm terribly afraid that Merry(smallscale_mind_games) would have my head if I didn't post this...so please don't assasinate me!!

Merry!!! =hugs even though she's been poking her via private messages for the past twenty minutes= hi! And Scott is here too!! Wow...perhaps I've been keeping a low profile for far too long after all...

=beams= Wow, thank you! =bows a little awkwardly= This is my first story in quite some time, I'm glad that you all liked it No one paid you off to say all of these nice things...did they?

=waves= Hello! This is my first post in a loooooooooong time. So please do not shoot me if I did something wrong! If this story is really rather terrible, please let me know straight-away and I will attempt to make it a bit more palatable. Also, I hope that my choice of a Buddhist Motorcycle gang doesn't offend anyone as that was NOT MY INTENTION!! So, again, please don't shoot me! Or if you do feel inclined to shoot me, there is a rather detailed waiting list, so you might wish to jump on that as soon as possible otherwise you're not likely to ever get a shot in edge-ways. ----------------------------------------------)( The scene was all too familiar: a squad car with several motorcycles pulled over to the side of the highway outside of Cleveland. Methodically, the police officer flipped through the little plastic licenses, copying each of the names down onto a well worn ticket pad while the five motorcyclists stared at the ground. “So let me get this straight,” the officer said after a moment, “you’re part of a Buddhist motorcycle gang?” “Yep, that’s right” one of the five motorcyclist said, smiling pleasantly as he removed his orange helmet. He was dress completely in orange from his leather vest and t-shirt to the helmet, which included an engraved flaming llama. His companions were similarly dressed in customary biker leather, though their leather was either white or yellow, and their weatherbeaten helmets were etched with noticeable smaller llamas. “Let me introduce us,” the biker in orange said, continuing to smile, “We’re the Dali Llamas, you know, llamas. With two ‘l’s. Like the animal.” he said, trying to explain the intended play-on-words to the stone faced cop. The police officer, however, showed no sign of amusement, and continued to stare down at the bikers through her aviator sun-glasses. "And only one 'a' in the Dali. We tried to get two 'a's, but Dalai was already copyrighted and our lawyers just weren't clever enough." one of the other motorcyclists said sadly. “Right. So I’m Kevin,” the main motorcyclist in orange continued, “I’m sort of the spiritual leader of the group. That’s Mike,” he said, indicating a yellow clad biker behind him, “Chad’s over there in the white, Jason’s the one with the red hair next to Chad, and Steve, the apprentice spiritual leader, you see next to me.” Kevin said, indicating the blond-headed Steve who was waving furiously at the police officer. Following Steve’s lead, all of the other motorcyclists began waving furiously as well. “Hello, Hiya!, Hi, How are you?” Mike, Chad, Jason, and Steve all said at once. The police officer made no response, just raised an eyebrow and began scribbling charges on the ticket pad. Kevin winced, and bit his lip at his reflection in the officer’s sunglasses. “Hey Kevin!” Steve said much to the cop’s annoyance and Kevin’s relief, “You forgot about Vinny and Peter.” “Oh! Yes, thank you Steve,” Kevin bowed his head in thanks before turning back to face the police officer who had, much to Kevin’s continued relief, stopped writing on her ticket-pad. “Please allow me to introduce our other traveling companions,” he turned in his seat to unhook a large stuffed gorilla that had previously been strapped to the back of his seat. The monkey itself was an unremarkable everyday stuffed animal. True enough, Chad had actually won him once, long ago by ceremoniously knocking over a series of sacred empty milk bottles at a county fair in Iowa. It was rather the bright orange “FREE TIBET!” t-shirt the doll wore and the “TIBET OR BUST” sign clutched tightly in its plastic fists that threw the cop, and indeed many of the cars passing by on the road, off. “This,” Kevin said, setting the gorilla down on his lap, “Is Vinny, or Vin as we sometimes call him. He’s one of our most revered companions. More of a mascot, really. Helps to humanize our message of peace and meditation, you know appeal to all age groups. After all, who doesn’t love stuffed gorillas?” Kevin’s fellow motorcyclists all began nodding emphatically to the cop to try and back their leader up. “Uh huh.” the cop said, looking longingly out at the highway as cars sped by at what she was certain was three times the posted speed limit. Annoyed that she was missing all of those chances to write tickets, she began to finish writing the half-done ticket for the motorcyclists. “Oh, Please, let’s not get into that whole ticket thing until we’re all properly acquainted!” Kevin said nervously. “I mean, at least wait until I get Vinny back into place and I introduce Peter!” With a sigh, the cop once again lowered her pad. “Wonderful” Kevin said, smiling as the cop capped her pen. He hastily finished re-affixing Vinny to his seat then pointed over at Chad. “Now, over there in my companion Chad’s side-car is Peter. Chad, why don’t you tell our friend Officer Sune here a little about Peter?” Kevin said, beaming. “ Umm...OK” Chad said, pointing to his passenger, a man in normal street clothes with disheveled brown hair. The man wasn’t moving and was slouched forward as though asleep in the motorcycle’s side-car. “This is Peter...he’s an evangelical atheist.” at the mention of his name, the man in the side-car suddenly sprung up to a seating position, a cheap digital camera in his hands. Without warning, he suddenly began snapping pictures of the cop, the Dali Llamas, the squad car, the highway, passing cars, and the large quantity of road kill, most of which were purple wombats piled up at the side of the road after being killed by desensitized and highly successful business executives on their daily commutes into Cleveland. “He..umm, likes to take pictures.” Chad said, unexpectedly donning a pair of heavy Jackie Kennedy sunglasses against the blinding flash. From behind her aviator glasses, the police officer blinked menacingly. “So I’ve noticed.” the Officer said in a serious tone. “Could you please stop, sir.” Peter, however, showed no sign of stopping. Nor did any of the Dali Llamas, now all donning thick sunglasses, spring into action and stop him. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to stop. I demand you to stop! In the name of the Cleveland highway patrol Stop!! STOP!” the increasingly enraged police officer said, raising her voice to be heard over the constant clicking on the camera. “Oh, don’t worry,” Kevin said from behind his thick glasses, “he’ll run out of pictures in a minute. Either that or he’ll run out of battery. Or else he’ll just fall asleep again then deny everything once he wakes up.” Kevin shook his head. “He’s a clinical incorrigible liar, you know, but we get grants from three major governments plus free psychiatric care and therapy for life from the U.S. Government if we cart him around with us, so it’s worth it in the end. There we go, he’s spent.” Kevin said as Peter slumped forward once again. “Wow, that was a long one...how long was that Jason?” “Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” Jason chimed from behind him. “Wow, usually his paparazzi attacks are much shorter...he’ll be out for several hours at least. Well, now that we’re all introduced-“ he stopped mid-sentence and winced as the police officer resumed filling out their ticket. “So...Steve, is there anything I left out?” Kevin asked casually with only the slightest note of panic in his voice. “We do weddings!” Mike called from the back of the row. “Yes, weddings and Bat Mitzvahs!” Jason added. “And we’ve got these great key-chains, if you’d like to invest in one.” Steve said, reaching into a pocket of his yellow leather vest to pull out a hand full of llama shaped key-chains. “No, that’s alright.” The police officer said as she finished filling in the blanks on the ticket, tore it off her pad, and handed it unceremoniously to Kevin whose face immediately fell. “You know...we could talk about this.” Kevin said, pleadingly, “Maybe meditate a bit. That’s what we’ll do, we’ll meditate for a bit. Clears the soul right away–Jason, you’ve got the meditation mats, right?” “Got ‘em right here!” Jason said, pointing to several rolled mats strapped across the back of his motorcycle. “Great, we’ll just set up and meditate for a minute. Jason, why don’t you just–“ ”I don’t think so, sir. I’ve got to get back to work. Have a nice day.” the cop said flatly, walking back to her squad car and leaving a rather sullen gang of Buddhist motorcyclists. “Well, now what?” Steve asked after a moment of silence. “Well, we must eliminate all outside distractions in order to achieve enlightenment, right?” his fellow bikers nodded, “So I guess we’ll just have to pay the ticket...” Mike said, shrugging. Chad, Jason, and Steve all nodded sadly in agreement. “No, I’ve got a better idea...” Kevin said. “What?” Chad asked. “Meditate?” Jason asked hopefully. “Nope.” Kevin answered “We could fast!” Mike suggested. “Not quite.” “I’ve got these The Art of Happiness books on tape, we could take turns listening to the blessed advice of the Dali Lama!” Steve said, reaching for his derelict tape player. “Oh I have a better idea! We can do all of that! We can sit by a river and fast, then we could marvel at the complexities of the simple river current, and compare its twists and turns to our own life while we listen to The Art of happiness!!” Mike said breathlessly, “Hey, if it can work for Siddhartha, it can work for us!” all of the other subordinate bikers nodded in agreement, then turned to Kevin. Their orange clad leader had sat clutching the ticket throughout this whole banter. Slowly, he let out a long breath, then released the ticket, allowing it to flutter to the ground. “I’ve still got a better idea...” Kevin said. “Hire a lawyer?” Steve, ever practical suggested as the ticket was blown into the roadway. Everyone but Kevin winced as the small slip of paper was crushed under the wheel of a large periwinkle mini-van. “No, not that either...we’re going to have a change in destination!” Kevin said, turning around to Vinny, the faux gorilla mascot, “We’ve going to...CANADA!!” he said, slapping a “Canada” sticker over the “Tibet” so that Vinny’s sign now read “Canada or BUST!” “Come on, we’ve got a government to outrun!!” Kevin said, quickly sliding on his llama helmet before powering up his motorcycle and speeding away into outgoing traffic. His fellow bikers all exchanged marginally worried glances before donning their own helmets and driving away after their leader.

