Monday, June 04, 2007
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Packs Up Bags - I'm moving to Livejournal!
What Shall I Say Now...
Hmmm...
Well, I'm gaining weight. Again. Must exercise!
Wasting time. A lot of it.
Miss my friends. Really.
Going to stay at Sunny Hills. Probably.
Waiting for Sheena to come back. Hopefully. (Joy, tell me when she returns!)
Wants to watch Superman Returns. Desperately.
Thinking of things to write. Strangely.
Reading Joy's blog. Daily.
Obsessed with anime. Always.
Watching martial arts movies. Usually.
Loves everyone. Occasionally.
Waiting for Caroline to call. Tediously.
Argh.
Yep, that's it.
P.S. My dad isn't willing to pay for Muckenthaler (cries). Joy, you should still go for it. :) Teach me when you get back (yes, I am sponging off you). Or we could learn monologues separately and then critique each other.
Well, I'm gaining weight. Again. Must exercise!
Wasting time. A lot of it.
Miss my friends. Really.
Going to stay at Sunny Hills. Probably.
Waiting for Sheena to come back. Hopefully. (Joy, tell me when she returns!)
Wants to watch Superman Returns. Desperately.
Thinking of things to write. Strangely.
Reading Joy's blog. Daily.
Obsessed with anime. Always.
Watching martial arts movies. Usually.
Loves everyone. Occasionally.
Waiting for Caroline to call. Tediously.
Argh.
Yep, that's it.
P.S. My dad isn't willing to pay for Muckenthaler (cries). Joy, you should still go for it. :) Teach me when you get back (yes, I am sponging off you). Or we could learn monologues separately and then critique each other.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Life of Winnie v. 17
By popular demand (I wish) here's an update! Yay!
- Chang looked good, but his best accessory was Joy, who looked absolutely stunning in her prom dress (Joy is available at stores near you...look for a cute little Filipino girl.)
- Sheena's coming back!
- I'm getting better!
- I have friends! Exactly two at the moment (not that I'm counting) -- cheers for Grace and Joy, who didn't sound bored when I called them!
- Is it hot in here? (fans with both hands) SEXY bishonen in the world! Lovely, lovely! Tszuki, Hisoka, Soubi, Jin, etc
- Obsessed with anime. Don't believe me?
gungrave
weiss kreuz
gravitation
Yami no Matsuei
Saiyuki
wolf's rain
samurai champloo
Final FantasyKingdom Hearts
loveless
kenshin
outlaw star
berserk
full metal
rahxephon
paranoia agent
get backers
fullmetal
cowboy bebop
fake
prince of tennis
trigun
witch hunter robin
Initial D
bleach
ayashi no ceres
DN Angel
.hack//SIGN
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
King of Hearts - A Slash Story, God help me
Author’s Note: Oh no! This is turning into an awful parody of a comedy! Where is the angst, the romance, the sex? By the way, the slash is completely irrelevent to the story. I just put it in for fun.
"Aragorn?" The whisper came from the darkness, soft and soothing.
The man awoke suddenly, breaths coming in quick gasps. "Arwen?"
"I am here, beloved." An elegant lotus-pale hand grasped his own. The king of men stared blindly about him, his dark eyes seeking light. White moon beams strewn down upon the
balcony.
"All is well, Aragorn. What do you fear?" Her voice was calm and soothing.
Aragorn shook his head. "I had a dream, Arwen, a dream of terrible things I cannot say to you, lest I sully your elven ears."
She smiled. "These pointed elven ears can take much, and they hear the cry of a husband in distress, and not from a wife's chattering."
"I cannot say," he said again, agitatedly rising and pacing beside their tumbled bed. "For I do not know myself, nor the cause of such horrible events."
"Lay down," she commanded gently. "Sleep. I will watch over you."
Pride rebelled. "If aught is wrong, should I not muse over the trouble, and right it?"
"Of course," she replied. "After you rest, my lord."
He surrendered. There was no arguing with the beautiful elven lady, the evenstar of her people, and his wife.
Aragorn closed his eyes, but rest did not embrace him, though waking dreams clasped him in their shadowy arms.
-----------------------------------------------
"Aragorn!" an elf’s merry voice called. "Come see this block of stone Gimli claims is the beauteous Lady Galadriel!"
"Fool of an elf! I said it will be in the form, an inferior shaping, of the Lady Galadriel."
The king strode forward, uneasily smiling at his friends. "Is that so?"
The dwarf grumbled into his thick beard as Legolas leapt lightly from the limbs of a tall tree,
where he had been seriously scrutinizing said block of stone. "Blinded by leaves, it is no wonder that he cannot see rightly."
"Unable to see how he ought, what with his short stature, it is a wonder he can view anything at all."
Though often he had laughed at their exchanges, Aragorn did not react this day, except in a startled gesture of surprise as the elf appeared beside him.
Gimli frowned. A sense of wrongness wafted through the air with the teasing breeze. "It is not like you, Aragorn, to be astonished at an elf’s antics, especially the play of this one."
"Play, dwarf?" Legolas asked, inclining his head questioningly. "And what is it that you call grubbing about in the dirt and rock, as a child?"
Aragorn pressed calloused hands to his eyes. "Please, do not say such things," he groaned.
"Aragorn?" Gimli demanded in confusion.
Blood pounded in his body, tracing lines of fire.
"Nay!" the king shouted. "I will not succumb to you or your lures!"
"Aragorn! To whom do you speak? Who tempts you to darkness?"
The once-ranger opened his eyes to perceive the fair features of Legolas looking at him in concern.
"Nothing," he ground out. "No one."
"You growl as a warg on the fields of Rohan, to no one, to nothing?" Gimli inquired in disbelief, his craggy face furrowing.
"It is of no matter," Aragorn muttered, refusing to meet the worried gazes of his friends. "I must…I must be about my business."
"Wait, Aragorn. Let us aid you in your need."
"There is no necessity! Unlike others who loll about the day with no duties, though they are lords of their lands, I am king of Minas Tirith."
"You remind us, as though such knowledge were not ours," the elf murmured.
"Or is it that perhaps men require more care than dwarves and elves, Aragorn?" Gimli exclaimed in vexation.
_____________________________________
"But you are no more beautiful than others of your fair folk," Aragorn mused.
"And at times, my friend, it troubles me that I cannot distinguish you from your orc kindred. Although you may, after ranger journeys, appear filthier."
Aragorn could not laugh, as once he had. There was no jesting in him now, only a kindling fire that could not be quenched. Loud in its silence, the night neither approved nor alleviated his wants. He stepped forward, so that Legolas was placed between him and the cold stone behind.
The king pressed his parched lips to those of the elven prince. The lithe body, trapped against the wall, tensed.
"Is this a game you play, Aragorn?" The words teased, but the soft voice did not. Strong slender fingers came to his chest.
For a moment Aragorn recollected his senses, lost as they had been in the wild, intoxicating taste of the elf. "Nay. Only…I only…"
"You forget yourself, Elessar. Your queen. And what of your son?"
"You…you do not know…" Aragorn mumbled, stumbling back.
"Arwen knows, Estel." The elf’s face was tightly drawn in perturbation. "So why do you do this thing?"
The words fell from his mouth, heavy as lead, permanent as the black ink strokes of his signature, forever marking the parchment to his damnation.
"Because I desire you."
These and such other disastrous scenes enacted themselves before Aragorn’s unwilling eyes, and steadily, the performance worsened.
-----------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------
"I do not like this, Legolas. Orcs and men, together?"
"Separately terrors in their own respect, but in concert…"
"This is no time for jests," the king said sharply, immediately regretting his words. The silent, solemn elf of the Fellowship had since lightened his heart because of new friendships. It was not Aragorn’s place to deprive him of that happiness now.
Subdued, the elf lowered his head. "My regrets, Aragorn. I recognize the severity of the situation, and will follow, as always, your command."
Aragorn sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. "’Tis I who should apologize," he countered. "I have been overborne of late, and know not of what I speak."
"What do you advise we do, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, his voice coming from somewhere within his helmet. The king exchanged a humorous glance with the elf.
"I propose that we send scouts to affirm or no if the sayings are true."
"Allow me to go, Aragorn," Legolas said suddenly. "This is a mission such as one elf can do."
"But not this particular one," the dwarf parried. "You have gone soft, elf, in this White City."
Legolas stared at him. "And what of yourself, Master Dwarf? Portly as you have become, I can only marvel that you would say this to me. For the long years before you were ever conceived, I fought in battles against the threats of the Woodland Realm."
Aragorn stood silent. Legolas whirled on him, his elven gaze searching. "What say you, Aragorn? Do you wish to test me in this, as well? Shall you pick a mark, so I may pierce it with an arrow? No? A pillow then, so I may tear it to pieces with my butter knives?"
"I fear that in sharpening your wit, you have neglected your weapons," Gimli interrupted hurriedly before the king could respond, for in any way he did he was sure to lose his royal life. "It is not I who purports to see to these rumors, dangerous as they may be."
"I will go with you," the king said decisively.
"Nay!" both elf and dwarf cried.
Aragorn blinked in astonishment. "You do not mean to say I too have lost my skills?"
"Certainly not-"
"-it is only that you are king, and-"
"-no disrespect meant, not at all, we simply assumed-"
"Yes?" the once- ranger asked dangerously. "Is there aught you would say to me on this matter?"
"Nay," they finished soberly. Gimli then threw up his stout hands. "Ai! Is there no one to speak sense in this room? Will no one admit that the years have changed us?"
"We? Who are these collective people you refer to, Master Dwarf? I have aged not at all."
"Legolas, at the penalty of offending you, I must inform all present, if they know not already, that you have passed back to your elfling days."
"Gimli," the elf gritted out, " if there lay a neck on those thick shoulders, Imaldris, Minas Tirith and the Golden Wood entire would have to pry my dead fingers from-"
"Enough!" the king interposed. "We can none of us go, my friends."
Legolas bowed his head, but a determined glint remained in his grey-blue eyes, warning Aragorn that all was not over. The dwarf, being of an inadequate height, could not see the
commutation.
-----------------------------------------------
"Would you be wondering of my whereabouts?" Legolas said quietly behind him.
"Yes," Aragorn agreed before spinning around. "Legolas!"
The elf looked at him wryly. "Yes, that is what I am called."
"I…I thought to wander the palace, because I could not sleep-"
"Into my rooms, Aragorn? You do not knock, my lord? What if I had been bathing in a
ridiculously large bowl of that terrible concoction served last night, the soup?"
The king swallowed. "Is that…what is normally done in these apartments?"
"Did you come to see for yourself? Do not worry, Aragorn," the elf assured him, tucking a last dagger into his boot. "I mean to leave these chambers to your full, kingly inspection."
"Legolas! I thought we had settled-"
"You decided, my lord. Not I."
The ranger straightened, unfastening his cloak and meeting the other’s bright gaze directly. "As you may have perceived, prince, I too have come prepared. What say you to a journey together?"
-----------------------------------------------
"Aragorn," Legolas called softly, his face grim. "Here they walk."
The ranger joined him on the outstretched limb, gingerly balancing himself. "I see them," he replied, biting back a groan. So it was true. Orcs and men prowled together about the glade: clearly not bosom-friends, but apparently not foes.
Damn.
He looked at the somber elf, feeling sorrow that this fair creature should cease his laughter because of these hideous monstrosities.
The deviousness of men with the slyness of orcs…what were they planning? What did they want? Sauron and Saruman had gone. Who was their master?
An arrow whistled through the still air, pungent with the smell of unwashed bodies. Aragorn jerked back and it thudded into the tree’s trunk.
Legolas laid a long-fingered hand on his arm. "Nay, Aragorn. They aim not at us." It was true. A passing squirrel had been the target of a man’s ill-planned shot. They had not been seen, with their green and brown wayfaring garb.
"Yes, but easily it could have been my head," he hissed back.
-----------------------------------------------
His dreams grew darker, as they though a pleasant interlude could not long last. Nothing had meaning, only humiliation and pain.
"Should one attempt to escape, I will kill the other," the man taunted, grinningly hotly at his orc companions.
"What is it you want from us?" Aragorn asked, not for himself but for Legolas. He met the elf’s gaze and knew Legolas feared the same for him.
Heiken chuckled. "You come to spy on us, then dare to demand things of us? Your blood, if you want to know."
The orcs shrieked in laughed, while the uruk-hai grinned wolfishly, their teeth shining yellow in the bright sunlight. What evil power protected them, that the light bothered them not?
"A human and one of the Firstborn have come amongst our midst. A fortunate catch for us this day," the man purred. "A Firstborn…" he murmured, dark lust in his eyes. "My friends and I have long awaited this moment."
"Let me suffer," Aragorn shouted in alarm, straining against his bonds. "Please, I beg of you-"
"Keep your pleas until the end," the man ordered. "You will need them."
"Aragorn-" Legolas said warningly. Violence he already anticipated.
"Undress him," Heiken said huskily, reaching out to touch the elf’s soft skin. Legolas flinched, and his face drained of color.
Aragorn stared at him in anguish, despising the slow throb of arousal that heated his cheeks as he saw his friend shy back in fear. That such strength should be afraid, such courage daunted by a simple touch…
"Do it!" the man snapped, his control wavering between the desire to take the elf himself or to see his friend despoil him. "Or if you will not, I turn you both over to the orcs, after I have finished." He motioned to the seeming leader of the uruk-hai.
"Wait…I…we will do as you say."
The elf’s head quickly turned to him. "I would rather die," he said clearly. "Slay me, if you wish-I expect no mercy-but my friend-"
"Too easy, elf. There exists no choice here."
-----------------------------------------------
Aragorn closed his eyes, wishing desperately that this were a dream-a terrible dream, surely not of his making.
"Do not make me wait," Heiken counseled coldly.
The king’s eyelids opened. "Legolas," he murmured. "Be still, my friend. It will go easier."
Legolas raised his head, uncertainty and rage, not at Aragorn, but at the horrific circumstances, in his face.
Slowly, Aragorn reached to undo the lacings of the elf’s tunic, gently placing his mouth against Legolas’ compressed lips. Legolas started like a wild creature and the orcs jeered.
"Where now is the courage of the elves? Can you not take a mere kiss?" Heiken laughed.
Surely the elf could feel the heat between them. Aragorn caught his breath. He had enjoyed the feel of Legolas’ defiant mouth beneath his, relished the furious beat of his heart as he pressed his hands to the elf’s chest.
