| MirrorMask (rough) |
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September 30, 2007
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There are many kinds of Power in the Worlds: fire and signs, water and tides, breath and song, earth and stone. But there is nothing in all the Worlds more powerful than Creation, and her sister Destruction.
Helena did not realize at two, when she began fingerpainting with charcoal, that she was invoking a Power which would one day shape her dreams. She did not understand, at seven, that every drawing she made had a life of its own. So when, at fifteen, her Creations lead her to another World...she remained blissfully ignorant for a time. But no ignorance lasts forever.
Soon it became clear that this World of Light and Shadow was, in fact, a world Created by Helena, a world made from her drawings. No scribble was left without meaning, and Helena could sense a connection with every crack in the strange pavement, every uncloudlike wisp in the sky. She knew, somehow, how to trick a sphinx, how to charm giants. No matter where she went in the World of Light and Shadow, she could feel the presence of the MirrorMask she sought, though she did not yet have the ability to reach out and touch it.
At first, Helena thought the Dark Queen was the worst. While it did not exactly surprise her that the Dark Queen was also her mother, in the way that nothing in this World could surprise her, it was still disturbing. All the worst things her mother could become: that is what the Dark Queen was. But when Helena realized that the Dark Princess was really in her world, yelling at her dad, snogging boys, and tearing up her drawings one by one...that horror never completely left.
Even after she found the MirrorMask, and sent the Dark Princess back to rightful place in the World of Light and Shadow, Helena remained acutely aware of what the Dark Princess would have done to her life. And she hated it. It was not unreasonable for her to hate that possibility...after all, it was only through luck and magic that she wasn't stuck as the Dark Queen's pet. On that count, Helena was sorry. As much as the possibility of the Dark Princess ruining her life was hateful, Helena did not hate the Dark Princess, after all. No more than she hated the Dark Queen, or the sphinxes, or the Shadow itself. In the same way Helena could feel the pavement cracks and unknown paths of the World of Light and Shadow, she knew that they were each playing their Roles, doing what was natural. The World of Light and Shadow was partly her Creation, but Helena knew that there were levels of Creation far beyond her in creating the souls involved.
There was one thing that worried her. There were many nights when she would lie awake in her trailer, and wonder what happened to Valentine, and the Dark Princess. Did they escape together, in his tower? Did the Dark Queen recapture the Princess? Did she hurt Valentine? That last was what bothered her most, because although Valentine had partly betrayed her, she knew somehow that he wouldn't forget her name like he did the others. He came back for her, which he probably had never done before in his life. He apologized to his tower, and Helena had a strong suspicion that he even managed to change the future he saw when he bit the Future Fruit. There were only waiters in her world, after all.
So when, one normal night at the Big Top, she was tipped and caught by a boy with a face, Helena was very happy indeed. He might not know anything about the other World, and his other Self, but she did. She couldn't control what happened to Valentine in the World of Light and Shadow, but this world...in this world, things would turn out just fine.
Notes: Switch the places of the Dark Queen and Princess: "At first, Helena thought the Dark Princess was the worst" etc.
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| Catullus 101 (trans: me) |
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December 10, 2006
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| [ |
mood |
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 calm |
] |
As a Personal Anthology junior year of high school, we took various media and responded to them, linking them to a common theme. My theme was longing. ...Reading this brings me back some. I've been through a lot since then, but in many ways, nothing's changed. (Also, the song "Frater Ave Atque Vale" by Faith And The Muse was based on a Tennyson poem by the same name, a name taken from this poem.)
Carmina CI
Catullus
Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
advenio has miseras, frater, as inferias,
ut te postremo donarem munere mortis
et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem.
Quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum.
Heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi,
nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum
tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias,
accipe fraterno multam manantia fletu,
atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.
~*~
Poem 101
Catullus
Having been carried through many races and many seas
I come to these miserable rituals, brother,
So I may gift you with a final gift of death
And address the mute ashes in vain.
Because fortune has stolen you yourself from me.