On the election in general: Truth be told, I'm still two years shy of voting age. In fact, hardly anyone at my school can actually vote as of yet, but that hasn't stopped my entire school from being taken over by the Young Democrats Club and the Young Republicans Club who have debates every few weeks in which they do nothing but scream at each other for an hour or so. While this may help to release all of the repressed anger that teenagers like myself are supposedly carrying around, and being an informed citizen is always a positive, I can't help but feel that enough is enough. Even among my friends(most of which, like me, can't vote yet) it's considered terribly important to choose now: democrat or republican? Kerry or Bush? John-John or Bush-Cheney? I've tried to stay out of it, stay neutral and even while the graphic arts department was cranking out 'vote bush' and 'vote Kerry' buttons, I bought both and put them both on the front of my purse, causing me to earn many stares and strange, puzzled glances. On the other hand, having conflicting buttons really helped me out on more than one occasion...like the time I had to infiltrate the Young Republicans meeting to convince someone to edit my 100 point essay for English class. All I had to do to make it past the Republican bouncers stationed at the door of classroom where the meeting was being held was pull off my Kerry button and I was in. I also took the Bush button off my purse and infiltrated the Young Democrats yearbook picture, something that caused me to merit even *more* puzzled glances from the board of the Young Democrats, some of which have now threatened to drag me to meetings. But the point of this little rant of mine is to say that even on issues I cannot agree with either candidate, so therefore I am caught in the middle. And the middle is *not* a fun place to be. I'm all for being informed citizens and keeping up with current events, but I'm feeling that there is a point where it takes over your life, and I'm convinced that once high school students begin threatening each other to choose ideologies, politics has gone too far. And frankly...George Bush isn't that bad of a guy, though I suppose coming from a military family(remember those Florida absentee ballots? Yeah, those were my parents) I'm a bit biased. But then, I don’t completely agree with Bush on the “issues”, though I don’t agree with Kerry either. So I suppose it's a good thing I can't vote, since I would probably end up sitting in the booth for hours and hours on end, trying to decide, then finally giving up several days later, storming out of the booth. Ah well, I have another four years before I have to worry about helping to choose the president.

Hmm, well I'm not certain my parents would allow me to plant land mines(especially since it looks like my dad might get transfered/we would move/have to see our house), but I like the pipe bomb idea. What with the upcoming holiday season I might have to look into that.

Well, that's because you live near Florida, and there are actual sane people there(or at least I'm guessing that no one runs around your neighborhood yelling at those people who do not celebrate/decorate for Halloween telling them to decorate...or else). I live in North-Central-Western Georgia, but more importantly, I live in a bubble. In this bubble, appearances are *everything*, and every holiday, no matter how trivial, is a big deal. And no matter what the holiday, the 'bow Nazi'(as she calls herself during the Christmas season when she parades around, knocking on doors and shouting at people for not having little red bows on their mailbox) and others are very adamant that *everyone* decorate. And yes, there is a life size Frankenstein in my neighborhood, and an anamatronic santa at Christmas that shouts 'ho ho ho' at passerby.

**don't I feel stupid!! Of course I mean A letter from your southern neighbor, not nieghbor. Bleh...deepest and sincerest apologies!! My spelling isn’t really *that* bad, I promise! Please note: I've found that this 'letter' is most effective when either read aloud with the thickest southern accent one can muster, or if one can picture the most southern person you know(ie, the one person from Tennesse, Gerogia, or Alabama who *all* neighborhoods have living three houses down the block). Also, it is not my intention to offend anyone, so if you feel affronted, I am deeply sorry. -----------------------------------------------)( To Whom it May Concern, I write to report a slight infringement in the laws and prevailing customs of our noble society. It is my deepest regret to inform you that last Wednesday, whilst the sun was shining like a watermelon on an ice cube, something most atrocious happened in the McIntosh Corners subdivision, Peachtree City, Georgia. Daring to break all social regulations and taboos, one of my dear neighbors has flat out refused to decorate for the time honored holiday know as Halloween. At first I felt it a mere mistake, a simple case of neglect on the part of my beloved neighbor. I did not recognize this unfortunate event for scandal that it is until, through my own investigation, I found out that their house, or at least the outer portion, I never did get close enough to see inside the windows, is completely clean! It hurts me to say it, but they have no no spiders webs, witches, or life size animatronic Frankensteins to speak of. I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. Being ever a conscientious neighbor who works tirelessly for the simple betterment of our most noble of societies, I have reported this infraction in hopes that the proper punishment will be extended towards my dear neighbors. As myself and a few other good people from McIntosh Corners have already begun the customary ostracism, it is my opinion that a simple hanging, lynching, or drawing and quartering should suffice. Thank you and God Bless, A good neighbor

=waves= hmm....well, I'm only 16. But I'm finding that age is rather relative. For example, I'm younger than many of you people, but in the eyes of the little girls in my Irish dance class I'm only a few years short of nursing homes and funeral preparations. Then there is also the fact that I am the height of the average 13/14 year old...but that is another rant in and of itself.