"I cannot do this," Legolas faltered. "’Tis wrong."
"Yes!" Heikan hissed. "That is why you must do this."
The urku-hai leader growled. "Finish what you have begun, little human, or we will do it for you."
Aragorn quickly stepped forward and, curling a hand into the unwilling elf’s tunic, nearly dragged him closer as he kissed him more insistently, not allowing Legolas to escape.
The slight but strong shoulders tensed, although Legolas did not move away. Aragorn rapidly dispensed with the rough fabric of his tunic to reveal the smooth, silky flesh beneath.
Aragorn slipped his tongue into Legolas’ mouth. The elf quivered at his unwelcome touch.
This was not Arwen. There was no gentleness, no delicate contact. It was glorious and freeing.
"On the ground. Now!" Heiken shouted.
Aragorn swept his feet to the elf’s ankles, knowing as he did that whatever happened, the Legolas allowed him.
Legolas fell, and the king followed him down, sucking harshly on his throat, breath coming in short pants. His hands, long called those of a healer, reached down between them to the fastenings of the elf’s leggings.
Instantly Aragorn found a knife from his side at his throat. He stared, breathing heavily at the sight of Legolas’ wide-eyed, betrayed gaze looking at him.
"You want this," the elf said softly, disbelievingly. There was no laughter in him now.
"Aragorn?" The whisper came from the darkness, soft and soothing.
The man awoke suddenly, breaths coming in quick gasps. "Arwen?"
"I am here, beloved." An elegant lotus-pale hand grasped his own. The king of men stared blindly about him, his dark eyes seeking light. White moon beams strewn down upon the
balcony.
"All is well, Aragorn. What do you fear?" Her voice was calm and soothing.
Aragorn shook his head. "I had a dream, Arwen, a dream of terrible things I cannot say to you, lest I sully your elven ears."
She smiled. "These pointed elven ears can take much, and they hear the cry of a husband in distress, and not from a wife's chattering."
"I cannot say," he said again, agitatedly rising and pacing beside their tumbled bed. "For I do not know myself, nor the cause of such horrible events."
"Lay down," she commanded gently. "Sleep. I will watch over you."
Pride rebelled. "If aught is wrong, should I not muse over the trouble, and right it?"
"Of course," she replied. "After you rest, my lord."
He surrendered. There was no arguing with the beautiful elven lady, the evenstar of her people, and his wife.
Aragorn closed his eyes, but rest did not embrace him, though waking dreams clasped him in their shadowy arms.
-----------------------------------------------
"Aragorn!" an elf’s merry voice called. "Come see this block of stone Gimli claims is the beauteous Lady Galadriel!"
"Fool of an elf! I said it will be in the form, an inferior shaping, of the Lady Galadriel."
The king strode forward, uneasily smiling at his friends. "Is that so?"
The dwarf grumbled into his thick beard as Legolas leapt lightly from the limbs of a tall tree,
where he had been seriously scrutinizing said block of stone. "Blinded by leaves, it is no wonder that he cannot see rightly."
"Unable to see how he ought, what with his short stature, it is a wonder he can view anything at all."
Though often he had laughed at their exchanges, Aragorn did not react this day, except in a startled gesture of surprise as the elf appeared beside him.
Gimli frowned. A sense of wrongness wafted through the air with the teasing breeze. "It is not like you, Aragorn, to be astonished at an elf’s antics, especially the play of this one."
"Play, dwarf?" Legolas asked, inclining his head questioningly. "And what is it that you call grubbing about in the dirt and rock, as a child?"
Aragorn pressed calloused hands to his eyes. "Please, do not say such things," he groaned.
"Aragorn?" Gimli demanded in confusion.
Blood pounded in his body, tracing lines of fire.
"Nay!" the king shouted. "I will not succumb to you or your lures!"
"Aragorn! To whom do you speak? Who tempts you to darkness?"
The once-ranger opened his eyes to perceive the fair features of Legolas looking at him in concern.
"Nothing," he ground out. "No one."
"You growl as a warg on the fields of Rohan, to no one, to nothing?" Gimli inquired in disbelief, his craggy face furrowing.
"It is of no matter," Aragorn muttered, refusing to meet the worried gazes of his friends. "I must…I must be about my business."
"Wait, Aragorn. Let us aid you in your need."
"There is no necessity! Unlike others who loll about the day with no duties, though they are lords of their lands, I am king of Minas Tirith."
"You remind us, as though such knowledge were not ours," the elf murmured.
"Or is it that perhaps men require more care than dwarves and elves, Aragorn?" Gimli exclaimed in vexation.
_____________________________________
"But you are no more beautiful than others of your fair folk," Aragorn mused.
"And at times, my friend, it troubles me that I cannot distinguish you from your orc kindred. Although you may, after ranger journeys, appear filthier."
Aragorn could not laugh, as once he had. There was no jesting in him now, only a kindling fire that could not be quenched. Loud in its silence, the night neither approved nor alleviated his wants. He stepped forward, so that Legolas was placed between him and the cold stone behind.
The king pressed his parched lips to those of the elven prince. The lithe body, trapped against the wall, tensed.
"Is this a game you play, Aragorn?" The words teased, but the soft voice did not. Strong slender fingers came to his chest.
For a moment Aragorn recollected his senses, lost as they had been in the wild, intoxicating taste of the elf. "Nay. Only…I only…"
"You forget yourself, Elessar. Your queen. And what of your son?"
"You…you do not know…" Aragorn mumbled, stumbling back.
"Arwen knows, Estel." The elf’s face was tightly drawn in perturbation. "So why do you do this thing?"
The words fell from his mouth, heavy as lead, permanent as the black ink strokes of his signature, forever marking the parchment to his damnation.
"Because I desire you."
These and such other disastrous scenes enacted themselves before Aragorn’s unwilling eyes, and steadily, the performance worsened.
-----------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------
"I do not like this, Legolas. Orcs and men, together?"
"Separately terrors in their own respect, but in concert…"
"This is no time for jests," the king said sharply, immediately regretting his words. The silent, solemn elf of the Fellowship had since lightened his heart because of new friendships. It was not Aragorn’s place to deprive him of that happiness now.
Subdued, the elf lowered his head. "My regrets, Aragorn. I recognize the severity of the situation, and will follow, as always, your command."
Aragorn sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. "’Tis I who should apologize," he countered. "I have been overborne of late, and know not of what I speak."
"What do you advise we do, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, his voice coming from somewhere within his helmet. The king exchanged a humorous glance with the elf.
"I propose that we send scouts to affirm or no if the sayings are true."
"Allow me to go, Aragorn," Legolas said suddenly. "This is a mission such as one elf can do."
"But not this particular one," the dwarf parried. "You have gone soft, elf, in this White City."
Legolas stared at him. "And what of yourself, Master Dwarf? Portly as you have become, I can only marvel that you would say this to me. For the long years before you were ever conceived, I fought in battles against the threats of the Woodland Realm."
Aragorn stood silent. Legolas whirled on him, his elven gaze searching. "What say you, Aragorn? Do you wish to test me in this, as well? Shall you pick a mark, so I may pierce it with an arrow? No? A pillow then, so I may tear it to pieces with my butter knives?"
"I fear that in sharpening your wit, you have neglected your weapons," Gimli interrupted hurriedly before the king could respond, for in any way he did he was sure to lose his royal life. "It is not I who purports to see to these rumors, dangerous as they may be."
"I will go with you," the king said decisively.
"Nay!" both elf and dwarf cried.
Aragorn blinked in astonishment. "You do not mean to say I too have lost my skills?"
"Certainly not-"
"-it is only that you are king, and-"
"-no disrespect meant, not at all, we simply assumed-"
"Yes?" the once- ranger asked dangerously. "Is there aught you would say to me on this matter?"
"Nay," they finished soberly. Gimli then threw up his stout hands. "Ai! Is there no one to speak sense in this room? Will no one admit that the years have changed us?"
"We? Who are these collective people you refer to, Master Dwarf? I have aged not at all."
"Legolas, at the penalty of offending you, I must inform all present, if they know not already, that you have passed back to your elfling days."
"Gimli," the elf gritted out, " if there lay a neck on those thick shoulders, Imaldris, Minas Tirith and the Golden Wood entire would have to pry my dead fingers from-"
"Enough!" the king interposed. "We can none of us go, my friends."
Legolas bowed his head, but a determined glint remained in his grey-blue eyes, warning Aragorn that all was not over. The dwarf, being of an inadequate height, could not see the
commutation.
-----------------------------------------------
"Would you be wondering of my whereabouts?" Legolas said quietly behind him.
"Yes," Aragorn agreed before spinning around. "Legolas!"
The elf looked at him wryly. "Yes, that is what I am called."
"I…I thought to wander the palace, because I could not sleep-"
"Into my rooms, Aragorn? You do not knock, my lord? What if I had been bathing in a
ridiculously large bowl of that terrible concoction served last night, the soup?"
The king swallowed. "Is that…what is normally done in these apartments?"
"Did you come to see for yourself? Do not worry, Aragorn," the elf assured him, tucking a last dagger into his boot. "I mean to leave these chambers to your full, kingly inspection."
"Legolas! I thought we had settled-"
"You decided, my lord. Not I."
The ranger straightened, unfastening his cloak and meeting the other’s bright gaze directly. "As you may have perceived, prince, I too have come prepared. What say you to a journey together?"
-----------------------------------------------
"Aragorn," Legolas called softly, his face grim. "Here they walk."
The ranger joined him on the outstretched limb, gingerly balancing himself. "I see them," he replied, biting back a groan. So it was true. Orcs and men prowled together about the glade: clearly not bosom-friends, but apparently not foes.
Damn.
He looked at the somber elf, feeling sorrow that this fair creature should cease his laughter because of these hideous monstrosities.
The deviousness of men with the slyness of orcs…what were they planning? What did they want? Sauron and Saruman had gone. Who was their master?
An arrow whistled through the still air, pungent with the smell of unwashed bodies. Aragorn jerked back and it thudded into the tree’s trunk.
Legolas laid a long-fingered hand on his arm. "Nay, Aragorn. They aim not at us." It was true. A passing squirrel had been the target of a man’s ill-planned shot. They had not been seen, with their green and brown wayfaring garb.
"Yes, but easily it could have been my head," he hissed back.
-----------------------------------------------
His dreams grew darker, as they though a pleasant interlude could not long last. Nothing had meaning, only humiliation and pain.
"Should one attempt to escape, I will kill the other," the man taunted, grinningly hotly at his orc companions.
"What is it you want from us?" Aragorn asked, not for himself but for Legolas. He met the elf’s gaze and knew Legolas feared the same for him.
Heiken chuckled. "You come to spy on us, then dare to demand things of us? Your blood, if you want to know."
The orcs shrieked in laughed, while the uruk-hai grinned wolfishly, their teeth shining yellow in the bright sunlight. What evil power protected them, that the light bothered them not?
"A human and one of the Firstborn have come amongst our midst. A fortunate catch for us this day," the man purred. "A Firstborn…" he murmured, dark lust in his eyes. "My friends and I have long awaited this moment."
"Let me suffer," Aragorn shouted in alarm, straining against his bonds. "Please, I beg of you-"
"Keep your pleas until the end," the man ordered. "You will need them."
"Aragorn-" Legolas said warningly. Violence he already anticipated.
"Undress him," Heiken said huskily, reaching out to touch the elf’s soft skin. Legolas flinched, and his face drained of color.
Aragorn stared at him in anguish, despising the slow throb of arousal that heated his cheeks as he saw his friend shy back in fear. That such strength should be afraid, such courage daunted by a simple touch…
"Do it!" the man snapped, his control wavering between the desire to take the elf himself or to see his friend despoil him. "Or if you will not, I turn you both over to the orcs, after I have finished." He motioned to the seeming leader of the uruk-hai.
"Wait…I…we will do as you say."
The elf’s head quickly turned to him. "I would rather die," he said clearly. "Slay me, if you wish-I expect no mercy-but my friend-"
"Too easy, elf. There exists no choice here."
-----------------------------------------------
Aragorn closed his eyes, wishing desperately that this were a dream-a terrible dream, surely not of his making.
"Do not make me wait," Heiken counseled coldly.
The king’s eyelids opened. "Legolas," he murmured. "Be still, my friend. It will go easier."
Legolas raised his head, uncertainty and rage, not at Aragorn, but at the horrific circumstances, in his face.
Slowly, Aragorn reached to undo the lacings of the elf’s tunic, gently placing his mouth against Legolas’ compressed lips. Legolas started like a wild creature and the orcs jeered.
"Where now is the courage of the elves? Can you not take a mere kiss?" Heiken laughed.
Surely the elf could feel the heat between them. Aragorn caught his breath. He had enjoyed the feel of Legolas’ defiant mouth beneath his, relished the furious beat of his heart as he pressed his hands to the elf’s chest.
"I cannot do this," Legolas faltered. "’Tis wrong."
"Yes!" Heikan hissed. "That is why you must do this."
The urku-hai leader growled. "Finish what you have begun, little human, or we will do it for you."
Aragorn quickly stepped forward and, curling a hand into the unwilling elf’s tunic, nearly dragged him closer as he kissed him more insistently, not allowing Legolas to escape.
The slight but strong shoulders tensed, although Legolas did not move away. Aragorn rapidly dispensed with the rough fabric of his tunic to reveal the smooth, silky flesh beneath.
Aragorn slipped his tongue into Legolas’ mouth. The elf quivered at his unwelcome touch.
This was not Arwen. There was no gentleness, no delicate contact. It was glorious and freeing.
"On the ground. Now!" Heiken shouted.
Aragorn swept his feet to the elf’s ankles, knowing as he did that whatever happened, the Legolas allowed him.
Legolas fell, and the king followed him down, sucking harshly on his throat, breath coming in short pants. His hands, long called those of a healer, reached down between them to the fastenings of the elf’s leggings.
Instantly Aragorn found a knife from his side at his throat. He stared, breathing heavily at the sight of Legolas’ wide-eyed, betrayed gaze looking at him.
"You want this," the elf said softly, disbelievingly. There was no laughter in him now.
Tranquil Intelligence
Not being one of them and yet being utterly biased and prejudiced in their favor, I would now like to attempt an essay praising the virtues of the tranquilly intelligent.
These rare creatures, as I believe, walk among us, gracing our lives with their very presence. They understand, they comprehend, they accept. These gifted individuals do not boast of their considerable abilities, nor do they feel the insatiable urge for deification that others may experience.