Oh miserable brother who was taken away from me undeservingly,
Now…however…while these things, which by old custom of relatives
Are passed down as a sad offering at this funeral,
Accept from brotherly tears, much dripping,
And forever, brother, farewell and adieu.
( Response. )
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| Miscellaneous - vampire |
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November 7, 2006
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| [ |
music |
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"Wish I Had an Angel" Nightwish |
] |
I'm in love with my lust~
This night will hurt you like never before
Old loves they die hard
Old lies they die harder
Driving. Laughter. Blood rushes to my head. It hovers just beneath my skin, a cloud of liquid life waiting to surge forth from my lips. Each time I smile, my canines brush those lips, full to bursting, sending a new thrill of pleasure across my face and through my body.
Darkness. Headlights on bright, but they barely cut through an inch of the night that surrounds me. I don't really need them to see, but sometimes the illusion of normalcy dispels outside interference...until it's too late.
Lights fade across the color spectrum and back, strobing in patterns that change just as I start to understand the hidden messages. Boring of this exercise, I observe the dance floor. Pitiful fools, most of them. Trying to dance away their wasted years, to somehow regain the things they never had. Easy prey for one like me.
Misbegotten dreams are my currency, and illusions are my reality. I create worlds beyond their knowledge, and they give me what I need to survive. The strong prey on the weak while the weak thank the strong for the privilege. It's a lovely world.
It's true; if I wanted, I could enter the dance floor and all eyes would be on me. I do not tire, nor do I hesitate, and dancing, to me, comes as easily as breathing to an unthinking child. But it is just as entertaining for me to lurk around the edges of the room. My very presence intoxicates. A glance from my eyes fills that man with mystery, that woman with lust, that couple with a feeling of power over their own lives, if only for one night. I inspire and I invoke their deepest conscious loves, fears, and desires. It is only fair that I satiate my needs with theirs...and them. Each breath that falls from their lips could be their last...and deep down they know it. They see me, and they see their fantasies...and thus they know that I signify the End. No one able to inspire these things would appear in their lives if not to change them. And in many ways, even the smallest change is a kind of Death.
Death-dealer, I have been called. There is no higher compliment.
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| Miscellaneous - core |
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October 17, 2006
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Siiinking. Deep inside the earth's crust, the rock is cool and dark. It fills me and surrounds me without sound; an absolute silence prevails within my mind. But I keep sinking.
I reach a point of no return, one on a path of least resistance that my mind is helpless to avoid. Down the rabbit hole, then. The rabbit's burrow is getting hotter.
So hot that I am no longer enclosed in solid stone and layers of earth. Instead, I swim through a thick gelatin of magma. I make my own path from darkness to darkness, as my flesh burns, separating from bone and melting to nothing. Bone alone continues its vain motions against the planet's inner fires until it too disappears, turns to ash, until even the ash disintegrates into nothing.
Liquid stone burns away my body, but my spirit continues inward and downward, breaching the realm of liquid metal, instant death, the core of all we know and stand upon. Even here, I find that the mind survives the body. The center of all things, and I am passing through it. And am somehow still myself.
But the end of all things follows their beginnings. And the beginning comes again when you've passed the end. Back, up and up, through liquid fire and metal and earth, back to stone and dirt and air.
And only when the end becomes the true beginning--when my spirit reaches air again--do I feel myself falling apart. In the midst of all I know, and all I've ever known to love, whatever holds me together is falling apart, and my soul melts away like my flesh did before.
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| Miscellaneous - balloons and marbles |
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October 17, 2006
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Flushed. Hot. Grinning like an idiot. Balloons floating up and up, past all reckoning. Flying until they're falling forward and in between the stars of mind and body and sky. Vanishing into the ever-bright midnight of the soul. The vacuum defined in brilliant light, contour sharp enough to cut. Mind flying back with the blood, back and back until the blood melts into sunset reds and blues, the nonexistent oxygen melting into streams of cloud that wrap the planet like a marble.
Mind branches out again and soars, upward and outward. One marble planet joins eight, joins eight hundred, joins a universe of marbles, all rolling in their prescribed paths, following the time-space curves like a nylon stocking. Over and around and under, all the little marbles. Once in a while, two will click together. The second they touch, both together release a force greater than either alone. This universe of marbles and synergy, full of the sounds of glass rolling against nothing, the sounds expanding like an echo into every plane of existence.