As always, if this turns out terrible, horrible, and fully and completely revolting, please <i>don't hesitate to tell me!!!</i>. Just say so and I shall whisk it back to my word processor. I'll fix it up there, and I'll bring it back here, and hopefully I'll be able to make it a bit more palatable. -------------------------------------)( The first thing Paul Myers noticed was the heat. It caught him off guard, and he stood there for a minute, suspended halfway inside the cab, resisting the wall of hot air that threatened to knock him over. Behind him, business at the La Guardia International Air Port continued on as usual, with no one noticing the increasingly disturbed look on Paul’s face. Placing his foot back on the pavement, he regarded the cab critically, as though looking for some excuse other than the temperature to abandon it. But other than the seemingly random excess of heat, the cab was rather nondescript. It was your standard Yellow Cab, almost identical to the two dozen or so other Yellow Cabs that, to be poetic about it, stretched off into the distance like a dingy yellow sea. It had a few scratches here and there, but nothing too terrible. Paul was about to step back into the taxi cab, when suddenly the driver turned around and shot him a scowl. “Hey mon! What do you think you’re doing? You’re letting all the air out! I’m not paying for the gas to air condition the whole city! Get in or go out!” the cabbie yelled angrily at him. The accent was pure Jamaica, but the man’s pale complexion and orange turban with purple fringe begged to differ. As he scowled in Paul’s direction, he also noticed that the driver was missing several teeth. “Umm...Well...I...have to go. Sorry...” Paul mumbled, suddenly pulling his leg back onto the pavement and shutting the cab door. He instantly began to run down the line of cabs, dodging people walking around with suitcases and strollers, all the time chased by a string of curses in a language that Paul wasn’t familiar with. Once he had put a significant distance between himself and the Yellow Cab, Paul resumed his search for a ride. It seemed that he’d inadvertently stepped across a boundary line, as the sea of dingy yellow taxis had given way to one of dingy red that is the trade-mark of Red-Top-Cabs. Tentatively, he approached a new cab and tried to peak in at the driver without being too conspicuous. This driver a woman with curly hair the same strained red as the outside of her taxi. The curls were currently bounding all over the place as the woman yelled into a large cellular phone in what Paul assumed was French. After all, French is the only language where you can be screaming at someone, but your speech can still sound flowery and well...pretty. Since it had been a long time since high school French, and Paul had forgotten just about everything except for how to ask where the water-fountain was, he decided to skip that one and continue looking. Walking down the row, he saw cab drivers of all sorts, but it wasn’t until he had almost entered Blue-top-Cab territory that he found someone that looked like he spoke plain English. Deciding to take his chances, Paul walked around to the drivers side of the cab. “Hi...do you know how to get here?” he asked the driver, handing him a piece of stiff paper with an address written on it. “Sure,” the cabbie said in the cliched New Yorker accent, “I can get you there in nothing flat.” Relieved, Paul opened the side door and scrambled into the back of the cab, pulling his sizable green suitcase along after him and happy that this cab at least was a decent temperature. “So, Manhattan?” the cab driver said. He was a middle aged man in an oversize I love New York T-Shirt and, to Paul’s continued relief, he had all of his teeth, but sadly not much hair. But you can’t have everything, and Paul was just happy for someone who spoke English. “Going to a Bar Mitzvah, eh? What at those things like?” the taxi driver continued. Paul was starting to get a little afraid again, but then he remembered that the paper with the address on it had also had the occasion scrawled up at the top. “I don’t really know. I’ve never been to one myself. But it’s a Bat Mitzvah, since it’s for my niece, Charlotte. According to my brother in law, it’s only Bar Mitzvah when it’s a boy, and a Bat Mitzvah with a girl. Though I could be wrong...I’m a little clueless when it comes to Judaism.” “Hey, me too. There’s a lot of Jews in Hollywood, but none of them really talk about it. Speaking of religion...you hear about that Mel Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ?” the driver asked as he turned out of the airport and onto the highway. “Of course, it was all over the news.” “Well, I’m gonna let you in on a little Hollywood secret: My friend Mel, that’s Mel Gibson, originally wanted me for the part of Jesus. What do you think of that, huh?” To borrow a phrase from Douglas Adams, Paul thought it was a load of dingo’s kidneys. But instead of voicing this opinion, he just nodded weakly, wondering if he should have continued into the Blue Top cab territory after all. “Yes, it’s true. One night Mel just comes over to my house, he used to do that all the time back before we had our fight, the kids loved him, you see, called him Uncle Mel. But anyway, so Mel comes to the door and he says ‘Wally, listen, I’m making a movie about the crucifixion of Jesus, and I want <i>you</i> for the part.’ Well you know I was floored, but...well...you know how he wanted everybody on the cast to convert to a fundamentalist Catholic or whatever the religion was? It was in the news, you must have heard about it.” “Yeah...yes, I did.” Paul said, becoming more and more bothered by this situation by the second. “Well, I’ve been a Methodist all my life, and I didn’t like the idea of changing all of a sudden. And Irma would have <i>killed</I> me if I tried converting. Plus, the whole movie was going to be in Aramaic or something. You wanna know the extent of my Aramaic? The only thing I can say in that crazy language is ‘Give me a beer and two apples’, that’s it. Well, I knew I was going to disappoint poor Mel, so I said to him really delicately “Mel, you know I love you like you were my own brother, and I’d do anything for you, you know I would. But I can’t be away from the wife and kids that long, they’re not used to it.’ I tried really hard to make him understand, but that’s the thing about Mel, not used to hearing no. Ever since that Braveheart movie. There’s something that happens to a guy when he goes prancing around in a kilt, something deep down, and afterwards, you’re never the same again.” the driver paused, reminiscing. Paul was deeply <i>deeply</I> afraid by this point, and was searching for a way out. They were coming up on a stoplight...so maybe if he opened the door really fast he could get away from this lunatic...his escape plans were interrupted, though, when the driver resumed. “So I explained it all to him, but he still wouldn’t take no for an answer. Stayed there practically all night, working on me, saying I was the only guy he could ever see as playing the part of Jesus,” Paul begged to differ, but didn’t say anything, “and think of the money, he said...but finally I had to put my foot down. He stormed out of the house, and I haven’t seen him since. He says I’m dead to him now, and won’t answer my calls and pretends not to know me any more. I feel like I’ve lost a brother, I really do. You know, I remember once a few years ago when Mel and Toby, that’s Toby McGuire. You know, the Spider man guy? Well, we went out for drinks, and there was Cher, I’d met her a couple times before, so I said hey guys why don’t we-hey! What are you doing?” Paul went rigid at the drivers words. They had stopped at the stoplight, just like he had planned, and Paul was about to open the door and get the heck out of the cab when the driver had turned to face him. “I...uh...I changed my mind. I’ll just get off here. How much will the fare be?” Paul said nervously digging for his wallet. “No, not in the middle of the road, here, let me pull over...” he said, doing so despite Paul’s protest. He pulled over into a side street and slid the car into park. “Now, it’ll be 15 dollars and 76 cents please.” the driver said, before facing forward again. A couple of kids ran across the street in front of them throwing a ball back and forth, the driver followed them with his eyes, then sighed. “What is it?” Paul asked as he pulled out the money. “Oh, nothing. Just looking at the kids running by. Remind me of my own. I’ve got fifteen of them, you know.” the driver said with another happy sort of sigh. “15 kids??!!” Paul said in disbelief. “Yep, well, four of them are mine, the others are all adopted. We’ve got another set of baby quintuplet coming in from Vietnam any day now, so it’ll be twenty kids then.” “That must be a lot of hard work...” Paul said, pulling out a larger bill than he had originally intended to tip the man. “Yes, it is. But I love every minute of it. But it’s a little pricey, so I don’t know if I’d recommend it. You know, with half of them in diapers, the other half heading off to college next year. That’s why I work seven jobs, just to make ends meet. So it’s hard, yeah, but I sure love those kids. Ever time I feel like giving up or giving in, I just look over at them; just seeing them smile...it just makes everything worth it.” “Wow. I never would have-well, thank you for the ride.” Paul said, pulling out an extra ten and sliding it into the stack of paper money he handed to the driver. “Keep the change, and I, uh, hope that things with you and Mel work out.” he said, stepping out of the car. The driver smiled as he counted the bills, then quickly accelerated off. At first Paul was relieved to be out of the cab. But the relief soon faded, however, when it dawned on him that he was alone in god-only-knows-where. New York City carting around an overly large suitcase. He stood there in shock and dismay for no more than three quarters of a second, as slightly after that revelation hit him, so did a cab. Or rather two cabs pulled up suddenly on either side of him. Paul stood blinking back and forth between the White City-Cab sporting an advertisement for the Broadway production of Wicked, and the