Beautiful in mind and thought, silently intoning the om of intellectual heights, they do not require the admiration I seek to asperse upon them.
On a more mundane and less abstract level, the tranquilly intelligent do not immediately grasp for the opportunity of revealing their talents. In an educational setting and others, they do not shout to make their views known. Secure in themselves, arrogance, that characteristic of the weak, has no place with them.
In this competitive world, one is expected to strive for excellence, which is certainly a worthy endeavor. However, once having reached their objective, people are then obligated to cry their achievement to all.
Why this need? This craving for commendation and approval? My mere words may not explain human phenomena.
What good, you may ask, then, have these tranquilly intelligent wrought?
They listen. They are conscientious in studying, not merely in academics but of their fellow people, and assiduous in labor. They are the supporting actors without whom the play would be lost, the chairs on which the mighty sit when tired, the comfortable garments which are not worn in public. They are the confidants of the boisterous great. They are kind, and they are patient.
There exist the "smart" and the "bright." Brilliant work emerges easily from them. Cleverness and a quick wit polish their conversation.
What does it all signify? Surely a certain respect for their talents. But, what of the individual himself? What does he merit?
On this jarring note, what then of the "intelligent?" Such a character cannot be immediately born of a startled Zeus like a full-armed Athena, but rather of experience and a genuine love of knowledge as it benefits others, not only themselves.
Many teachers-yes, even they-have acquired the maturity to be tranquilly intelligent.
This is an expression of awe, and sadness that so seldom are the tranquilly intelligent appreciated.
These rare creatures, as I believe, walk among us, gracing our lives with their very presence. They understand, they comprehend, they accept. These gifted individuals do not boast of their considerable abilities, nor do they feel the insatiable urge for deification that others may experience.
Beautiful in mind and thought, silently intoning the om of intellectual heights, they do not require the admiration I seek to asperse upon them.
On a more mundane and less abstract level, the tranquilly intelligent do not immediately grasp for the opportunity of revealing their talents. In an educational setting and others, they do not shout to make their views known. Secure in themselves, arrogance, that characteristic of the weak, has no place with them.
In this competitive world, one is expected to strive for excellence, which is certainly a worthy endeavor. However, once having reached their objective, people are then obligated to cry their achievement to all.
Why this need? This craving for commendation and approval? My mere words may not explain human phenomena.
What good, you may ask, then, have these tranquilly intelligent wrought?
They listen. They are conscientious in studying, not merely in academics but of their fellow people, and assiduous in labor. They are the supporting actors without whom the play would be lost, the chairs on which the mighty sit when tired, the comfortable garments which are not worn in public. They are the confidants of the boisterous great. They are kind, and they are patient.
There exist the "smart" and the "bright." Brilliant work emerges easily from them. Cleverness and a quick wit polish their conversation.
What does it all signify? Surely a certain respect for their talents. But, what of the individual himself? What does he merit?
On this jarring note, what then of the "intelligent?" Such a character cannot be immediately born of a startled Zeus like a full-armed Athena, but rather of experience and a genuine love of knowledge as it benefits others, not only themselves.
Many teachers-yes, even they-have acquired the maturity to be tranquilly intelligent.
This is an expression of awe, and sadness that so seldom are the tranquilly intelligent appreciated.
Death Nears
Dust, attestation of long years untouched, cloaked the chamber in a hushed reverence that was broken only by the whisper of breath.
“Do you believe…there is forgiveness?”
From the darkness came the anguished query. “From whom?"
"I...I do not know, now." He gasped, back arching in agony as he groped for her hand. "I deserve no fate better than this."
"I killed him," said Aya softly.
"We have slain him, you and I." Eden shut his frost-blue eyes. "Merle. I shall soon accompany you in the halls of dead. There, destroy my soul, shred my spirit, but do not forgive, for then I die a second death."
"Live," whispered Aya. "Live. Be with me."
"I love you, Aya, so much it pains me to say it. The world stills...to only this moment."
Etienne crept up to them, dark eyes searching for what others could not see.
"Etienne?" murmured Aya. "Poor fool, what do you seek?"
"The hands of death hover over me, but have not yet taken hold."
Strange glimmers shone in the deep chamber, and Aya was seized in an ecstasy of horror. Great fantastic shadows stepped around them on invisible, silent feet.
I have loved you since since the dawn of time, before the concept of man was ever conceived.
"Minh," said he, very quietly.
"Elan," said she, her voice faltering. "Dearest one, why is it that we must always meet thus? Is there no remnant of our love but this?"
"And Kyros?" spoke Elan wearily. "He is dead. So are we all, and all we could attempt to forestall such tidings came to naught. Dust and ash only are gods and mortals, as debris in the capricious winds."
Blood dripped down the sides of the tomb.
Her voice was wrung with poignant sorrow. "Is that not true of each and every course?"
"The chain that riveted us has slackened, for one shackle has broken. Should we not rejoice, celebrate in this novel freedom?"
"We weep for our imprisonment, for only there did we find scant happiness, bitter delight."
They fell silent, a mute narration of their past playing before them.
"I would have been content, beloved, with whatever you could have given to me, had not trochal fate forced my hand."
"This, I know," responded she, clearly, keenly.
"Etienne, little one, come to me." Blood trickled down his chin, and Elan coughed, painfully. "It was you, was it not, who brought us to life?"
"He is as you were," said Minh, wonderingly. "Lost and tormented through no fault of his own."
Etienne crawled forward, great eyes strained wide, fathomless and dark.
"I am lost no longer, nor tormented, for I know my path, and what I must do to end it."
Minh gave no reply, only gazed upon them both.
Elan lightly brushed Etienne's face. "I release you from your curse, little one. Begone, ye ghosts, and trouble him no more."
A whitish light traced the contours of the chamber. A tall, statesque woman came forward, her beautiful face drawn in a grimace of anger and distress, long magnificent robes rippling along the dusty ground.
"Goddess," groaned he. "I have failed you."
"Always and anon, Aya is with you," said the Goddess bitingly. The girl looked at her silently, tightly grasping his hand.
"Can I not...have even...this comfort?" said he softly. "Do you despise me...so much, then, for.. my weakness?"
The god fell to her knees, heedless of the filth staining her garments. "I love you, Eden!" cried the Goddess. "Why does my love, a god's adoration, an immortal's devotion, not satisfy?"
"Because...you do not know me...Goddess."
Blah blah
"Elan," gasped she. "How...you are dead..."
"Shortly...to be so, yes." His words grew fainter. Tears dropped from the green eyes of Minh, but she did not speak.
The Goddess whirled on her. "I detest you, you despicable whore!"
"Why do you waste your words on such as I? Even now, a surplice would not suffice to cleanse me."
Still blah
Minh smiled sadly. "This, then, was our purpose in entering this place of bedevilment. Let us go, beloved. The horizon beckons."
Etienne bowed his head.
Aya fervently grasped Eden's hand, for he was fading quickly. "I only...wanted your happiness," whispered he, "and...you prayed for my death."
"Never!" A pale, wan moon rose above them, but they knew it not.
"You cared for Merle...a dead man, far more than you ever cared for me," said he bitterly. "Oh, beloved, why must our plans always go awry?"
"Do you truly begrudge him even my greater love?" rebuked she harshly. "When I took his life, should I not give to him a recompense?"
"Remorse is a foul bedfellow," sighed Eden tiredly, "lying ever between us." (Therese Raquin)
“Do you believe…there is forgiveness?”
From the darkness came the anguished query. “From whom?"
"I...I do not know, now." He gasped, back arching in agony as he groped for her hand. "I deserve no fate better than this."
"I killed him," said Aya softly.
"We have slain him, you and I." Eden shut his frost-blue eyes. "Merle. I shall soon accompany you in the halls of dead. There, destroy my soul, shred my spirit, but do not forgive, for then I die a second death."
"Live," whispered Aya. "Live. Be with me."
"I love you, Aya, so much it pains me to say it. The world stills...to only this moment."
Etienne crept up to them, dark eyes searching for what others could not see.
"Etienne?" murmured Aya. "Poor fool, what do you seek?"
"The hands of death hover over me, but have not yet taken hold."
Strange glimmers shone in the deep chamber, and Aya was seized in an ecstasy of horror. Great fantastic shadows stepped around them on invisible, silent feet.
I have loved you since since the dawn of time, before the concept of man was ever conceived.
"Minh," said he, very quietly.
"Elan," said she, her voice faltering. "Dearest one, why is it that we must always meet thus? Is there no remnant of our love but this?"
"And Kyros?" spoke Elan wearily. "He is dead. So are we all, and all we could attempt to forestall such tidings came to naught. Dust and ash only are gods and mortals, as debris in the capricious winds."
Blood dripped down the sides of the tomb.
Her voice was wrung with poignant sorrow. "Is that not true of each and every course?"
"The chain that riveted us has slackened, for one shackle has broken. Should we not rejoice, celebrate in this novel freedom?"
"We weep for our imprisonment, for only there did we find scant happiness, bitter delight."
They fell silent, a mute narration of their past playing before them.
"I would have been content, beloved, with whatever you could have given to me, had not trochal fate forced my hand."
"This, I know," responded she, clearly, keenly.
"Etienne, little one, come to me." Blood trickled down his chin, and Elan coughed, painfully. "It was you, was it not, who brought us to life?"
"He is as you were," said Minh, wonderingly. "Lost and tormented through no fault of his own."
Etienne crawled forward, great eyes strained wide, fathomless and dark.
"I am lost no longer, nor tormented, for I know my path, and what I must do to end it."
Minh gave no reply, only gazed upon them both.
Elan lightly brushed Etienne's face. "I release you from your curse, little one. Begone, ye ghosts, and trouble him no more."
A whitish light traced the contours of the chamber. A tall, statesque woman came forward, her beautiful face drawn in a grimace of anger and distress, long magnificent robes rippling along the dusty ground.
"Goddess," groaned he. "I have failed you."
"Always and anon, Aya is with you," said the Goddess bitingly. The girl looked at her silently, tightly grasping his hand.
"Can I not...have even...this comfort?" said he softly. "Do you despise me...so much, then, for.. my weakness?"
The god fell to her knees, heedless of the filth staining her garments. "I love you, Eden!" cried the Goddess. "Why does my love, a god's adoration, an immortal's devotion, not satisfy?"
"Because...you do not know me...Goddess."
Blah blah
"Elan," gasped she. "How...you are dead..."
"Shortly...to be so, yes." His words grew fainter. Tears dropped from the green eyes of Minh, but she did not speak.
The Goddess whirled on her. "I detest you, you despicable whore!"
"Why do you waste your words on such as I? Even now, a surplice would not suffice to cleanse me."
Still blah
Minh smiled sadly. "This, then, was our purpose in entering this place of bedevilment. Let us go, beloved. The horizon beckons."
Etienne bowed his head.
Aya fervently grasped Eden's hand, for he was fading quickly. "I only...wanted your happiness," whispered he, "and...you prayed for my death."
"Never!" A pale, wan moon rose above them, but they knew it not.
"You cared for Merle...a dead man, far more than you ever cared for me," said he bitterly. "Oh, beloved, why must our plans always go awry?"
"Do you truly begrudge him even my greater love?" rebuked she harshly. "When I took his life, should I not give to him a recompense?"
"Remorse is a foul bedfellow," sighed Eden tiredly, "lying ever between us." (Therese Raquin)
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Rejected Rejection
Rejected Love
“Dash [love] from your soul, gather your scattered pride!”
Oh, that I could!
Is it possible to believe that beneath this wooden, practical head lies a soft, romantic heart?
I believed I had heard the delicate harp strains of love, played by an angel. Alas, it was only a man, drumming a keyboard with his toes.
Oh, rejection.
"Conquer the barbarous Hippolytus, who mocks the graces and the power of Venus!"
God Almighty, death and volunteer centers accept all.
Unlike Life, who, akin to a university, rejects, and rather harshly, I must add in personal pique. The great trauma I have undergone, the extreme torture, makes only a small eddy in Its vast ocean.
Mine is a world, not the world.
At seventeen, I am bitter.
I loudly protest the appearance of such flippancies as school dances, at which I cannot make an appearance for fear of humiliating myself.
And yes, yes, I cry out against Girl Date, that loathsome monstrosity, that remnant of a sexist era.
It was in this room, this room that I received my rebuff. May the paint fly off the walls, the couch fling its cushioned behind out the window!
Forgive me for mouthing ejaculations; I do not exaggerate. Acute pain lances every word of this letter, which, by-the-by, is also a flexing of literary muscles long unused.
However, that is beside the point. The point, as I gesticulate wildly and blindly with a pen, must pierce the hearts of my listeners.
At times I can be quite clever.
Here also I stray! Be still, my mind.
My sacred object of devotion, the adored idol of my idolatry, stated in response to my fervent lavishing of love somewhat to the effect that he wished to retain his virginity.
Weeping, I retreated from his bristling chastity.
Or beginning in that particular strain. I cannot recall, so great is my anguish.
Nothing can assuage this miserable suffering, my endless distress. The sea may gulp me into its watery kiss, the earth into is crumbly embrace, but I…I shall never forget.
Never, never initiate what I have begun!
Heed my warning,! Be miserly with your love, friends, careful with your heart!
Most sincerely,
Winnie Khaw in her heart’s last will and testament
Rejected Rejection
“Sir, we feel a need to impart to you our standards--
--None.”
Upon hearing this, I eagerly submitted my work.
“His eyes…oh, the light shining in them, as when fishes thrash their tails in algae-infested waters-”
Twice the rejection. Twice the refusal. A hundred times the agony.
I simply enjoy relishing the pain of repeating those words. Softly, loudly, then louder still. Ah, that I could drown myself in tears!
I am working myself into a rage. Do not try to pacify me with trifles like logic and reason.
Did the Accolade clasp me to its papery bosom in motherly affection? Did it bestow inky kisses upon my bowed head, draw me up to its equal in page length? No!
I was refused again. Rejected.
I cannot speak without sobbing, smearing my letters, writhing in figurative pain.
I mentally throw up my hands and go my way, meaning out of love’s way, truth’s way, and virtue’s way, while trying to ignore the putrefying state of my once considerable integrity and self-respect.
I ask of you, friends, was it not enough that Girl Date should dash my hopes to the concrete ground? That I should endure so much, for so little in return?
No.
It was decreed that I should receive even this weight patiently, a Christian to bear this burden of woes.