Mind falls back, slowly, layer upon layer of consciousness regressing, to see two marbles click on a table of glass.
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| Miscellaneous - almost autumn nap |
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October 4, 2006
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Stems and leaves and liquid light pour onto my still form beneath the canopy of almost-autumn trees. My left hand trails into a still, clear pool of cool water. Golden flashes of fish brush against my fingertips. My right hand covers my face; I peer through sun-brightened fingers at the blurred and wavy branches, most still green, a few turning sable-orange and red. The leaves kaleidoscope against the blue sky, whirling around my mind in the breeze.
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| PotC - Pouring |
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September 25, 2006
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music |
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"Fade" Staind |
] |
Title: Pouring
Rating: PG
Genre: Introspection (Elizabeth POV)
Chapter(s): One shot, 223 words
~*~
Pouring, pouring, pouring. What the bloody hell.
Thoughts pouring through head, water pouring through dress, the world pulling itself out and around through eyeballs. Pouring.
If I heated my head enough, all the thoughts swirling through it would boil to steam. I'd create enough fog to cover Port Royal. Then maybe I'd find him, that bastard, and KILL him.
Or actually no, I don't want to kill him. Just kidding. Hurt him a little? No, no. I love him! I was going—AM GOING TO MARRY HIM. Yes. Whatever it is that went wrong, I'm sure it can't be a big deal. We'll just fix it, like we always do. Through, uh...planning? Yes. Planning. Clearly this wedding wasn't planned well enough if we didn't take into account...whatever it is that went wrong.
What did go wrong?? Who's going to show up in this rain and tell me THAT?? My dress is so ruined now. What the hell.
Why am I even caring about the bloody dress? My wedding was ruined, hello? I must be in some sort of weird partial denial. La-la-la...wedding dress is more important than the wedding, of course.
Enough of that. What could have happened?
And a music sheet smacks me in the face. Great. I probably have ink on my nose to top it all off. Lovely. Just. Lovely.
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| Miscellaneous - Impressions |
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September 25, 2006
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Impressions. Silent ones, noisy ones. Full and partial. Right and wrong. I am surrounded by the smells of humanity, of youth, of foolishness. Of innocence leading to death. Of death leading to passion. And so many different tastes of passion. Deepest Red and Bluest Purple. Lightest Pink, almost not passion at all. Vibrant Orange and Lemon Yellow and Kelly Green. Pulsating consciousnesses weaving their way over and under each other in accidental designs of kindness and schadenfreude. Over, under, whirling around to pool in webs of thought that busy spiders spin, unseen above our heads.
But still, the ultimate questions remain unasked: Who are the spiders? Who are the butterflies? Who weave the webs and who are gripped by them?
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| Miscellaneous - cosmic babble |
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September 20, 2006
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mood |
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 contemplative |
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Warmth. Heat. Feathery tendrils of body against body, crammed into the intellect like sardines. Webs of empty space are spun between the diamond-hard lace of stars. Waves of heat lap up to shores of solar systems, an ocean filled with life amidst the lifelessness of space. Aquatic mammals dive between the heat and cold, the light and dark, the stars and space. Ursine models move themselves to pose and shift their fuzzy warmth across the vastness.
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| Miscellaneous - humor - prompt: "exploring" |
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September 12, 2006
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Fiction ~ "Exploring" : cruise
Exploring. That was my mantra. I came on this cruise because I was tired of life, and wanted to find rebirth on some teal, tropical island. I had the picture in my mind. It looked a lot like the advertisement for the cruise, actually…there was a boat, with lots of tiny windows, and next to it an island, a small island, completely deserted, with dark green jungle ferns and magenta flowers and sand of a most improbable shade of pastel canary. Round about the island and the boat, the ocean rippled out to the horizon, the water fading from an industrial grey-green to dark turquoise to an almost obnoxiously bright aquamarine. The sky looking down upon the magazine picture…uh, I mean, my mental image, was just on the blue-y side of cerulean, and clashed beautifully with the ocean, jungle, and the flag. Oh, the flag was hanging on the boat's mast. It was not a sailing ship, so I'm not sure why it had a mast…but it did. On the flag was the universal symbol of tropical cruises: a hundred dollar bill.