Blue-Top-Taxi which ran and advert for Pepsi Edge on its side. Suddenly both cabbies rolled down their windows closest to Paul and shouted out at him. “Hey! Hop in!” the yelled at exactly the same time, something that caused them to glare at each other. “Hey! What’s the big idea??” both drivers yelled at each other. “I was so here first!” they both cried out. “Were not, I was!” they said in unison. “Do you want to take this out of the cab?” “Well maybe I do!!” both said, continuing to speak in unison. Both drivers stomped out of their respected taxis then slammed their doors shut at exactly the same time. But despite their knack for speaking and acting at the same time, they couldn’t have been more different. The one stepping out of the Blue-Top-Taxi was a pale, chubby kid who couldn’t have been older than 23. He had red hair grown out in what Paul could only guess was a failed attempt at an afro. He was wearing an overly large, green Celtics Jersey along with a thick silver necklace on which hung two large rhinestone encrusted dollar sign pendants. “Me and my Air Force Ones are gonna TAKE YOU DOWN!!” the Blue Top Taxi kid yelled. “Your what?” Paul asked, unsure of what the presidents private jet had to do with anything. “The shoes, dawg! My ballen’ shoes! Check out my Air Force Ones!” he said, putting a foot forward out of his large jeans to reveal a large white basketball show. “And check the Larry Bird Jersey, Hard Court Classics, baby!” “Your stupid shoes and jersey are no match for me!” the City Cab’s driver said in broken English. Five seconds ago he had been dressed in fairly nondescript clothing, but during the time that Blue-top had taken to explain his outfit, he had slipped into a ninja...outfit? Uniform? Whatever it was, it was jet black and had a sort of hood with eye holes that the man was pulling over his face. “Show me your best! But be prepared to go down like the other Blue-Top weaklings before you!” “NEVER! I will never surrender! You will nothing more than a splotch on the bottom of my mighty Air Force Ones!!” “Cabbie Fight!! Fight between a Blue Top and a City Cab!! Cabbie Fight!!” another cab driver who had recently pulled up yelled as he scrambled up on the top of his car to repeat his message. “What?” Paul said to no one in particular as suddenly cab after cab began to pull up around the combating drivers. “It’s a cab fight! You’d better get a seat quick, things’ll go fast!” the cabbie on top of his car said before jumping down and disappearing into the growing crowd. The territory lines were clear, just like they had been at the air port. The red top cabs parked in one area, and the yellows and white city cabs in another. Paul watched in disbelief as cabbies began unloading lawn chairs and coolers and setting up tail gate parties around where the Blue-Top driver with the bling-bling and the City Cab Ninja were taunting each other. “My money’s on the Ninja,” said a taxi driver who had set up his lawn chair and umbrella in front of Paul. “No way,” another cabbie lounging next to him said, “I just put thirty bucks on the kid with the air force ones. I saw him take on one of ours, Bob Fredrickson, ‘member him? Poor Bob, he never even had a chance.” “Yeah, but Bobby was always weak, and besides, that Ninja costume is too cool not to bet on.”the first speaker replied. ‘True, true. Hey, it looks like they’re ready to start!” Paul turned away from the conversing yellow-top cabbies and back towards the ‘ring’. True enough, the two had stopped taunting each other and it looked like punches were about to fly. Not wanting to watch, Paul grabbed his suitcase and began pulling it out of the crowd, looking for a moving vehicle. “Bets! Place your bets!” A man walking around with a small metal strong box said, “Hey, you look like a man with an opinion, who do you think will win? The kid with the shoes or the Ninja?” “Judging by their past history, I think they’ll both pass out at exactly the same time and be airlifted to the hospital for minor leg injuries and a nasty abrasions to the esophagus. Luckily for them, there’s a pill for that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find a cab.” Paul said, then felt stupid. There were cabs <i>everywhere</I>, but all of them were stationary and many were hosting tailgate parties. “Or rather, a moving cab,” he said, glancing around again at what seemed to be miles of parked cars and looking for motion. Sadly, there wasn’t much of it, as the parked cabs had blocked most of the roadway, and those who were sitting in neutral and honking their horns were joining the spectator and placing bets. Paul was about to give up and just start walking, when suddenly he saw movement. Knocking over the Bets man, Paul started running towards the moving vehicle, hoping he could bum a ride and disrupting camp sites in the wake of his suitcase. “Popcorn! Peanuts! Soda!! Get it all over here people!” a female cab driver called from her spot in her car. She was selling refreshments, but more importantly she was driving around and doing so. “Hey!!” Paul called out towards the cab, “I need to get the heck out of here...I’ve got to get to my nieces Bat Mitzvah! She’ll never forgive me if I miss it...and neither will my sister for that matter.” he said desperately to the driver. “Sure! Just hop in and I’ll get you where you need to go...just let me sell one more bag of popcorn....” Paul nodded, and climbed into the cab. It smelled heavily of artificial butter and popcorn, probably due to the popcorn popper that the cabbie had plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter. Next to it on the passenger seat were boxes and boxes of candy and soda. Blinking, but not about to question anything that would get him out of here, he waited for that last bag of popcorn to sell. Thankfully for Paul, it didn’t take long and they were soon on their way. “Now...where do you need to go?” Paul wordlessly handed her the piece of paper with the address on it, “Manhattan! I love Manhattan, come on let’s go.” she said jamming down on the accelerator, running over a couple of sets of lawn chairs and narrowly missing cabs and people on all sides. “It’s a good thing for you I was near the moving side of the street, yeah?” she said, pulling into a lane and speeding away from the cabbie fight. The driver looked around forty five, and was wearing a bright orange shirt with “Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink Coca-Cola” written on the front in cheerful yellow letters. She had long greying black hair, and an accent that was heavily Midwestern. “So...did you get her a present?” “Who? What??” Paul said. “Your niece. It’s a Bat Mitzvah, right?” “Yes....you’re supposed to bring presents for those?” “Of course!! Now...let’s see what we’ve got for you...” she said, leaning down and digging underneath the passenger seat. Meanwhile, the car went up onto the side walk narrowly missing a few more pedestrians. “Oh, and while I’m down here can I get you anything to eat or drink? It’s candy, popcorn, and soda, like I was saying before. I used to sell beer but...well, you know how the NYPD can be.” she paused for a moment as she rummaged through a box of t-shirts “How about an ‘I love Prague shirt?” she asked, holding up the familiar white t-shirt with an I and a heart, though NYC had been crossed out and Prague had been written in above it. “No? Well, I’ve got some other stuff down here too, don’t you worry, we’ll get you the perfect Bat Mitzvah gift for your little niece no problem.” she said, leaning over to dig under the seat a bit more. It was around this time that the car suddenly lurched forward and then back then stopped, and then water began falling out of the sky. “Umm....why aren’t we moving?” Paul asked, more than a little afraid. “Well, I’ll be.” she said, sitting up and squinting out at the hood of the car. “It looks like we’ve hit a fire hydrant. How annoying. Now, what about this one?” she asked holding up a similar shirt to the last one, only instead of Prague, Cleveland had been written in over NYC. “No to this one too? Well, whatever you say. I <i>love</I> Cleveland, myself. But I suppose it takes all kinds, different strokes and all that, yes it takes all kinda...well, one more try then....” she said, diving back into the box, but this time Paul didn’t wait around for the next shirt. He grabbed his suitcase, and ran out of the car just as the police were arriving. It took him a short bus ride, a couple of subway trips that included getting on the wrong train several times and having to dash out at the last minute to get on the right one, plus a walk of about 12 blocks, but eventually Paul made it safely to the his sister’s tiny New York ‘house’. Despite the fact that there was supposed to be a Bat Mitzvah after party(Paul was certain that he’d missed the actual ceremony by now) going on the house was dark. Tentatively, he walked up towards the door and found a note waiting for him. It had been taped from the inside to the front window and cheerfully explained that the Bat Mitzvah had been postponed, as the Rabbi had been double booked. Apparently he had also been scheduled to bless a local sandwich shoppe that wanted to be able to advertise Kosher Subs, but had forgotten about it until the last minute. So they’d had to postpone the Bat Mitzvah until tomorrow, and the whole family, being hungry, had gone out for a free round Kosher subs that the shoppe’s owner had offered to make it up to them. This news temporarily relieved Paul, but as he caught sight of the post script he sat down hard on the stoop and all color completely drained from his face. Apparently, the post script explained, a few extra relatives had forgotten to RSVP, but had shown up anyway, so now there wasn’t a sofa or sleeping bag or even any floor space left in the entire house to spare for Paul. But they had felt so bad about this that they had graciously rented him a room at a nearby hotel. This was all well and good, but then came the sentence that hit Paul like a hammer to the head. This awful, terrible last line of the post script said that since everyone would be out for some time, no one could give him a ride to the hotel, so (the note suggested in it’s cheerful tone) why not call a cab to drive him there instead?