Was I permitted to share my grief, my inner turmoil, with the world? Did this sympathetic world, this loving world…but I will not complain. No, far be it from me to do such a thing! Base, unworthy thing! Fie!
Hope, thou art a most fretful lover! You toss restlessly, ever beside me but ever teasing!
I will doubtless become a marvelous activist for the unloved, which is fortunate because I am a lousy scholar.
I have learned much from this endeavor.
The same is the end of each and every course.
Sadly,
Winnie Khaw's heart from beyond the grave
P.S. A short posthumous note from Winnie's heart: I do plan my final destination to be Heaven, though I may embark on several detours and false leads on the way.
“Dash [love] from your soul, gather your scattered pride!”
Oh, that I could!
Is it possible to believe that beneath this wooden, practical head lies a soft, romantic heart?
I believed I had heard the delicate harp strains of love, played by an angel. Alas, it was only a man, drumming a keyboard with his toes.
Oh, rejection.
"Conquer the barbarous Hippolytus, who mocks the graces and the power of Venus!"
God Almighty, death and volunteer centers accept all.
Unlike Life, who, akin to a university, rejects, and rather harshly, I must add in personal pique. The great trauma I have undergone, the extreme torture, makes only a small eddy in Its vast ocean.
Mine is a world, not the world.
At seventeen, I am bitter.
I loudly protest the appearance of such flippancies as school dances, at which I cannot make an appearance for fear of humiliating myself.
And yes, yes, I cry out against Girl Date, that loathsome monstrosity, that remnant of a sexist era.
It was in this room, this room that I received my rebuff. May the paint fly off the walls, the couch fling its cushioned behind out the window!
Forgive me for mouthing ejaculations; I do not exaggerate. Acute pain lances every word of this letter, which, by-the-by, is also a flexing of literary muscles long unused.
However, that is beside the point. The point, as I gesticulate wildly and blindly with a pen, must pierce the hearts of my listeners.
At times I can be quite clever.
Here also I stray! Be still, my mind.
My sacred object of devotion, the adored idol of my idolatry, stated in response to my fervent lavishing of love somewhat to the effect that he wished to retain his virginity.
Weeping, I retreated from his bristling chastity.
Or beginning in that particular strain. I cannot recall, so great is my anguish.
Nothing can assuage this miserable suffering, my endless distress. The sea may gulp me into its watery kiss, the earth into is crumbly embrace, but I…I shall never forget.
Never, never initiate what I have begun!
Heed my warning,! Be miserly with your love, friends, careful with your heart!
Most sincerely,
Winnie Khaw in her heart’s last will and testament
Rejected Rejection
“Sir, we feel a need to impart to you our standards--
--None.”
Upon hearing this, I eagerly submitted my work.
“His eyes…oh, the light shining in them, as when fishes thrash their tails in algae-infested waters-”
Twice the rejection. Twice the refusal. A hundred times the agony.
I simply enjoy relishing the pain of repeating those words. Softly, loudly, then louder still. Ah, that I could drown myself in tears!
I am working myself into a rage. Do not try to pacify me with trifles like logic and reason.
Did the Accolade clasp me to its papery bosom in motherly affection? Did it bestow inky kisses upon my bowed head, draw me up to its equal in page length? No!
I was refused again. Rejected.
I cannot speak without sobbing, smearing my letters, writhing in figurative pain.
I mentally throw up my hands and go my way, meaning out of love’s way, truth’s way, and virtue’s way, while trying to ignore the putrefying state of my once considerable integrity and self-respect.
I ask of you, friends, was it not enough that Girl Date should dash my hopes to the concrete ground? That I should endure so much, for so little in return?
No.
It was decreed that I should receive even this weight patiently, a Christian to bear this burden of woes.
Was I permitted to share my grief, my inner turmoil, with the world? Did this sympathetic world, this loving world…but I will not complain. No, far be it from me to do such a thing! Base, unworthy thing! Fie!
Hope, thou art a most fretful lover! You toss restlessly, ever beside me but ever teasing!
I will doubtless become a marvelous activist for the unloved, which is fortunate because I am a lousy scholar.
I have learned much from this endeavor.
The same is the end of each and every course.
Sadly,
Winnie Khaw's heart from beyond the grave
P.S. A short posthumous note from Winnie's heart: I do plan my final destination to be Heaven, though I may embark on several detours and false leads on the way.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
A Separate Peace Essay
A Separate Peace Essay
The title A Separate Peace, by John Knowles, means that Gene has made a peace with himself apart from the war. Hanging over Devon like Damocle's sword, World War II is a depressing background to the story, ever present but rarely acknowledged. There are many conflicts within the novel that are affected by the war but independent of it—Gene's absorption of identity into Finny's, their friendship and later Gene's wariness of Finny, the loss of boyhood and innocence, health and then disability, and so on. Leper breaks down in his war, and Brinker attempts a stance of bluster and bravado about the fight. Gene wins his battle against Finny, simply because Finny, as a superior character, never fought. He also overcomes his inner demons, the ones that whispered of betrayal and treachery to Finny.
Gene and Finny seem to complement each other very well, the introverted intellectual and the charismatic athlete. However, there are darker undertones to their relationship. Gene muses to himself, “Yes, I sensed it like the sweat of relief when nausea passes away; I felt better. We were even after all, even in enmity. The deadly rivalry was on both sides after all.” He believes that Finny is out to stop him from achievement, to hinder him in success. He is, therefore, an enemy. Finny's fall, accidentally or not, is the consequence of these dark feelings. The fall was highly symbolic; Adam and Eve ate from the tree, and were cast from the Garden of Eden, clothed in knowledge of good and evil. The time of games and light-hearted fun summer is over, though the boys may not realize it. The war becomes more real, especially as Leper joined the army. Overtly they are further separated from military thoughts, but subconsciously they know the truth of the fighting.
Numerous transformations take place in A Separate Peace. Most are concerned with the transition from boy to man, and one self to another. Finny tells Gene, “'Listen, pal, if I can’t play sports, you’re going to play them for me,' and I lost part of myself to him then, and a soaring sense of freedom revealed that this must have been my purpose from the first: to become a part of Phineas.” In a particular moment, Gene dons Finny's clothes after his friend's accident. Leper has horrific visions of men transforming into women, chairs and furniture changing into arms and legs, in the army.
Through Gene, Knowles describes Devon thoroughly, mapping out the boundaries of a world separate from the war. Aside from brief forays into the outside world, the most important events take place in the school, which is a microcosm of a world. Academics and athletics are the first concerns of the students—Gene and Finny personify the icons of these two. After Finny's fall, he becomes wholly dependent on Gene and they become, ironically enough, closer than ever. Later, when Brinker forces the truth of the accident on Finny, he initially refuses to accept it and runs down the stairs, breaking his leg again. The following operation takes his life, but not before he comes to terms with the fact that, intentionally or not, Gene caused his accident.
The title A Separate Peace, by John Knowles, means that Gene has made a peace with himself apart from the war. Hanging over Devon like Damocle's sword, World War II is a depressing background to the story, ever present but rarely acknowledged. There are many conflicts within the novel that are affected by the war but independent of it—Gene's absorption of identity into Finny's, their friendship and later Gene's wariness of Finny, the loss of boyhood and innocence, health and then disability, and so on. Leper breaks down in his war, and Brinker attempts a stance of bluster and bravado about the fight. Gene wins his battle against Finny, simply because Finny, as a superior character, never fought. He also overcomes his inner demons, the ones that whispered of betrayal and treachery to Finny.
Gene and Finny seem to complement each other very well, the introverted intellectual and the charismatic athlete. However, there are darker undertones to their relationship. Gene muses to himself, “Yes, I sensed it like the sweat of relief when nausea passes away; I felt better. We were even after all, even in enmity. The deadly rivalry was on both sides after all.” He believes that Finny is out to stop him from achievement, to hinder him in success. He is, therefore, an enemy. Finny's fall, accidentally or not, is the consequence of these dark feelings. The fall was highly symbolic; Adam and Eve ate from the tree, and were cast from the Garden of Eden, clothed in knowledge of good and evil. The time of games and light-hearted fun summer is over, though the boys may not realize it. The war becomes more real, especially as Leper joined the army. Overtly they are further separated from military thoughts, but subconsciously they know the truth of the fighting.
Numerous transformations take place in A Separate Peace. Most are concerned with the transition from boy to man, and one self to another. Finny tells Gene, “'Listen, pal, if I can’t play sports, you’re going to play them for me,' and I lost part of myself to him then, and a soaring sense of freedom revealed that this must have been my purpose from the first: to become a part of Phineas.” In a particular moment, Gene dons Finny's clothes after his friend's accident. Leper has horrific visions of men transforming into women, chairs and furniture changing into arms and legs, in the army.
Through Gene, Knowles describes Devon thoroughly, mapping out the boundaries of a world separate from the war. Aside from brief forays into the outside world, the most important events take place in the school, which is a microcosm of a world. Academics and athletics are the first concerns of the students—Gene and Finny personify the icons of these two. After Finny's fall, he becomes wholly dependent on Gene and they become, ironically enough, closer than ever. Later, when Brinker forces the truth of the accident on Finny, he initially refuses to accept it and runs down the stairs, breaking his leg again. The following operation takes his life, but not before he comes to terms with the fact that, intentionally or not, Gene caused his accident.
“What is an American?” Essay
“What is an American?” Essay
People come to America from every imaginable nook and cranny of the world. This makes it different to define an American as any one creature. According to Jean de Crevecoeur in What is an American, an American is a “new man”who is “part of the finest systems which has ever appeared. “ Although de Crevecoeur argues that ethnicity is a strong basis for a nation, modern Americans do not believe this is the case, rather, an American is anyone who is optimistic, enterprising, and pragmatic.
Above all, an American is optimistic. Though events may be going badly, though the tide comes strong against him, he remains firm in his belief that a higher Power will see him through. This notion was characteristic of the North American colonists even before they became Americans. Though the tide of the American Revolution seemed to flow in favor of the British, the colonists persevered, and it was their well spring of optimism that saw them through. Since that time, many more people have come to America seeking a better life, seeing in the country a potential to thrive and live freely. The American continuously looks forward to the future, never settling for what he has because he must always reach for what is beyond. Enterprising, the American demonstrates an entrepreneur's courage and talent in whatever field he chooses. An American's creed cries out for pride, freedom, and equality. He has pride in his country, his fellows, and in accomplishments which he has achieved on his own. Responsibility accompanies freedom, and the American learns to take accountability for his actions. Equality is essential for the continued functioning of America, for it is the birthright of every man to have a voice and to be heard.
Despite or perhaps because of his optimism, the American is pragmatic in his outlook. Although many Americans claim allegiance to a religion, they continue to strongly advocate a separation of church and state to allow everyone the same freedoms. In state, there is a future division of responsibilities and spheres of influence to allow for more efficient and reliable governing. No one branch of the government has absolute authority over the others, but instead, they check one another's power through a system of checks and balances. The American believes in choice because it prevents party rivalry which may lead to chaos and mayhem. America is still the land of freedom and new principles, but perhaps too much of the former and too little of the latter.
Ever an optimist, an American believes in the best of people and situations. Being pragmatic as well as optimistic, he tries for the middle ground and believes in experience as the one verifier of truth. The ambition of the American today has changed from what it has been in the past. The aim is now power, security, and mostly pleasure, whereas before in the hot throbbing of a new nation birthed from an aging mother all had been a flurry of rush for only power and security. Before the means, the beginning must be considered. Ethnic background is not as important as it was when de Crevecoeur wrote because the character, intelligence, and ability of a man are more closely examined than any other factors. Born with such benefits, an American “must therefore listen to new ideas with an open mind and form new opinions.”
People come to America from every imaginable nook and cranny of the world. This makes it different to define an American as any one creature. According to Jean de Crevecoeur in What is an American, an American is a “new man”who is “part of the finest systems which has ever appeared. “ Although de Crevecoeur argues that ethnicity is a strong basis for a nation, modern Americans do not believe this is the case, rather, an American is anyone who is optimistic, enterprising, and pragmatic.
Above all, an American is optimistic. Though events may be going badly, though the tide comes strong against him, he remains firm in his belief that a higher Power will see him through. This notion was characteristic of the North American colonists even before they became Americans. Though the tide of the American Revolution seemed to flow in favor of the British, the colonists persevered, and it was their well spring of optimism that saw them through. Since that time, many more people have come to America seeking a better life, seeing in the country a potential to thrive and live freely. The American continuously looks forward to the future, never settling for what he has because he must always reach for what is beyond. Enterprising, the American demonstrates an entrepreneur's courage and talent in whatever field he chooses. An American's creed cries out for pride, freedom, and equality. He has pride in his country, his fellows, and in accomplishments which he has achieved on his own. Responsibility accompanies freedom, and the American learns to take accountability for his actions. Equality is essential for the continued functioning of America, for it is the birthright of every man to have a voice and to be heard.
Despite or perhaps because of his optimism, the American is pragmatic in his outlook. Although many Americans claim allegiance to a religion, they continue to strongly advocate a separation of church and state to allow everyone the same freedoms. In state, there is a future division of responsibilities and spheres of influence to allow for more efficient and reliable governing. No one branch of the government has absolute authority over the others, but instead, they check one another's power through a system of checks and balances. The American believes in choice because it prevents party rivalry which may lead to chaos and mayhem. America is still the land of freedom and new principles, but perhaps too much of the former and too little of the latter.
Ever an optimist, an American believes in the best of people and situations. Being pragmatic as well as optimistic, he tries for the middle ground and believes in experience as the one verifier of truth. The ambition of the American today has changed from what it has been in the past. The aim is now power, security, and mostly pleasure, whereas before in the hot throbbing of a new nation birthed from an aging mother all had been a flurry of rush for only power and security. Before the means, the beginning must be considered. Ethnic background is not as important as it was when de Crevecoeur wrote because the character, intelligence, and ability of a man are more closely examined than any other factors. Born with such benefits, an American “must therefore listen to new ideas with an open mind and form new opinions.”
Friday, February 17, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
JSA Fall State Convention
JSA Fall State Convention
I came back to Sunny Hills sublimely enlightened, supremely enriched, and utterly exhausted. From the truly talented to the utterly desperate, the mostly informed debaters were entertaining, if not inspiring.
I warn you though, being conservative is committing suicide (much like standing next to Kristin Kreuk) —a political death. We have a generation of suit-and-tie liberals and Democrats readying themselves for government.