~*~
Fiction ~ "Exploring" : desert
Exploring. That was all I could think about. It's really a pity that the idea of, oh, good hydration or long life or survival in general did not seem so important to me when I joined this tour. The fact that they took no money, only reclaimable metals and jewelry, probably should have tipped me off.
Actually, I have to wonder how they placed an ad in Get Lost In The Desert bimonthly if they don't take money. Hunh. Well, no matter.
The point is, that 'zine title. Is LITERAL.
I mean, I know that I could try to look on the bright side…but honestly I'm sort of feeling the whole shade idea right now. A lot. And I wouldn't mind a glass of water, period. Both halves full, please.
~*~
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| Miscellaneous - melodrama |
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September 4, 2006
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music |
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"Safe Place" Staind |
] |
And then I find…you here
Through your eyes everything's clear
And I'm home inside your arms
But I'm alone for now…alone for now
"Safe Place" ~ Staind
He knew it would happen. It was bound to happen. He was foolish to have held out hope for so long.
His face still stung from her hand, and his eyes were beginning to sting with unshed tears. As his skin was from cold.
It no longer mattered what the fight was about, or who started it, or who was right. All that mattered is that she slapped him, and went inside. Leaving him in the snow. And his cold misery.
But he knew it would happen. That things hadn't changed. He might not live with his family anymore, but they were in his blood, and he was destined to live alone. In the end, any argument would turn into shouts, and it wouldn't matter who won…he would lose. It was in his blood.
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| Noein—Episode 4 |
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August 1, 2006
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music |
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"Legion" VNV Nation |
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Title: Untitled
Rating: PG
Chapter(s): One-shot, 100 words
Comments: I've never done one of those limit yourself to 100 words thingers before. It's very interesting, like a prose haiku.
Episode 4
Karasu stood, and watched.
She needs a friend. A best friend.
"Haruka! Where are you going in this rain? Haruka!"
Thoughts flit around and through each other, all leading back to the same picture. Future, past, present, everything leads to everything else, and the strongest choose the order.
The two girls on the wet lawn below embrace, slipping in the mud and giggling.
At least I can make some things right. No one should be alone.
Pointless philosophies chase pointless plans. Strength. Weakness. Alone. Together. Wheels within wheels. He senses something far beyond him. And doesn't know what to think.
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| Layout. Book!rant. Fun thymes. :D |
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May 4, 2006
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| [ |
mood |
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 geeky |
] |
| [ |
music |
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"I Was a Teenage Werewolf" The Cramps |
] |
New layout! Hah!
Despite this being a writing journal, I am posting about the layout. Possibly because the header took me like...hours. I don't even know. I got the images from this picture, from the manga "The Calling" by Reiko Ohkano. Which is awesome. It's the manga version of The Forgotten Beasts of Eld, for anyone who's heard of that. For those who haven't, go read! Marvelous book. Although one does get tired of the ivory-hair-black-eyes bit after a while...though it never ceases to amaze me that DESPITE Patricia McKillip's over-fondness for the phrases "black eyes" and "ivory hair" or "white hair," almost every single cover artist made her blonde. BLONDE. WHAT FREAKING IDIOTS. GAH.
It gets to me about as much as most of the coverart for R. A. Salvatore's Forgotten Realms books. The ones of Drizzt, that is. Because ALL of them somehow end up with him looking like SIXTY YEARS OLD, or really BUFF AND MANLY or something equally distasteful (compared to what he should be, that is). I won't even COUNT the times that Salvatore specifically SAYS, in ALL of his books, that Drizzt is a drow, a dark elf, a culture focused around beauty, with feminine hands, etc. Considering the emphasis in drow society on beauty....well let's just say that Matron Baenre would put these cover artists to torture for several thousand years as penance for the travesty of UNPRETTY that are these covers. I swear.