=tentatively raises her hand= I'd be interested...though I don't think that I completely understand exactly what will be happening...and while I do have a Pen Persona, I'm afraid that I don't have any spare plastic onions to offer you(I sold them all on ebay the other day, apparently faux vegetables are all the rage this season), nor can I sing commercial jingles, but hopefully something will work out... MV High School!! The Maroon-colored school!! With a Pepsi machine in the front hall and an actual gym!!! Yes, I've been there, and perhaps I'd go and see this play, but I'm afraid I'm currently stuck about 800 miles away, and since hitchhiking is illegal on most major high ways, I'd probably get arrested before I got there =shrugs=.

=stands up and clapps= I agree with Merry, this was great/I really enjoyed it!

=claps= I like this! See, not eating angst flakes for breakfast isn't bad! And I didn't know there was a novel... but perhaps I just don't pay attention to what little people tell me...hmm...but anyways, so I liked this quite a bit and a big CONGRATULATIONS on your promotion to Quill Bearer as well... =runs away to locate a 'big frickin sword', if only because it sure sounds like fun and what else is there to do this far south?=

This will probably not end up being the best thing I've ever written...but after all, I started writing it to get my mind off exams during the two hour break between them that my school administrators seem to like so much. (there is no use in studying during that break, since I tend to freak out about whatever exam I'm about to take so much that frankly it does more harm than good.) So I started to write this, and am hopefully going to continue(hey, I've got a three hour plane ride coming up, and I'm told you can only look out the window but so long) and I needed to elaborate on my Pen personna personage, Sam Carmichael, anyway. ---------------------------------------)( The night was calm and moonless, and the only noise was that of the wind in the trees. It was the sort of night that makes people sigh with pleasure as they take in what can be considered as nature in harmony. But this also makes it just the sort of night to make Brocair nervous. The camp behind him was quiet, all of those stupid enough to take up a stranger's offer of riches and knowledge were either asleep or pretending to be; excepting, of course, the stranger herself, who had long ago wandered off to 'collect her thoughts'. But as he scorned the other's for their stupidity, in the back of his mind he realized that perhaps he too should be counted among their number. But then he hadn't agreed to come on this damn fool of a crusade for any of the obvious reasons of money or glory, he had come only for the hunt. All his life he had been obsessed with it...be it of an animal or, like in this situation, a mythical city. Either way, the quest itself was his only object, and thus a part of him felt above the others and their greed. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the crackling of underbrush not far from their camp. Smiling to himself, he began to draw his sword; whatever it was, man or beast, he would face it fighting. Walking silently into the brush, he scorned the other and their ill experience, when suddenly all went quiet. The telltale cracks and pops of footsteps ceased...but being the talented hunter that he was, Brocair knew that this meant that the other had heard him and quieted down. This caused him to both curse and smile; the curses were because he had been heard, and the smile was brought on by his love of an intelligent enemy. Speeding up, then doubling back he soon found himself behind his prey, exactly the position he had wanted. He could see now that it was indeed a human, though their gender or any possible reason why they were in the forest, and so close to his camp, at this late hour was still a mystery...and one that, as far as Brocair was concerned, could go without solving. Moving to the other's side, he fixed his grip on his sword and prepared to strike, confidant that though the element of complete surprise had been lost, he could easily take down his opponent Such was his confidence that he was quite shaken with the other suddenly whirled around and produced a sword of his(her?)own with lightening speed. But Brocair merely smiled as his blow was blocked. After all, if his opponent was even more intelligent than he had even originally suspected, so much the better. He moved to strike again at his opponent’s side, but was once again blocked. This time, though, he did not allow his sword to be easily pushed to the side, instead he held it firmly in place, causing his opponent to have to do the same. Then, moving quickly, he twisted his sword arm to the side, forcing the other's sword over and...out of their hand? Brocair was most surprised, and disappointed, to see the other drop his sword so easily and to note that the impact had caused his opponent to fall to the ground. Shaking his head, he moved in on the other, wondering briefly if he should allow him to recover his sword to keep the fight going. But no, this had gone on long enough already, and anyone left away back at the camp would be wondering where he had gone. Or rather, they would wonder if he had suddenly decided to abandon the party. With the sigh of both relief and sadness that always came to him at the end of a hunt, he moved closer and brought his sword to the other's neck. He was about to make the fatal swipe across their neck when suddenly he felt his body go rigid. His mind was flooded with...thoughts, ideas, and plans. At first they seemed to be his own...yes, his thoughts of scorn for the others before he had heard the sounds of the newcomer. But then...once those had run out he felt unfamiliar thoughts, or at least things he could never remember thinking about. Dropping his sword in a state of panic, he brought his hand to his head, as though that would stop it; and in a way, it did. As soon as his sword hit the ground his mental torment ceased as suddenly as it had begun. "What the hell?" he said, looking down at his prey again once his thoughts cleared. He was mildly surprised to find him no longer there, and even more so when he felt the cool kiss of steal against his neck. Turning his eyes carefully to the side, he nearly fell over when he saw that his prey had suddenly become a young woman who, despite her fearful expression, held the sword at his neck with steady hand. "Ah, Brocair, I see you have met my friend Samarria." A new figure said stepping into their presence. She was a tall, and dark haired with light violet eyes that suggested "You're friend, Kamhalya?" he said between clenched teeth, "then why the hell is she trying to kill me?" The girl made no reply, she had been frozen in shock ever since Kamhalya had entered the scene. "Because doubtless you tried to kill her first." she replied before turning to her firend. "You may release him, Samarria, you are in no danger." Brocair was interested to notice that Samarria had winced when this had been said, and right when Kamhalya spoke her name. But thankfully this did not stop her from lowering the sword away from his neck, and even handing it back to him with mummbled apologies. "I'm sorry...I was afraid. I panicked." she said meekly. Her tone suggested that she was apologizing for some deep offence, deeper even than just taking his sword. But then, Brocair found nothing strange about this. In some cultures, he knew, it was even considered a capital offence to wield another’s sword without their express permission. It hadn’t even remotely occurred to him that perhaps Samarria or another other person had something to do with the flood of thoughts that had caused his sudden, if temporary, immobility. Instead he blamed it on too much drink and lack of sleep, and inwardly urged himself to take a rest when he got back to their camp. After all, it was Taljiah's turn for watch anyway... "Its alright, Samarria, I'm sure." Kamhalya said. Once again the new girl winced at her name. Brocair noted that