I mentioned this and will restate it numerous times more: the magnetism of some speakers surpassed any expectations I may have harbored. As I observed their performances—and it was a stunning show of theatrics—I sat in mental stupefaction, overwhelmed.
Then I thought about it, and became very frightened.
One of the first debates I witnessed was on the subject of nature vs. nurture and whether humans were innately evil or good. The meanings of “good” and “evil” had been left ambiguous; out of necessity the debaters took it upon themselves to define those terms and argue their points from there. No one commented on this development or seemed to mind, but I cannot see how it is logical to be shouting at each other from different floors in a 100-story building.
I reflect on this debate—highly intelligent and stirring as it was—because Reason is the podium of the speaker; it bears the weight of the speech, but it can block the orator from the audience. He uses it to shield himself and his argument; as irrelevant and tarnished as it may be, it is an impenetrable defense when brought to bear against certain personal beliefs and values, such as religion and morality. If those were used as a launch pad, the plane would never take off.
And yet, in the name of introducing his experience and thus reassuring the audience of his credibility, the speaker may slyly insert his extremely personal views as a Reason that they should agree with his points, and that is acceptable.
I will be one of the first to admit that some people grip onto their beliefs with a dogmatic tenacity that is as exasperating as it is dangerous. I nearly crawled under my seat as, during a debate on the legality of gay marriage, a subsequent speaker claimed her rights were being infringed upon; she had the right to be offended. Yes, but the clear retort would be that her rights end with being—she has no right to do, to hinder others in their desires.
On further consideration, absolute terror slashes through me as razor-studded, rusting blades, like the sensibility of their contentions. They do penetrate and cut to the quick; however, the incision is bloody and often forced. The ultimate truth, the overall view, is understandably lost for the debaters in favor of winning; unfortunately and unforgivably, it is forgone by the audience as they applaud a perhaps misguided passion, a single man, rather than a worthy cause.
The point was to acknowledge the best speaker; I understand that; however, I also perceived the eager converts to the path of unrestrained freedom, leading to…who knows where?
In the debate touching on whether the drinking age should be lowered from 21 to 18, nearly every hand struck the air in agreement. In an astonishingly successful attempt to persuade the listeners, speakers equalized drinking with everything from driving to pornography. If those were available and legal, they argued, surely alcohol was no worse. I could employ an illustration of my view on this: I eat a plate of hideously strong spices; I will use these to represent the pressures of stress. My mouth is blazing, but I can tolerate the pain. I decide to take a smoke, literally inhaling and ingesting fire. A nonexistent (and likely to remain so) boyfriend fervently believes that it is time to consummate our relationship. I am worrying about my weight gain and, despite all health evidence, I am avoiding food like the plague (I still like spices). Teachers this year cannot understand my new independence and are unfairly judging me; they want me to a yes-yes baby. My parents keep hassling me to do better than I am, and I have to think of moving out and paying for my own way. The cup is overflowing, but it is more like the toilet flooding. Then I think longingly of a beer. It will be just to calm me. I am certainly no addict. The demands grow heavier, but I know that there will always be a drink to soothe me. Suddenly I experience all the sensations of drunkenness. And in this inebriated state, caused not because of alcohol by itself but alcohol in addition to the strains of my life, I’m preparing for college.
I Heart Huckabees exuberantly croons, “Everything is connected.” The major difficulty, completely comprehensible, is that these issues do make up an enormous puzzle that no one person is able to link. It is impossible to instill in so many people in so short a time the entire image, and yet if we make no effort, we are learning the shortsighted values today that we will believe and act upon tomorrow.
Hesitantly I mention the terrible debacle others may refer to as the debate on funding stem cell research but I call Doomsday. It was a singularly stressful experience; I stood rooted to the floor with a wooden face, jaw moving like a marionette’s, silently and sincerely disliking everyone and everything responsible for this disaster.
It wasn’t, surprisingly enough. As embarrassed as I was by my lack of preparedness and finesse, I am truly grateful for the opportunity. Everyone was so kind that abject humiliation soon vaporized, along with my chance to convince the audience the moment I opened my mouth.
Three themes reverberated through the debating rooms: Progress (with no responsibility for the far future), Detachment (debatable), and Tolerance (as the majority perceives it). Ironically, there is no mercy for the provincial—or the apparently synonymous “conservative”—mind.
In awe, I mention senior JSA President Jay Yoon and sophomore JSA Secretary Eugenia Rho of Sunny Hills. The eloquence and firm grasp of Yoon and Rho on their topics was truly a marvel and joy to behold. My eyes were dazzled, my ears dazed, my legs ... cramped from sitting for so long.
If I may utilize a crass comparison, kindly recall the scene from Pirates of the Caribbean in which Kiera Knightley as Elizabeth Swann glides down the stairs and Orlando Bloom as Will Turner looks absolutely “gobsmacked.” I am the latter, only with feeling and sincerity and actual expression.
What else, what else…On a less intellectual note, seeing well-groomed, educated young men and women politely slaughtering the side of The Other roused the memory of the infamous Miller’s Lite commercial, in the most respectful way) .
My last three words on Fall State. Exhilarating. Humbling. Necessary.
I came back to Sunny Hills sublimely enlightened, supremely enriched, and utterly exhausted. From the truly talented to the utterly desperate, the mostly informed debaters were entertaining, if not inspiring.
I warn you though, being conservative is committing suicide (much like standing next to Kristin Kreuk) —a political death. We have a generation of suit-and-tie liberals and Democrats readying themselves for government.
I mentioned this and will restate it numerous times more: the magnetism of some speakers surpassed any expectations I may have harbored. As I observed their performances—and it was a stunning show of theatrics—I sat in mental stupefaction, overwhelmed.
Then I thought about it, and became very frightened.
One of the first debates I witnessed was on the subject of nature vs. nurture and whether humans were innately evil or good. The meanings of “good” and “evil” had been left ambiguous; out of necessity the debaters took it upon themselves to define those terms and argue their points from there. No one commented on this development or seemed to mind, but I cannot see how it is logical to be shouting at each other from different floors in a 100-story building.
I reflect on this debate—highly intelligent and stirring as it was—because Reason is the podium of the speaker; it bears the weight of the speech, but it can block the orator from the audience. He uses it to shield himself and his argument; as irrelevant and tarnished as it may be, it is an impenetrable defense when brought to bear against certain personal beliefs and values, such as religion and morality. If those were used as a launch pad, the plane would never take off.
And yet, in the name of introducing his experience and thus reassuring the audience of his credibility, the speaker may slyly insert his extremely personal views as a Reason that they should agree with his points, and that is acceptable.
I will be one of the first to admit that some people grip onto their beliefs with a dogmatic tenacity that is as exasperating as it is dangerous. I nearly crawled under my seat as, during a debate on the legality of gay marriage, a subsequent speaker claimed her rights were being infringed upon; she had the right to be offended. Yes, but the clear retort would be that her rights end with being—she has no right to do, to hinder others in their desires.
On further consideration, absolute terror slashes through me as razor-studded, rusting blades, like the sensibility of their contentions. They do penetrate and cut to the quick; however, the incision is bloody and often forced. The ultimate truth, the overall view, is understandably lost for the debaters in favor of winning; unfortunately and unforgivably, it is forgone by the audience as they applaud a perhaps misguided passion, a single man, rather than a worthy cause.
The point was to acknowledge the best speaker; I understand that; however, I also perceived the eager converts to the path of unrestrained freedom, leading to…who knows where?
In the debate touching on whether the drinking age should be lowered from 21 to 18, nearly every hand struck the air in agreement. In an astonishingly successful attempt to persuade the listeners, speakers equalized drinking with everything from driving to pornography. If those were available and legal, they argued, surely alcohol was no worse. I could employ an illustration of my view on this: I eat a plate of hideously strong spices; I will use these to represent the pressures of stress. My mouth is blazing, but I can tolerate the pain. I decide to take a smoke, literally inhaling and ingesting fire. A nonexistent (and likely to remain so) boyfriend fervently believes that it is time to consummate our relationship. I am worrying about my weight gain and, despite all health evidence, I am avoiding food like the plague (I still like spices). Teachers this year cannot understand my new independence and are unfairly judging me; they want me to a yes-yes baby. My parents keep hassling me to do better than I am, and I have to think of moving out and paying for my own way. The cup is overflowing, but it is more like the toilet flooding. Then I think longingly of a beer. It will be just to calm me. I am certainly no addict. The demands grow heavier, but I know that there will always be a drink to soothe me. Suddenly I experience all the sensations of drunkenness. And in this inebriated state, caused not because of alcohol by itself but alcohol in addition to the strains of my life, I’m preparing for college.
I Heart Huckabees exuberantly croons, “Everything is connected.” The major difficulty, completely comprehensible, is that these issues do make up an enormous puzzle that no one person is able to link. It is impossible to instill in so many people in so short a time the entire image, and yet if we make no effort, we are learning the shortsighted values today that we will believe and act upon tomorrow.
Hesitantly I mention the terrible debacle others may refer to as the debate on funding stem cell research but I call Doomsday. It was a singularly stressful experience; I stood rooted to the floor with a wooden face, jaw moving like a marionette’s, silently and sincerely disliking everyone and everything responsible for this disaster.
It wasn’t, surprisingly enough. As embarrassed as I was by my lack of preparedness and finesse, I am truly grateful for the opportunity. Everyone was so kind that abject humiliation soon vaporized, along with my chance to convince the audience the moment I opened my mouth.
Three themes reverberated through the debating rooms: Progress (with no responsibility for the far future), Detachment (debatable), and Tolerance (as the majority perceives it). Ironically, there is no mercy for the provincial—or the apparently synonymous “conservative”—mind.
In awe, I mention senior JSA President Jay Yoon and sophomore JSA Secretary Eugenia Rho of Sunny Hills. The eloquence and firm grasp of Yoon and Rho on their topics was truly a marvel and joy to behold. My eyes were dazzled, my ears dazed, my legs ... cramped from sitting for so long.
If I may utilize a crass comparison, kindly recall the scene from Pirates of the Caribbean in which Kiera Knightley as Elizabeth Swann glides down the stairs and Orlando Bloom as Will Turner looks absolutely “gobsmacked.” I am the latter, only with feeling and sincerity and actual expression.
What else, what else…On a less intellectual note, seeing well-groomed, educated young men and women politely slaughtering the side of The Other roused the memory of the infamous Miller’s Lite commercial, in the most respectful way) .
My last three words on Fall State. Exhilarating. Humbling. Necessary.
Life and Death – a Presumptuous Title
Life and Death – a Presumptuous Title
Life and Death
Stare grimly at one another
Ineradicable barriers between them
Bridged only by the soul
Death boasted that she had
In her domain
A much larger population
Whereupon Life bragged of a making
Called Reincarnation
When a man dies, it is wished that he lived
And as another continues on without cease
His heirs piously pray for an end
So fragile and uncertain is life
And yet it continues
A conclusion is sure and comes to all
Causing despair to some, a joy to others
But if it came not, youth would fail
Strong tall bodies stooping over
Until their heads pressed to the ground
In homage of mortality
And their eyes set on level with desiccated toes
And so here stand Life and Death
Both comely but hideous, just yet discriminatory
They have found a common interest—
--Man
Vigorous now, soon to die
Yes, now, openly declaring that
Fate has but an empty power
Death is a whining relative
Impossible to keep from visiting
Then
Life a heavy burden placed upon
One’s shoulders and strapped securely
As he grew older; gray sprouted on
Skin speckled as an egg
Brown eyes dimmed in a thin rim
Of watery blistered blue
Rubbery lips pulled back from toothless gums
Mumbling that he would gladly adore Life if
At the end he could pay court to Death
The competitors fought for
His favor
Dribbling noisily he croaked that
He would like one more day
To possess Life
Death would have him for eternity
Life and Death
Stare grimly at one another
Ineradicable barriers between them
Bridged only by the soul
Death boasted that she had
In her domain
A much larger population
Whereupon Life bragged of a making
Called Reincarnation
When a man dies, it is wished that he lived
And as another continues on without cease
His heirs piously pray for an end
So fragile and uncertain is life
And yet it continues
A conclusion is sure and comes to all
Causing despair to some, a joy to others
But if it came not, youth would fail
Strong tall bodies stooping over
Until their heads pressed to the ground
In homage of mortality
And their eyes set on level with desiccated toes
And so here stand Life and Death
Both comely but hideous, just yet discriminatory
They have found a common interest—
--Man
Vigorous now, soon to die
Yes, now, openly declaring that
Fate has but an empty power
Death is a whining relative
Impossible to keep from visiting
Then
Life a heavy burden placed upon
One’s shoulders and strapped securely
As he grew older; gray sprouted on
Skin speckled as an egg
Brown eyes dimmed in a thin rim
Of watery blistered blue
Rubbery lips pulled back from toothless gums
Mumbling that he would gladly adore Life if
At the end he could pay court to Death
The competitors fought for
His favor
Dribbling noisily he croaked that
He would like one more day
To possess Life
Death would have him for eternity
Best Left Unsaid Segments
The fact that I'm immensely wealthy has no effect on your feelings at all?”
“Well, it is an additional benefit,” Charles demurs. “But I really do like you, very much.”
“Do you? You are perilously charming, Lord Falkner. Be careful, or I might fall in love with you.”
"I do become reckless in the company of beautiful women."
Charles thinks hard. Rowan…could he be that colorless character always hovering about? All Charles can remember is that his obscurity is his most salient quality.
“What is your occupation, if any, Lord Falkner?”
“I cannot sing, dance, act,” Charles makes a careless gesture with his hand, “or do anything of use, really.”
“A gentleman, then?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a philosopher. I cogitate deeply on the mysteries of the unemployed life.”
Edmund, Charles, and James all went to the same university
Edmund wiggled nearly the entire family fortune to himself
Charles was relatively well-to-do, left university after two years to travel
James was poor, worked very hard to get in (extremely intelligent and dedicated)
Edmund calls on his own doctor to help (James)
Turns out Oliver didn't try to kill himself after all, just drank too much
Charles realizes he's seen James before
"Father, I believe your financial past has evidenced that a verbal contract isn't worth the paper it's written on."
“Nonsense, my boy. I know the nuances of business as well as the back of my hand!” Charles attempts further reasoning, but Oliver soon grows irritable and snaps, “I am your father, after all, and henceforth you will adhere to my decisions. Why must you always question them so tiresomely?” Charles mentally throws up his hands and goes his way, meaning out of his father's way, while trying to ignore the putrefying state of their once considerable family fortune.