In short, FUN THYMES WERE HAD BY ALL. No really. See!
I love myself SOBAD right now. Off to redo the graphics journal's layout! :D
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| Rurouni Kenshin—Inn |
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March 19, 2006
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| [ |
mood |
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 shocked |
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OMFG. I was just rooting around on my computer, reading random things...my old Gankutsuou one-shots, and whatnot...and I clicked on a file in my RK folder called "Inn." OMG. I ACTUALLY LIKE THIS. At first I thought it was a bit of harmless fluff....but DAMN. I like this. @_@ It's sort of, uh, unfinished. But I'll post what there is, because DAMN. I don't remember writing this at ALL.
~*~
( Inn. )
~*~
Obviously, it makes NO sense for her to be breaking out dried fruit wtf? road rations if they're AT AN INN. But still. Barring that little wisp of stupid, I like this thing. Which is like...I dunno. I'm still in shock it exists, frankly, since I still don't remember writing it. According to the file, it was created a year ago two Mondays from now.
And now I really must go to bed.
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| Pitch Black—Bloodstained Angel |
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March 19, 2006
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mood |
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 sleepy |
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Um. It's been too long. Far too long. And this isn't new writing or anything. This is as old as all the other stuff I've written and just not posted. Actually, this is only the second chunk that I've even typed. I know I have a bunch more stuff in that notebook sitting on my dresser, but I'm too tired to type that up. And I have to get up early for work tomorrow...oops. Anywho.
Uh, this is basically...the very end. Skips all the way to after you-know-who diez0rz. @_@ It's short, but I felt the need to post SOMETHING. I mean, JEEZ. For someone who loves to write so much, I suck at actually doing it in any organized manner. Ah well.
( Very End. (And if you haven't seen Pitch Black, MAJOR SPOILERS. *cough*) )
PS: I have read this over, but not really changed much. So excuse the mawkish. I tried to balance it when I first wrote it, you can sort of tell. I still need to get rid of a few things, though. Including my working title. WTF. Because "Bloodstained Angel" originally was sort of an inside joke in my brain, but now just sounds pretentious. Or emo. Y'know. Whichever.
PPS: Must change word "ditch" with something more strong. Ghost, perhaps? Royally fuck over? Teeheehee. Also, the mawkish isn't as bad as I at first feared. Also, I'm going to turn the idea of "the brightness" into an ACTUAL light from the ship. Just to taunt my inner slushie. And Riddick'll be all, "Oh. Damn. I thought C's face was all bright and angel-y, when in fact, it was clearly this light from the ship that now shines across Jack's fair visage." Or something. I amuse myself, sometimes. :D
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| Original—Hate Mantra |
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June 17, 2005
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| [ |
mood |
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 mischievous |
] |
| [ |
music |
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"Nice" Duran Duran |
] |
Title: Hate Mantra
Rated: Teen, for adult themes, nothing graphic.
Chapter(s): Two chapters, both up.
Summary: Hate. Is it an emotion? Does it matter? Sometimes it can kill...and sometimes it can save.
Posted at fictionpress.com HERE.
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| Poetry—Warrior Farewell |
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June 7, 2005
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| [ |
mood |
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happy |
] |
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music |
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"You Won't See Me Coming (Full Version)" Gankutsuou OST |
] |
Title: Warrior Farewell
Summary: A homage to those who patiently wait for those they love to return, as well as to those who feel that only by leaving can they help.
Posted at fictionpress.com HERE.
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| Miscellaneous—There are no kings anymore. |
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May 30, 2005
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| [ |
mood |
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 lethargic |
] |
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music |
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"Inner Universe" Yoko Kanno |
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Mini-essay-commentary type thing. I'm thinking about submitting it (or something like it) to NPR. It seems like the sort of thing they might use as a filler.
( There are no kings anymore. )
EDIT: Actually, NPR has a thing going now for submitting essays that sounds rather interesting. This I Believe. I'll think about it. I guess the trick is finding a situation that is interesting enough to write an essay about. Sadly, I'm not a terribly interesting person. Ah well. XDXD
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