Kamhalya had seen this too, and almost seemed to take pleasure in repeating it again and again. "And Brocair, I would be indebted if you would return to the watch. Sam and I have much to talk about." Sam. This name seemed to suit the newcomer much better, and Brocair also saw that this time she didn’t wince. "Yea. Sure." Brocair said, turning away with one final glance at Kamhalya and Samarria, both of which seemed to be eagerly awaiting his departure. Normally, he would have stayed, or at least listened from a distance. But for some reason he felt increasingly tired...and the warmth of a fire was becoming progressively desirable. So with a shrug of disinterest, Brocair disappeared in the direction of the camp. --------------------() As soon as he was gone, Sam turned and glared at Kamhalya. why did you have to do that? she said to the other in annoyed mind speech. "Let's talk aloud, shall we?" Kamhalya replied audibly. "Fine, whatever. So why did you have to do that?" "What?"" "My name. You had to have said...said..." she stopped you had to said 'Samarria' five million times she, reverting to mind speech to reply. "Samarria is your name, why shouldn't I use it?" Kamhalya said, her tone that of a polite question. "Do you have any idea how close to the border of Halen we are!?! There are the 'trackers not ten miles away and you give them my telepath name??" Sam shot back. Her temper had taken hold of her tongue, and as soon as she had realized what she had spoken aloud she shrunk back, as though expecting these ‘trackers’ she had mentioned to jump out at her from the shadows. "You needn't worry about the them, Samarria. As you said, they are ten miles away. And the worst years of the crackdowns are over, we have nothing to worry about-" "Yes, you have nothing to worry about! You were never on the rogue-border lists, you had the advantage to be believed to be dead. I however have been on every list for the past eight years!” “And...?” “And so you can’t understand how vulnerable I feel this close to the border.” "That is still no reason why I shouldn't call you by your real name. They may call you that ghastly assumed name in that little havan you've been living in..." "That would be the Mighty Pen Keep. And I haven't even been there that long. I'd still been using my other name for years before that." "Yes, but isn't it doesn't fit you at all. Samantha I can understand, but Carmichael? Wherever did you come up with something as dull sounding as that?" Sam shrugged, and glanced down at the ground, unable to explain this away. "I needed a name” she said after a moment, “Not only to cross the border into Soria and beyond, but to have something to tell the ‘trackers when they scoured one of the border towns I was staying in.” This all seemed to be old news to Kamhalya, except for the last sentence, which caused her to raise a questioning eyebrow and wordlessly invite her friend to say more. But Samarria wasn’t exactly in the mood to pay close attention to minute signals, so she eventually gave up and took a deep breath before continuing. "True. But you could have done better, Samarria." Kamhalya said, breaking the silence that had fallen across them. "If nothing else call me Sam." she replied in exasperation. "No, Samarria is your true name, and as long as you are with me that's what I will call you. If nothing else I should remember it for you." "Fine, whatever." Sam said, conceding, "But at least you could tell me what this is all about. You’ve already had me travel across two kingdoms to get here, and you said in your letter that you'd elaborate when I arrived. So...here I am, and this had better be good." "That I did.” Kamhalya replied slowly. “As strange as it seems...I need a good telepath, someone to see around corners.” "But you’re a telepath, and probably a stronger one than I am. Why won’t your own abilities suffice?” "I'm not as strong as I once was, not telepathically anyway. I've had to...learn other talents of the mind for this trip, and its taken its toll." Kamhalya replied, her face pained. Sam raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask any more. Instead she said: "Yes...but why do you need someone to ‘see around corners’?." "Because I am about to walk into a myth at the risk of my own life and those who travel with me.” “Walk into a myth? What are you talking about?” “Yes, a myth. Tell me, Samarria, have you ever heard the story of the Valley of the Immortals?" "The...of course, that’s the one with more ‘and they were never heard from again’ endings than every other known myth combined. Surely you’re not trying to end up another corpse tacked onto the end of that old story?" "No, actually, I don’t. I can’t say much now, but I know something that all of those who have tried before did not I-.” "Really, well since you know so much, how are you planning to get in? The legendary cities of Aurora and Clemence are located on either side of the gate to keep intruders from entering what they claim is the dwelling place of the Gods of Elnath." "True, but as I was saying, I have found a way to by-pass all of that." "And what road would that be?" Sam asked skeptically. "We’ll be going through the caves of Relenki, there is a path that leads to a door opening into the upper regions of the valley, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” "The Door of Infinity? Kamhalya, please....” “Sam,” she pleaded ,”I know it sounds like a long shot, but I can get in, I promise you. And if we come to a dead end, so what? We’ll just turn around and come back again, none the worse for the whole affair. Please Sam, I need a telepath I can trust, not to mention a friend, to come with me.” "But what about the others with you?" "Body guards and others of the sort bound to the quest by their own greed." "Ah yes....the treasure of the gods and immortals." "Exactly. And like them you're perfectly welcome to your share. I need you to help me Samarria,” she paused, for a moment, then frowned, “...and you need me to help you with your mental jamming. Its terrible, I can see right through you." "Yes...I've been having some problems with that." Sam said reluctantly, remembering the many times recently when it had taken her great concentration just to block careless thoughts. Thoughts of others around her that she had once been able to eliminate with hardly any effort at all. "Don't worry, I can re-teach you. I helped you out before when we were running, didn't I? Come on Sam, you need something interesting to do after all those months in that safe haven of yours. Please, come with me." Sam didn't answer at once. She doubted that she would be particularly missed anywhere, especially since she had been avoiding people ever since her blocking skills began to go downhill. And yet...the Valley of the Immortals was a powerful myth, and it was saturated in both mystery and mortality. She hadn’t been stretching the truth at all when she had mentioned the amount of people who were ‘never heard from again’. But with that also came the question of why. Had they been killed? Or was life just so wonderful there that they never chose to return? After all, if the myths were to be believed, the city in the valley was a literal paradise. And despite how close they were to the border with Halen, the mountains were a powerful protector. And it had been years since she had been in this area, since she had finally made it across the border, telepathy control officers(better know as telepath trackers) hard on her heals. She ran over these and other considerations for quite some time, but in the end, her curiosity got the better of her. "Fine.” Sam said after her mental deliberations, “I need a holiday. It might as well be to a valley no one returns to." "Thank you Samarria, I knew you'd agree." Kamhalya said cheerfully, "now come, I'll show you where we have camped; there are still several hours until dawn and I for one would like to get some sleep..." ------------------------------------)( Like I said...this is only a little bit...there should be more on the way =shrugs= =runs away to hide=