Oliver's face is a dark puce, and an alarming inundation of saliva is making its way from his open mouth to his shirtfront. His eggs of eyes have rolled to reveal the whites, the yoke staring somewhere up into his skull.
Will and Thomas have class (Thomas is the butt of class jokes)
They prefer studying more interesting subjects, like sex and the pursuit of sex.
“Mister Fielding, did you not read last night's assignment?”
Jonathan shrugs. "The covers of the book were too far apart."
Describe students – Labrose, Papuliferous, Eidetic
“Milton's verses are like the peace of God,” Seth declares solemnly.
Professor Kinkly smiles benignly. “Explain, Mister Radcliffe.”
“They surpass all understanding, so it's no use to analyze them."
Puce splotches Kinkly's face. “That will be all, Mister Radcliffe. Thank you for that distinctive judgment. Thankfully for literature, however, there are remain those who try.”
“And still never get any,” Adam whispers behind Seth,.
“Mister Bostwick! Is there something you would like to share with the class?”
“No, sir. Nelly Thompson isn't here.” Nelly Thompson is a well-known prostitute. Mention up higher.
“Mister Bostwick,” Kinkly grinds between his yellow teeth, “you are inviting a severe reprimand.”
“Get the spanking free while you can, Bostwick!” Will calls out merrily. Kinkly wheels about, red face contorted in fury. “Well, Mister Asherton, you too, are asking for it, then?”
“Yes,” Will responds easily, “but not from you. I hope you're not offering?”
Kinkly storms toward him, and Will surrenders all pretense of studying mention above as the professor seizes the book he was furtively reading behind the larger school volume.
The class holds its breath in one shapely body. The cover features a scantily clad blond woman in a swoon clinging to a dark broad-chested ruffian.
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly,” Professor Kinkly intones darkly.
“Isn't it?” Jonathan asks incredulously, darting a disappointed glance at Will, who innocently gazes back.
“It should be thrown with great force!” The worthy professor proceeds to do just that, at a dangerous proximity to Will's head.
"I must protest, sir,” the victim of undeserved violence says calmly. “That was a direct attempt on my life."
Will does not bother to disrupt Professor Paddock's sanity. It is upset enough.
“Well, Mister Stanwood? Have you finished?” Thomas smiles weakly and brings the paper forward, where it is expectantly snatched from him and perused.
Professor Paddock snaps the book shut. “This isn't right,” he announces despairingly. “This isn't even wrong.” Thomas shrinks back, bobbing his head apologetically.
“Mister Stanwood. This man has exhibited the extreme symptoms of vomiting and coughing blood, and lately a large boil has begun to grow on his groin. How should he be treated?”
“Gently?” Thomas stutters.
“No!” Paddock massages his temples. “No! And a thousand times: No!” He pulls his face in an alarming display of elasticity.
“I have always heard,” Thomas pipes helpfully, “that to be great is to be misunderstood.” Paddock takes that to himself. “I must be very great,” he says mournfully. “if I contemplate the number of you in danger of failing.”
Senescence
“Mister Asherton. A word?”
“Professor Fagg? Of course.” Will takes a conciliatory tone.
“I've heard promising things about you, Mister Asherton.” He clamps a bony hand on Will's shoulder.
“You have?” Will asks doubtfully.
“The young Casanova of your day, aren't you?” Wrinkles make way for more wrinkles as Fagg's lips stretch in a proud smile.
Uncharacteristic modesty catches a hold, as Will does not favor continuing in this vein with this particular professor. “Well, not exactly, sir. I–”
“Allow me to congratulate you, Mister Asherton. In my younger days–I'm none too sprightly now, see–I was rather a devotee of love myself.”
“Were you, professor?” Will mumbles unenthusiastically.
“A regular Romeo with the ladies I was.” He winks. “Do you know, Mister Asherton, the queen asked me for an–ah–nightly assignment.”
As Will cannot picture Professor Fagg as anything other than what he is at the moment, and the only glimpses he has caught of the queen presently are at best unflattering, the image conjured is appalling to his young, impressionable mind.
“An honor beyond what I could imagine,” Will nods frantically, hoping to finish this strange interview.
“When you get to be my age, Mister Asherton,
“You're only as young as the woman you feel, eh?” The high cackle that follows this jaw-cracking wit is not comforting to Will, who in panic envisions himself, not a debonair, dashing lover but a dirty old man. His only separation from this crabby gnome is in years, and suddenly that bridge is too short for his liking.
“Well, yes, sir,” Will
Kinkly has a rude talk with him
Enter Prince George, tutor, ______ (princess), Bernard, king, queen
Prince is bored to death, is taking everything for granted
Indeed, why should he have to ask anyone for permission to go out? He is the heir apparent, next in a very long line of succession due to his royal birth to tediously royal parents whose blue blood can be traced back to the time of Creation probably related to God, descended from Him. As such, George need not beg consent from anyone, as no one would dare punish him.
Besides, if he is very sneaky, no will ever know.
With this newfound courage, he ventures forth into the world. George is not five minutes into his escapade when he nearly collides with a guard.
“Your highness,” the man bows, and only then does his head lower to be on par with the prince's. George stares, and his young pimply face becomes pinched with sourness. Of a fair height himself, he dislikes being loomed over, and usually gets rid of anyone taller than he, one way or another.
“Who are you, fellow? I don't recall ever seeing you before.” Before the colossus can reply, George waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, I don't care. Be on your way.”
“The king has ordered me to act as sentry for your door, your highness.” He bows again.
Obviously his going would be another way. “Well, I'm telling you I require neither the protection nor the intrusion.”
The giant holds only one note, and he continues to play it. “I have orders from his majesty, your highness.”
“Did he tell you why I'm being held prisoner in my own kingdom, my own palace, my own room?”
“No, your highness. You may go wherever you wish, your highness, so long as your desires end at your door.”
“Very well, then! Be an obstinate mule peasant!” George huffs into his room and slams the door.
A short time later he pokes his head out. “Still here?” He sounds aggrieved.
“Yes, your highness.”
“Why?”
The guard repeats his tiresome litany.
“Oh, be quiet! I know that!” George's nails scrape down the door in a disturbingly girlish gesture as he gnaws his lower lip in frustration. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Bernard, your highness.”
“What a hideous appellation. Your parents must have hated you.”
“Certainly, your highness, if they had ever known me.”
“I only asked because I want to know the names of people I send to the chopping block. It's more satisfying that way.”
“Let's go the country! Now which of you fainthearted rabbits can muster some courage for a hunt?” There is a general assent, followed by mutters of boring practicalities, like this is the sort of thing that had to be planned, and no equipment could be had at the wave merely at the wave of a hand unless its palm was greased with gold, and on and on.
“I'm game!” Thomas shouts eagerly, blinking his round blue eyes in confusion as the other boys guffaw. His ears become suffused with red while his fellows clap him on the back and nastily congratulate him on his never-failing wit.
Joseph holds up a hand for silence. “Yes, yes, we all know the quarry that lurks in our poor Thomas here.”
This doesn't need to be first-hand.
“You have to make a surprise attack on me.”
“All right. Are you ready?”
“I am now!”
Will is the son of a moderately well-off knight
Thomas is pretty rich, but very trusting and overly passionate, only brave when drunk
Thomas begs Will to intercede for him
Will refuses at first, then gives in
Although it's night, Will goes to call on Catherine
Will is warmly ushered in by parents (think that he is interested in their daughter and desperate to marry her off to whoever wants her)
George's mother has her portrait taken (funky hair)
“Now, Leopold, you had better do me justice.”
“I would ask for mercy.”
Niagra falls will make a fine backdrop for your picture.
Queen Isabel has demanded in her full capacity as queen a portrait done by the finest painter in the country. That said painter's subjects usually are febrile, grass-masticating, road apple-defecating creatures does not deter her in the least. Her qualities resemble theirs closely enough for an easy transition.
Edmund likes James very well, but he is entirely too upright and honest, telling Edmund the truth when he would prefer inflated lies. He likes those very much.
Sir, we feel a need to impart to you our standards.
None.
Regards,
“My, my, look who is working hard.”
“I don't know how to begin,” Charles mutters, throwing down his pen in dejection.
“Well, I always start writing with a perfectly clean piece of paper,” Edmund reaches over and flaps the doodled page in front of Charles,” and an exceptionally dirty mind.”
“Your methods are not mine, and for that I thank God on my knees.”
“Don't do that. You'll wrinkle them.”
“Can you see me as clerk?”
Edmund scrutinizes him. “Not really, no. A sad mental case, maybe. A buffoon, certainly–”
“Edmund–”
“–But not a clerk,” he finishes.
“Are we friends?”
“'Are we acquaintances?' may be the better question. Allow me to consult the dictionary.” Edmund rummages through his coat
Charles sits back, amazed. “Frankly, I didn't know you harbored such dangerously intellectual influences in your very pockets.”
“Ah, but this belongs to the devil.” He finds it and recites, “Acquaintance, n.: A person whom we know well enough to borrow from, but not well enough to lend to." He tucks it back, and utters cautiously, “If, incidentally, you plan to ask me for money, I must beg to be demoted from friend to acquaintance.”
“I am wholly capable of providing for myself, thank you. I intend to–”
“To what? Work?” Edmund vomits the word in a great show of disgust.
“I was considering it, yes,” Charles says wryly. “It seemed a pleasant alternative to starvation and beggary.”
“You're a gentleman, Charles! Not much of one–you have far too many morals to be rid of before you truly are–but nevertheless, dedicating yourself to honest labor would be most unbecoming.”
“And what would you suggest as a substitute for my own criminal proposal?”
Edmund shrugs. "Your dilemma is easily solved, my friend. Wed a wealthy heiress, preferably desperate, ugly, and about to die.”
“That is the vilest plot I have ever heard,” an appalled Charles decries. He stares at Edmund, pondering this new wickedness. “And possibly the most brilliant.” As Edmund begins to grin, he adds piously, “But it is evil still, no matter the cleverness.”
“Oh, don't be scrupulous now. Only the rich can afford to be that because it doesn't pay. And you, my friend, are not rich. Far from it, as you have acknowledged.”
“Edmund,” Charles says finally. “I do plan my final destination to be Heaven, though I may embark on several detours and false leads on the way.”
“So do us all.” Edmund claps him on the back, ushering him from the door. “So do us all.”
Edmund examines him closely. “You're not particularly easy–”
“–I should hope not–”
“–on the eyes, but we'll manage with what we have.”
Edmund nudges him. “That woman is in urgent need of a good, reliable husband.”
“And may I ask why you are informing me of this?”
“Well, marry her before she finds one.” Charles sighs heavily.
The young woman peers at him suspiciously. “You are–?”
“–whoever you are looking for.”
“I doubt that very much. If you'll excuse me–”
“Do you like music?” Charles asks in a rush.
Her frown deepens. “Not when it's played.” Her eyes wander past him. “Now I really must–”
“It's better than it sounds,” he says desperately. “Opera does not appeal to you at all?”
“I find opera to be the politest form of mortal agony, but that is the best of its virtues. No, it does not.”
She smiles sweetly. “I never forget a face, but I have made an exception for you. You are?”
“Lord Falkner. Lord Charles Falkner. I already know your name.”
“Oh, really?”
“Lady Falkner.”
She laughs. “Baroness Halle Wheldon. Should I be honored to have your acquaintance, Lord Falkner?”
“Please, call me Charles. I am privileged to have yours, and if only a more intimate relationship blossoms, I shall count myself the luckiest man in the world.”
She declines his offer of informality. “Is it not said that familiarity breeds contempt, Lord Falkner?”
“You must not forget the children.”
“And are you planning to have children?”
“Someday. I am searching for the mother meanwhile." He smiles ingratiatingly. "Let us get better acquainted."
“What is your occupation, if any, Lord Falkner?”
“I cannot sing, dance, act,” Charles makes a careless gesture with his hand, “or do anything of use, really.”
“A gentleman, then?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a philosopher. I cogitate deeply on the mysteries of the unemployed life.”
“William! What are you doing, sleeping at this time of day?” Natalie scolds, slapping the back of his head with her hand.
“I was,” Will says with dignity as he tries to avoid her swats, “rehearsing for my future position in the Great Council.”
“You measure yourself highly, little brother. To achieve such an exalted placing requires diligence, responsibility–”
“–a fat purse, a bigger belly, and a bribed relative to get into this sublime group.” He reburies his face in his arms. “My life is so boring.”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “You would complain if you were the prince. Don't you think you should express some appreciation for the security of knowing your future?”
“Or I could whine like an ungrateful snot,” Will points out reasonably.
“Did you get the money father sent you?”
“The thirty pounds?” Will curses himself. “No.”
Her voice is carefully neutral. “Did you? I hear a great fire just swept through the area. Do tell me about it.”
Will glares, chewing his lower lip. He has not an inkling as to what she was referring to. “It was…fiery,” he offers finally. “With reds and yellows and blues.”
“It must have been an unprecedented catastrophe,” Natalie continues smoothly, “especially considering that the fire was actually a flood.”
“Tell me what you know!” Will nearly shrieks.
“Enough, Will, and even that is too much for my peace of mind.”
He looks at her sullenly. “Careful, you already begin to lecture like a husband-weary wife, and you hardly affianced.”
“I worry about my only brother. It's an older sister's prerogative.” She lowers herself, unasked, onto a couch, carefully holding her skirts away from the questionable stain on the seat. “What have you been doing these days, Will? Nothing good, I suppose?”
He shrugs restlessly. “You know me too well.”
“I wish I did not.”
“So I am not the scholar Father would want me to be! I am not a doll of a brother either, nor a perfect dunce for Mother.”
“Will you stop making yourself the victim of a tragedy? You babble endlessly about fetters, but it is I who still reside with our parents.”
“Right.” Will feels considerably less manly than he would like.
“Are you keeping a girl?” she asks suddenly.
“No! I mean–it's more like she's keeping me, really–from sleeping, eating, studying…”
“One day, Will, you will learn it isn't always possible to use…intimate relations to get what you what.”
“I can't use sex to get what I want,” he says reprovingly. “I am a man now. Sex is what I want.”
“By-the-by, what brings you to these undeserving lodgings?”
Her expression is a little pitying, but more implacable than he likes. “Father is coming to see you.”
“He's what? Why, for the love of all that's holy! Why?”
“Let us say that the reports reaching home of your conduct have not been flattering.”
“But I took care of–” Too late he realizes his irresponsible, probably fatal, error. “I personally threw them in the fire–I mean the mail cart.”
“Apparently a few passed through your…selective filter.”
“You have to stop him!”
“I'll do no such thing. You are slandering the family name with your vulgar dalliances, squandering money as though you were a sultan…in short, I think it high time you and sense were reunited, and if that association is not easily forthcoming–”
“You found your prince charming. I helped you then. You must help me now!”
“Break the horse's leg. Break your leg, if it'll get his attention. But slow him down.”
“They say nice things about people at their funeral, don't they?” Will remarks wistfully. “I am saddened to think I will miss mine, by just a few days.”
Yes, Charles freely admits he married his wife for money and she him for a title, but sullenly cannot see why that bars their relationship from being more than a business transaction.
“Stop brandishing your state of impoverishment like the brand of Cain, and perhaps you may see results yet.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Yes.”
Edmund ponders this. “Would I lie to you, if I was not benefited in any way?” he amends.
"Probably not, but you would ask misleading questions."
"Are you insinuating that I--" Edmund snaps his mouth shut.
“What do you think about … let's say, that one?” Edmund waves a carefully negligent hand at a man who will be very attractive if he only stops self-consciously shrinking into the wall every time a woman passes by as though he will gift her with leprosy.
Halle shrugs lightly, her gown sparkling at the movement. “He is well enough, for a specimen old, bald, and in acute decay.”
“Eh–what?” Edmund spies the man besides Charles, verifies the observation for the generous assessment it is, and quickly directs Halle's attention to a more appropriate subject. “No, no. The blond gentleman.”
Charles, oblivious, forthwith suffers intense, if brief, scrutiny. Edmund waits confidently for a favorable reaction.
“What is the matter with him?” is Halle's first inquiry.
“He's perfectly fine,” Edmund splutters huffily. “There's nothing wrong with him.”
“Does he have a history of excessive nail-biting, lip-licking, purse-emaciating, or otherwise unbearable habits, in bed?”
“How would I know?” Edmund snaps, embarrassed. He, who can engage in a heated eye-to-breast lock until the nipple blinks, absentmindedly experience a naughty private interview granted to him by the most fashionably wicked exotic dancer, and swear to smoke only after making love and still manage to be a twenty-a-day man, blushes when speaking of the vaguely indecent with his cousin.
She gives him a disapproving look. “Edmund, I thought you cared about my wellbeing.”
“I do–”
“Then it's only right that you should have ensured his qualities to be good, and how else except through rigorous testing of all aforementioned qualities. I think a decent analysis would require a profound yet hardy method, preferably executed by hand–well, 'carefully' may be a better choice of words.”
“What? You couldn't rise to the occasion?”
“There's nothing funny about it.” Charles shrugs into a jacket. “Wipe that grin off your face, you insufferable fool. If you have the indecency to think–”
“You assume I think? I have never been so insulted.” Edmund makes a moue, whirling dramatically to take a reproachful stance by the window. “I would rather feel–and I feel many things: love, hate, grief, jealousy–”
“–women?” Charles suggests sourly.
It is positively indecent to marry after one meeting. Everyone will gripe and moan that it simply isn't done.
Edmund makes a point of doing things for the simple reason that they are not done.
He spies a vision so breathtaking, his breath stops. A cascade of golden curls sweeps down the perfect curve of a shoulder. Lovely brown eyes catch his, and then demurely glance away. Edmund stumbles forward, feeling caught in a dream.
The length of the ballroom yawn between them, its breath hot and stifling and smelling of too much smoke and perfume.
“May I know your name?” he gasps breathlessly, gaping like a naive schoolboy.
"I, Rose," she stands.
"No," Edmund whispers gamely. "Sit down."
“I fear I am dead, for this is surely heaven.”
“It's late. You should be going to bed. Or is that redundant?”
“No, our date wasn't like that.”
“She's a bit…insubstantial, isn't she?”
“Not at all. She's quite generously made.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I should hope not. I find myself exceedingly jealous of Rose.”
"For reasons unknown to the rest of mankind."
He hates this particular servant with a deep and abiding passion. The intensity is such that if it had been in the least sexual, the experience would be a tormenting pleasure, but as it is it is only tormenting, and beginning to interfere with the cool aloofness he believes in preserving with the working class.
“That servant of yours, he is an insolent fellow, isn't he?”
Her laugh is a silver trill. “Don't be silly, Charles. He has never been insolent in his life.”
Charles takes her hand, earnestly inquiring, “Why is he always skulking about? I believe that every time I have entered your rooms, he is there. It is most improper.”
Halle becomes chill and turns away. “I have always thought that propriety is overrated, and if it deprives me of an old friend I could do away with it altogether.”
Offended, Charles too withdraws, and the rest of the carriage ride is enveloped in silence.
“I am going to kill you now. Whether you will take your death as a man or blubber as a coward will be your decision.”
The man chooses to blubber, and he kills him anyway.
Charles swallows uncomfortably, drumming his knuckles on the table. Halle is smiling at him, with the patient, indulgent smile she showers on her sister's children. It is both intimidating and endearing, although he cannot imagine why he should be frightened of his lovely, friendly spouse.
“My dear,” he begins carefully, watching her. He is blissfully unconscious that she thinks he looks as though he ate something especially upsetting at lunch. “What would you say if I–if I happened to mention that I love you?”
“I would offhandedly respond with a surprised, 'Oh.'”
Very encouraged by this indication of favor, he blurts, “I love you.”
“Oh.”
“What Edmund really needs is someone who does not appreciate him. He does that entirely too much, too well, all by himself.”
“Are you subtly suggesting that he is conceited?”
“I am blatantly stating it. He is intolerably supercilious.”
“His merely conscious of his own uniqueness.”
“Oh, anyone can be cynical and absurd, Charles. I like him very well as he is, but I am not blind to his faults, and he perceives mine clearly enough.”
“Fie, Lady Falkner! My wife does not possess any. She is perfect, perfectly flawless. ”
Charles swallows uncomfortably, drumming his knuckles on the table. Halle is smiling at him, with the patient, indulgent smile she showers on her sister's children. It is both intimidating and endearing, although he cannot imagine why he should be frightened of his lovely, friendly spouse.
“My dear,” he begins carefully, watching her. He is blissfully unconscious that she thinks he looks as though he ate something especially upsetting at lunch. “What would you say if I–if I happened to mention that I love you?”
“I would offhandedly respond with a surprised, 'Oh.'”
Very encouraged by this indication of favor, he blurts, “I love you.”
“Oh.”
The king commanded that he be shot to death and then stripped of everything. The queen reversed the order, commanding instead that he be stripped of everything, and then shot. Ah, a woman's gentle nature and lascivious eyes.
Torture by feather
The dungeon had witnessed countless torments, exhorting victims for money, religious confessions, and certain very rare face creams. But this was the most brutal yet, and it was for love.
“I will never…submit to you,” the man gasped, shaking in the aftermath of his ordeal. “There is there is nothing left in this world for me, as you have destroyed everything I cared for. What more would you have?”
“It is only because I love you that I have done this. If it only because you will not return my affections that this has come to pass.”
Thomas looks up. “Could this be a different sort of love? A bit more flexible, perhaps not so obsessive?”
“I swear to wash this stain on ______'s honor with blood, and by God if I do not, may I be cursed, and my family, and my descendents, and…”
“Don't bring us into this!” his presumably dead and to be relatives shriek.
“I had hoped, beloved, that you would be more pliant. However, it seems you require more…persuasion.” Her elegant hands float over the impressive array of whips, knives, racks, and djfklajflsdjfdsf. Eron's eyes widened in horror as she approached him, bearing the one menace he could not endure. He screamed as she sliced across his torso with–a feather.
The dungeon began to echo with his screams, punctuated by snorts and silly giggling.
“Is it puberty? Has it finally hit you? Slapped me pretty hard.”
“The prince is mad. Almost frenzied at times, as his servants can and will attest. He rushes about, doing much of nothing, preening at his reflection in the soup and then ripping at his hair the next.”
“Oh? Why is this?”
A malicious smile unfastens across the man's face, dripping yellow in its wake. “Rumor has bruited about,” he pauses, relishing the importance of his message, “that his highness must marry the princess of ____ in order to ascend the throne.”
“And so he hastens to win her affections, and in this worthy endeavor--"
“–he is killing us all! His highness hounds me day and night. I cannot sleep, can barely eat. I am but a shadow of the man I was,” Arnold bemoans, wiping his perspiring face with a greasy napkin. His many folds and bulges cause his coat buttons to whimper with him as he turns about in conversation.
“Are you?” Edmund remarks innocently. “How terrible. You have my most sincere sympathies.”
“Do you dare disparage lapdogs? Why, they are in positions of ultimate power.”
“Marriage is only a slightly less draconian system than slavery, Edmund.”
“For the men, certainly.”
“For the women, Edmund.”
“Why do you say this? I've always thought females the most merciless overseers.”
Charles continues to stare in fascination at the wall. “Blegh. Gurble. Smuckers.”
“What?”
“Don't bother him. He's going through withdrawal.” As Thomas ogles blankly, Edmund clarifies, “Deprivation of sexual intercourse can do this to a man.”
“You are disturbing my patrons!”
“We are your patrons. Two mouths drink more than one. Edmund drinks more than ten. Helping us will be to your gain.”
More conversation, more yelling, Charles talk about really creepy affair w/ really creepy professor
“Fortuna bestowed upon you a deep French kiss, Charles. Halle is not only beautiful; her wit sparkles, her taste, refined…she retains a life apart from yours!”
“Yes, she does,” Charles says glumly.
Edmund stands, shoving the chair back. “Rose is always so vapid, so utterly predictable.” His voice lowers, a little guiltily.
Edmund buries his head in his arms, resting heavily against the fireplace mantel. “Then you know everything there is to Rose. Honestly, if her face was simply a mask and it was removed, I think only air would accuse me from behind what?. It's ghastly.”
Charles remains silent, knowing that once the floodgates have opened, a torrent will gush. It does.
“I am sick when I look at her. I want to vomit when I touch her. Her presence is nauseating to my senses.”
All the bad things she is and does
He shudders. “And she has the most mawkish taste.”
Truth reveals itself, and the sight is embarrassing and difficult to ignore, like a very large, very naked man. “Edmund, you are beyond belief. I warned you to think carefully about your marriage, but you chose to disregard my caution. And now, rather than confront–”
“Do stop lecturing! You remind me of my nursemaid.”
“It's only because you act as a child. Be a man, for God's sake, Edmund! I have usually disliked you, often been disgusted by you, but I have never been ashamed of you.”
“If you say, 'Until now,' I will smash your head with this paperweight.” He hefts it. “Don't think I won't.”
“Who are you to dictate my life?” Edmund demands harshly. “
“Love is a prick–”
“–of the rose.”
“Did you enjoy your dinner with Edmund?” Halle asks quietly as he comes in and throws himself on a chair.
“Not really. He's so gloomy these days and–” Guiltily he looks up. As an awkward silence drifts like miasma in their general direction, Charles leaps up and begins to pace. “It was Rowan, wasn't it? That little–“ Charles checks himself. “He told you! Someone should blindfold him…and pour wax into his ears.” He begins to be carried away by his fantasies. “In fact, what someone should really do is stuff him like a turkey, with lots of–”
“Charles.” Her manner is oddly grave. “I found out on my own.”
“Oh.” He sits down, feeling sheepish. “I didn't think…”
“I'm not surprised.”
He looks at her squarely. “Are you having an affair with him?”
Any other woman would have fainted at the question, or slapped the inquirer. Halle tilts her chin in defiance. “And if I am?”
“I'll rip him apart with my bare hands.” Charles starts up, but Halle grasps his sleeve, holding him back.
“And if I was the one who initiated the relationship?”
“That's different.” As her grip eases, he pulls away and continues vehemently, “Then I'll have at him with a meat cleaver.”
“Natalie, I am going to do a horrible thing. I am going to ask you for money.”
“No.”
“Dearest sister, I require it desperately!”
“Do you? I'm so sorry.” Her tone implies she is not very sorry at all.
Will casts himself at her feet in abject supplication. “Have pity on the prodigal son who wants only to return home–”
“For his follies, he eats pigs' fare first, I believe. Some hardship might do you some good.”
“I have learned from my past, Natalie! I tell you the truth, my errors are hideous blights on my soul, and if you will only help me, I will forever eradicate any notion of further misdemeanor
“Such change of heart is surprising, Will, not to say unbelievable. You will forgive me if I am not the credulous fool you take me to be.”
Her teacher's voice screeches in her head like a bow pulled across a badly strung violin. Halle grimaces. All who meet him inevitably soon bemoan sperm wasted in creating such an incurable wanker.
“Treat your instrument as a languid paramour. Fondle it, stroke it, bring it melodious ecstasy–and it will be yours for the taking. Ignore it–” here his voice drops in horror, “–and be deserted in turn.” Bulbous eyes roll rhapsodically at the ceiling. “You must crave the music, and it will desire you to touch, explore...”
Halle remembers privately thinking her teacher if so excited with inanimate object, what would he do with something actually alive? Hasn't gotten any for a long time, obviously needed a live lover to assuage his ferocious passions. But no mortal would have been capable of satisfying such an appetite.
“No, no! Don't grope!” As Halle's knuckles whitens and she grips tighter with frustration, he shrieks, “Hold it gently, and do not squeeze!” He snatches the instrument from her and cradles it lovingly against his face, crooning soothingly to it. “There, there, Oscar.”
Soon after she had discovered an interest in piano and abandoned the violin.
Halle slams down on the keys, and a cloud of dust flies in her face like a flock of hairy bats. “Milady, the piano appears in need of dusting before you play it.”
“So it seems,” she sneezes.
Surreptitiously she slants a glance toward Rowan as he bends over, before quite realizing what she is doing. Reality shortly knocks, and failing that, wrenches the hinges from her door of Dreams. She tears her eyes away and clamps a hand over her mouth, as distressed as though she had been peeping at her puritanical, grandfatherly neighbor–or a very odd-shaped radish.
“Milady, I am finished.”
Indecision wars within her breast. Decency battles valiantly, but cannot win. A cluster of Forbidden Fruit dangles in the innocent blue eyes that rake over the piano's surface. There is not a speck to be seen. “You missed that spot over there.” Halle stretches out a graceful arm, motioning at an area sufficiently far away so Rowan must stretch to reach it. The effect is quite good.