thankee much! Now all we have to hope is that my English teacher likes it...=crosses fingers=

Yes, I was a violinst once...long ago. Now, however, I just play the cello.

This was, very recently, a project for English. The assignment? Write a short story including the literary techniques we'd been talking about. Yes...endless possiblilties for anyone who can write a serious sort of story, but for someone who generally writes humor which is completely devoid of symbolism, forshadowing, and other fun little literary things, a project like this can actually be a bit annoying...and I must haev gone through almost writing three million different stories before I finally realized that 5th period was in a little under 12 hours and this project was/is a huge grade. But anyway, this is to document a story taht while it isn't one of my best, may well be one of the only non humor stories I have written all the way through from start to finish. ---------------------------------)( The chair...oh it was so close, and out of reach!! Cara was almost crying with the indignity of it all. It could have been her's! It should have been her's! But then why, why was this..this stranger seated next to her?! Why, then, was she sitting in second chair, with someone completely unknown sitting in the sacred first violinist's chair?? Her stand partner was a sweet looking girl who cradled a violin in her arm and smiled innocently at those around her. Her long blonde hair fell in soft tresses down her back, and her face was without flaw. But Cara knew, she knew, that this girl next to her was just putting on a show. Really she was demonic and overly ambitious...she had to be. Because if she wasn’t, where would that put Cara? "I'm being judgmental again...I'm sure she's perfectly nice" she whispered, trying to calm herself, but she didn't believe it. "Hello, my name is Christina." the principle chair violinist said, turning and flashing that sweet smile at Cara. She did her best to remain unmoved. 'That smile of her's may fool everyone else, but she'll never get me.' "I'm Cara..." she replied cooly, or at least as cooly as possible considering the anger and annoyance she felt. "Really, nice to meet you, " Christina replied, still beaming, "What Suzuki book are you in? I'm only in Suzuki Violin book 6 myself" she said in mock humility, or at least it sounded that way to Cara. "I'm in book 5," Cara replied tritely. "Really," Christina replied, Cara was sure she saw the other's smile increase when she learned of the fact that Cara was a whole book behind. “You know, its my first time here, and I can hardly believe that we only get one day to prepare as a group! I know I’m prepared to give my all, but I am almost afraid that not everyone else will be ready.” Christina said, her eyes sweeping over the second violin section. Cara was just about to come up with a sarcastic remark when suddenly the conductor, a short and stout man of perhaps his late fifties, tapped a pencil against his stand, signaling that they were about to start. The buzzing in the auditorium abruptly stopped, and participants who weren't already in their seats scrambled up onto the stage. "Good luck." Christina said, flashing another bright smile and pulling her long, blonde hair up into a bun. Cara half smiled, half scowled back. “Now,” the conductor began flipping through the music, “Our first selection looks deceivingly easy but if you’ll turn your attention to measure thirty two, first violins you’ll notice that the sixteenth notes ....” he said, droning on. Christina, of course, had immediately snapped to attention as soon as the conductor had begun to speak, and after a fashion Cara had also willed herself into paying attention to the lecture about quarter rests and sixteenth notes, if only because she didn’t wish to be outdone in any way by Christina. By the time lunch rolled around, Cara was fuming. Christina had performed exceptionally well, while Cara felt her fingers slipping around and going in all the wrong places. As though that hadn’t been bad enough, Christina had actually had the audacity to talk the conductor into making what the music marked as a duet between the first and second chair violins into just a solo for her, claiming that it ‘sounded far better and followed more with the feel of the music’ to have just a single instrument playing. That alone would have ordinarily set Cara off the edge, and coupled with her own undesirable playing was enough to make her throw her violin savagely down onto the floor in a rage. But as upset as she was, she inwardly admitted that she would never have really thrown her violin down like that, as it would have almost certainly damaged it. The one unwritten rule that united orchestras of all size and statue was the fact that it was an unspeakably horrid act punishable by ostracism from your orchestra to willingly damage your or someone else’s instrument. With this in mind, she hopped off the stage and onto the carpet below. Surveying the many groups that the orchestra had broken up into, she noticed with annoyance that Christina had quite a crowd around her. With one final sigh of exasperation she started off to the seat in the audience where she had left her case, vowing to push Christina from her mind, if only for this lunch period. As she was putting her violin away, she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and whirled. Standing behind her was a girl with short blonde hair and a strange look about her, smiling she moved to introduce herself. “My name is Cass,” she said, “and this is Andrew,” she said, introducing a person in the aisle who Cara hadn’t noticed. “Both of us go to Carl Sandburg Middle School” “That’s the same school as Ms.Popular over there.” Andrew said, indicating Christina. “Yes..I’m Cara,” she replied. “Yes, we know. The second chair first violinist. I’m a second violinist.” Cass replied, putting heavy weight on the last sentence, as though it explained all of her problems. “So is Andrew...but I see that you’ve been close to Christina, what do you think of her?” “I..” she stopped for a moment, unsure of whether or not to be diplomatic. In the end, her rage from earlier got the better of her, “She stole a partial solo from me, and the right to be principle chair, what do you think I think of her??”she said sharply. This caused Cass to smile and nod over Cara’s head at Andrew.“I thought so,” she said, “ and in that case you’ll be willing to help us and a few others who feel the same.” “Help you what?” Cara asked, suddenly suspicious. “To get Chris-“ Andrew began ”We’re just going to kind of get Christina back for some of the things she’s done, like steal your shot at that solo.”Cass said glaring at Andrew. “And every time she’s ever said anything against our sections.” “It won’t be anything serious.”Cass said in a soothing tone “Just a little practical joke or something.” “And all we need is for you to distract her during the last break before the concert.” Cass and Andrew seemed to have surrounded her, if that is possible for two people to do, and between their urges and Cara’s memories of Christina’s injustices from earlier, it didn’t take her long to reply. “Sure, I’ll help.” The other two were instantly grateful, showering her with compliments and praises before allowing Cara to go off and eat her lunch. As soon as she was out of earshot, Andrew turned to Lisa. “Do you really think she’s in?” he asked. “Undoubtedly. Come on, we’ve got planning to do, there’s only a half an hour left before we have to play again.” Five hours later, it was nearly time for the concert, and everyone in the orchestra had changed into the formal black dress which made them look so much alike. But despite this, it was still easy for Cara to pick out the figure of Christina. Unlike everyone else who looked dull and weighted down by their black clothing, she appeared to be floating, and the black did nothing to dampen the color of her long blonde hair. They still had a good twenty minutes before people would even start to arrive, and so like so many others, Christina included, Cara had left her violin in her chair on stage. She looked back and nodded one last time at Cass and Andrew, before speaking to Christina. “Hello,” she said, forcing her demeanor to be cheerful. “Oh, hi.” Christina said, smiling that million dollar smile of hers. “Yes, I just wanted to tell you good luck with your solo and everything.” Cara replied. It really, really hurt her to say these kind things, but she did her best not to show it. “Yea...about that. Are you sure you’re not mad?” “What?” Cara replied, her surprise genuine. “My solo. I know it was supposed to be a duet between us. It was just a crazy idea, and I didn’t really think that the conductor would agree. But he did, and you never said anything so I guess that you either didn’t care, or you were incredibly angry with me. So I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if you are upset.” Cara stood there with her mouth agape. “Did she really just apologize??” she thought, barely believing it.. “So no hard feelings?”. “No...none at all.” Cara said in a very, very small voice. “Great!” Christina said, regaining her bright smile. “And you know you really were right, when we were playing just a few minutes ago it really sounded very nice, everyone did seem to throw themselves into it just like you said-“ Suddenly there was a loud crack followed by the fluttering of sheet and the crash of a music stand on the stage. Before she had a chance to turn and look, she was nearly knocked over by Christina who quickly darted towards the stage, followed by a crowd of bored orchestra members. “What is it?” she asked someone further up in the crowd. “First chair stand fell or something.” someone replied absent mindedly “Which section?!?!” “First violins, I think.” “Let me through!!” Cara said, quickly pushing her way up onto the stage. A few moments later Cara was close enough to see what was going on. Instinctively she moved towards her own violin first, concerned to see it lying on the floor. She picked it up and was relieved to see that it was all in one piece, but her relief didn’t last long, for her happy thoughts were soon interrupted by a loud sob from the floor below her. Surprised by the sudden emotion, Cara switched her gaze to Christina who was sitting on the floor amid fallen music and a turned over chair. Her perfect complexion had turned blotchy and red from crying, and the occasional sob wracked her thin body. Lying in her lap was her violin, a large crack in the varnished body of the instrument revealing the rough interior. “Does anyone have an extra violin?!” Cara yelled to the orchestra members assembled around her. Shrugs were the only answer she got. With a sigh, it registered with her what she had to do. After all, she was fairly certain that Andrew and Cass had been evolved in this, and so she too was connected with this unspeakable act. With a sigh, she plucked each string of her violin, wincing at the out of tune pitches, but grateful that none were broken. Then, with a sigh she squatted down next to Christina. “Don’t worry about you’re violin. You can use mine tonight.” Cara said, pressing her own violin into the surprised hands of the other. “But....no...I couldn’t. Then you wouldn’t be able to play.” Christina said, trying to give it back. “No, I don’t know the solo, remember? And their about to open the doors.” “I couldn’t it would be fair-“ ”Just take it.” Cara said, her temper showing through. “Thank you...”Christina said, standing up, throwing her arms around a rather surprised Cara.. “Thank you so very much.” Pulling away Cara picked up Christina’s damaged violin and laid it on her own chair before walking silently off the stage. Christina smiled after her, then wiped away her tears with a tissue offered by one of her fellow orchestra members and took her seat just as a loving tide of parents and orchestra teachers began to enter the auditorium. As for Cara, she walked slowly into the dark of the theater, found a seat, and began to cry. ---------------------------)( hmmm, maybe I *should* have gone with my first idea and written about crazed Southerners who've had a twinge too much sweet tea breaking up people's weddings because they suspected the groom to be a human teapot...or maybe not...=shrugs and hopes for the best=

After thawing in a sink full of cold water for the past two days, the constant conversation piece that is my family's Butterball turkey is finally in the oven and its only a matter of time before I'm swept off to hear yet again about my great-great-great-great grandfather and how he fell off the Mayflower way back when. But before all this begins, I'd like to take a moment to say HAPPY THANKSGIVING to all of you who are celebrating it, and HAPPY THURSDAY to those of you who aren't. Also, I'm afraid that I must take this time to announce that it has just occurred to me that I have first semester exams at the end of December, as well as oodles of final projects. Therefore, I can't vouch for how often I'm going to be able to get online and visit. So I think that I'm going to have to kind of fade off into the background(even more so than I already had ) for the next several weeks or so. After that, and unless I do so badly on my exams that my computer privileges are restricted, I'll be back to some degree and hopefully I'll have gained enough inspiration to actually post something interesting... Anyways, so once again have a lovely Thanksgiving and/or Thursday! =hands everyone large quantities of pumpkin pie before quietly exiting, stage left=

Shocked by the fact that she had been answered and that she now had a window in which to ask her questions slightly shocked Char, who was far more used to being shunted into the background without question. "Well..." she said after a few moments, "First of all, I only heard bits and pieces of what you and..." she faultered, trying unsuccessfully to remember what the mysterious girls name was, "and her were talking about. So could you please tell me what is all this about you dying, but then being resurrected in such ways where you could have been an old friend of Calonderiel, but you're not sure because you can't remember, and because of this are we or are we not going to some odd place where you might have died so that you can remember." she said rather ineloquently. "Oh, and then who exactly was it that tried to...well...kill Calonderiel and perhaps the rest of us as well. And why. Once again, I'm not trying to be rude or pry into anyone else's affairs its just that I'd like to come with you all to...wherever you're going, and thus would like a bit of general information as to what in the world is going on."