“Do you wish me to do anything else, milady?” Again the quick obedience she has never fully made use of. Fortunately, such careless oversights can be remedied. Wipe more things first…
She sweeps the room in a speculative perusal as she strolls to the couch and reclines elegantly. “Now that you mention it, I think everything could do with a bit of cleaning,” Halle beams.
“–eternal damnation!” the preacher thunders. “God hates the lewd, the promiscuous! He has decreed, 'Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled; for fornicators and adulterers God will judge.'”
Thomas shifts uneasily in his seat, certain that the man is speaking directly to him. Will stiffens, and not in the way he would like. Charles stares vacantly past the minister to a spot on the wall as bald as the man's head. Edmund openly snores, the pages of his hymn book fluttering up with each breath like a girl's skirts.
The minister's fellow parson takes over. “It is God's will that you should be sanctified,” he says, more gently, “that you should avoid sexual immorality, that each of you should learn to control his own body in a way that is holy and honorable, not in passionate lust like the heathen, who do not know God…”
Halle leans over to Natalie and hisses, “Why is he staring at me?”
Natalie looks at her oddly. “No, dear. He's not.”
“He's making straight eye contact.”
“The man's cross-eyed, Halle. It's all right.”
“Edmund, the man is preaching to save your soul, not entertain you.”
He looks injured. “I see no reason why the two objectives cannot coincide. Both are equally commendable.”
Charles, Halle, Edmund, Rose, Will, Catherine, Thomas, Natalie, James go to circus
“I'm certain the animals and lusus naturae will be greatly entertained by the show of humans making fools of themselves.”
James makes some sagacious observations
“Tom, you blush when girls sneeze at you. Now, sex–”
“I can think about sex! I can talk about it! I can certainly do it–”
“No literal demonstrations required, thank you.”
“After all, a human is a human is–”
“–A pig! Let's eat.”
“Rowan!”
“Milady…”
“Charles–”
“Will,” the young man says amiably.
In a jealous rage Charles tries to punch Rowan's lights out, but ends up with his hand in a cast and Rowan unscathed
Charles has had enough. His jealous fist whistles through the air, and suddenly his world shrinks to a throbbing ball of pain as Rowan ducks and his fingers smash against wood instead of flesh.
“If you are such a good servant, you should have let me hit you,” Charles crossly reproves.
“Oh no, sir,” Rowan sincerely protests, “I should have been remiss in giving you cause to regret.”
“Believe me, I would have survived the trauma,” Charles says dryly. He winces, inspecting the bulky mass of white bandages his hand had become.
Halle comes bustling in, precariously balancing a tea tray. “Sweetheart,” she says with forced cheerfulness. “I thought you might like a spot of–”
“–bloody hell!” Charles's shriek echoes fearsomely in the room. He has craned around to watch her, and in doing so his hand drops heavily to the table.
Halle flinches. “You seem to be able to whip that up nicely yourself, darling.” She sets down the tray. “It's rather late now, and I think we should all go to bed…” she trails off painfully. “Oh, dear.”
“Yes, I agree.” He turns to Rowan and with perfect seriousness, “Which side would you like? Or better yet, do you prefer the top or bottom? Beds, of course.” Charles sleeps on the second floor, Halle on the first.
Rowan makes a strangled noise, quickly disguised by a discreet cough.
Charles gives Rowan Hobson's choice.
“Rowan, I think it only fair to tell you the consequences of your answers. If what your mistress says is not true, I will find it expedient to render you an instant eunuch by hacking at you with a very, very dull kitchen knife while blindfolded. If it is, why then, I will tear out your eyes with rusty iron pincers, strangle you with your own entrails, and then…” he waits expectantly.
“…render me an instant eunuch by hacking at me with a very, very dull kitchen knife while blindfolded. Yes, sir. Vivid imagery, sir.” Rowan nods agreeably.
“Halle, my beloved wife, would you like to tell me anything?”
She bites her lip. Rowan forms the most horrendous faces behind Charles, his hand slicing across his neck in an unmistakably negative gesture. “No,” she pronounces.
Charles twists his neck around. Rowan looks back at him placidly, face wiped clean. He eyes the servant suspiciously for a moment before turning back and motioning for his wife to continue.
“I would not…” She pauses as Charles' brows rush together in a skeptical collision and hastily adds, “…want to…er…tell you anything because…because there is…uh…nothing to…to…” She is not an impromptu thinker, and it shows.
“To what?” he prompts patiently.
“…tell you?” she finishes lamely.
Charles wriggles on the plush seat until he is comfortable, and from his relaxed vantage, peers at them over the lopsided pagoda he has made of his fingertips. “I see. You wouldn't like to tell me anything, because there is nothing to tell. Am I correct?”
“It is the truth verbatim,” Halle assents.
“I am glad to hear it. However,” his look becomes thoughtfully ominous, “there remains the question of why, if there is 'nothing to tell,' you felt so compelled to tell me of it.”
Halle begins to flounder.
“Sir, if I may speak?”
The expression of surprise on Charles' face cannot be more genuine if his dish had jumped to life and offered to run away with his spoon. “Only if necessary,” he dictates, savoring the heady power, “and then as briefly as possible.”
“This has all been a most unfortunate misunderstanding. Dfldfksa;djfk
When he sleeps, it is the sleep of the righteous.
Charles takes opportunity to read book
“I love you.”
“I love the way you love me.”
“I love the way you love the way I love you.”
“I love the way you love the way I love the way you love me.”
Well, this is a rigorous intellectual exercise.
“Edmund, I can explain.”
“Can you, Estelle?”
She pauses. “No.”
“Now, sweetheart,” Estelle says soothingly. “Who will know it's you, after all?”
“Estelle, when I came here, I expected a visual feast other than what I normally glimpse in the mirror. Why, then, am I still confronted with perfection found nowhere else?”
“You hate me, because you love Halle?”
“I despise you entirely on your own merits,” Charles assures him.
“Act so completely disgusting that your very name will be distasteful to her, and she will open the door herself to be rid of you and to assist in the departure, kick your–”
“I understand. And I can think of no better method than to act as you do, sir.”
“I see you are doing your utmost to ruin my life. May I congratulate you on splendid accomplishments thus far.”
Doesn't he govern that province?
Oh, he manages--to increase tension.
What does your heart tell you?
It's been rather quiet lately.
Sorry. Didn't mean to fog up your rosy lenses.
The only original thought I ever had was to plagiarize. It's pathetic. Copying is the refuge of the uninspired, and yes, I am. Uninspired, that is. Obviously I don't speak the way I write the story, and that leads to it often being stilted and painfully stiff like a–let's not go into comparisons.
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens – naïve, likable character who is often taken advantage of (Thomas), (Edmund as he falls for Rose)
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte – helped with the phrasing
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte – helped with the phrasing
Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton - (it isn't done!)
The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck –
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen – a look on two contrasting couples.
Peter the Great by Robert K. Massie
Oscar Wilde by Richard Ellman – responsible for a lot of the background and humor, as well as the explaining away of plagiarism. (Saint Sebastian, usually pictured as nearly naked and effete. He should have been Nameless in Hero.)
The Last Lion by William Manchester – idea of Parliament and politics with war impending and people not believing. Churchill is excruciatingly brilliant and humorous, and he's very clever and funny as well.
The War With Hannibal by Livy
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert – the dangers of reading
Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey – this is a sexy book (cough). I mean, it's beautiful…and unique…and…sexy…[actually, I read about halfway, was outraged when Delauney and Alcuin died, and stopped. I'll resume later, when I get over it.]
Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie – began the idea for Best Left Unsaid. Love it, adore it, must have it!
HP and LoTR Breadbox Edition by Evadne (ff.net)
Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor – a lot like Gone with the Wind, except during King Charles II's reign. Marry for money, all the sleeping around, acting, titles, how to address
Shrek 1-2 - dinner
Disney (Aladdin, Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, etc) – the couples
The Search for Modern China by Jonathan D. Spence – glaring examples of incompetence leading to the general falling apart of the country
A Short History of Philosophy by Robert C. Solomon and Kathleen M. Higgins – concise overview of world philosophy/religion, gave rise to some views of characters
Emma by Jane Austen – great model of a reasonably intelligent young lady who, because she doesn't have enough to do, messes with everyone else
Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell – this book hit me at the impressionable time of 3rd grade. It has never left since. This says a lot about my nonexistent social life.
Numerous romance novels (too many, forever scarred by them)
Sidney Sheldon (cringe)
Danielle Steel (wince)
Thundera Tiger (LoTR) ff.net
Cassandra Claire (HP fan fiction) livejournal.com/epicyclical
Wikipedia – invaluable source for looking up various things
Wordweb – great thesaurus
Very loud, nonstop music (Conjure One, Evanescence – blare it, Shrek, Enya, Michelle Branch, etc)
Ambrose Bierce – priceless Devil's Dictionary
The Arms of Krupp by William Manchester - A side-splitting account of the German arms-making kings. The humor influenced this sad little ditty.
“You are a writer?”
“I am well known in that capacity, yes. How may I be of service?”
Disgrace, as Will is beginning to discover, has a distinct, disagreeable odor. People begin to raise their noses when he came near, pinching their narrow nostrils to mere slits. Soon, he thinks dolefully, mothers will cover their children's eyes when the dreadful, unspeakable pariah that is Will comes walking down the street, contaminating the air they breathe with Disgrace.
“Well, it is an additional benefit,” Charles demurs. “But I really do like you, very much.”
“Do you? You are perilously charming, Lord Falkner. Be careful, or I might fall in love with you.”
"I do become reckless in the company of beautiful women."
Charles thinks hard. Rowan…could he be that colorless character always hovering about? All Charles can remember is that his obscurity is his most salient quality.
“What is your occupation, if any, Lord Falkner?”
“I cannot sing, dance, act,” Charles makes a careless gesture with his hand, “or do anything of use, really.”
“A gentleman, then?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a philosopher. I cogitate deeply on the mysteries of the unemployed life.”
Edmund, Charles, and James all went to the same university
Edmund wiggled nearly the entire family fortune to himself
Charles was relatively well-to-do, left university after two years to travel
James was poor, worked very hard to get in (extremely intelligent and dedicated)
Edmund calls on his own doctor to help (James)
Turns out Oliver didn't try to kill himself after all, just drank too much
Charles realizes he's seen James before
"Father, I believe your financial past has evidenced that a verbal contract isn't worth the paper it's written on."
“Nonsense, my boy. I know the nuances of business as well as the back of my hand!” Charles attempts further reasoning, but Oliver soon grows irritable and snaps, “I am your father, after all, and henceforth you will adhere to my decisions. Why must you always question them so tiresomely?” Charles mentally throws up his hands and goes his way, meaning out of his father's way, while trying to ignore the putrefying state of their once considerable family fortune.
Oliver's face is a dark puce, and an alarming inundation of saliva is making its way from his open mouth to his shirtfront. His eggs of eyes have rolled to reveal the whites, the yoke staring somewhere up into his skull.
Will and Thomas have class (Thomas is the butt of class jokes)
They prefer studying more interesting subjects, like sex and the pursuit of sex.
“Mister Fielding, did you not read last night's assignment?”
Jonathan shrugs. "The covers of the book were too far apart."
Describe students – Labrose, Papuliferous, Eidetic
“Milton's verses are like the peace of God,” Seth declares solemnly.
Professor Kinkly smiles benignly. “Explain, Mister Radcliffe.”
“They surpass all understanding, so it's no use to analyze them."
Puce splotches Kinkly's face. “That will be all, Mister Radcliffe. Thank you for that distinctive judgment. Thankfully for literature, however, there are remain those who try.”
“And still never get any,” Adam whispers behind Seth,.
“Mister Bostwick! Is there something you would like to share with the class?”
“No, sir. Nelly Thompson isn't here.” Nelly Thompson is a well-known prostitute. Mention up higher.
“Mister Bostwick,” Kinkly grinds between his yellow teeth, “you are inviting a severe reprimand.”
“Get the spanking free while you can, Bostwick!” Will calls out merrily. Kinkly wheels about, red face contorted in fury. “Well, Mister Asherton, you too, are asking for it, then?”
“Yes,” Will responds easily, “but not from you. I hope you're not offering?”
Kinkly storms toward him, and Will surrenders all pretense of studying mention above as the professor seizes the book he was furtively reading behind the larger school volume.
The class holds its breath in one shapely body. The cover features a scantily clad blond woman in a swoon clinging to a dark broad-chested ruffian.
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly,” Professor Kinkly intones darkly.
“Isn't it?” Jonathan asks incredulously, darting a disappointed glance at Will, who innocently gazes back.
“It should be thrown with great force!” The worthy professor proceeds to do just that, at a dangerous proximity to Will's head.
"I must protest, sir,” the victim of undeserved violence says calmly. “That was a direct attempt on my life."
Will does not bother to disrupt Professor Paddock's sanity. It is upset enough.
“Well, Mister Stanwood? Have you finished?” Thomas smiles weakly and brings the paper forward, where it is expectantly snatched from him and perused.
Professor Paddock snaps the book shut. “This isn't right,” he announces despairingly. “This isn't even wrong.” Thomas shrinks back, bobbing his head apologetically.
“Mister Stanwood. This man has exhibited the extreme symptoms of vomiting and coughing blood, and lately a large boil has begun to grow on his groin. How should he be treated?”
“Gently?” Thomas stutters.
“No!” Paddock massages his temples. “No! And a thousand times: No!” He pulls his face in an alarming display of elasticity.
“I have always heard,” Thomas pipes helpfully, “that to be great is to be misunderstood.” Paddock takes that to himself. “I must be very great,” he says mournfully. “if I contemplate the number of you in danger of failing.”
Senescence
“Mister Asherton. A word?”
“Professor Fagg? Of course.” Will takes a conciliatory tone.
“I've heard promising things about you, Mister Asherton.” He clamps a bony hand on Will's shoulder.
“You have?” Will asks doubtfully.
“The young Casanova of your day, aren't you?” Wrinkles make way for more wrinkles as Fagg's lips stretch in a proud smile.
Uncharacteristic modesty catches a hold, as Will does not favor continuing in this vein with this particular professor. “Well, not exactly, sir. I–”
“Allow me to congratulate you, Mister Asherton. In my younger days–I'm none too sprightly now, see–I was rather a devotee of love myself.”
“Were you, professor?” Will mumbles unenthusiastically.
“A regular Romeo with the ladies I was.” He winks. “Do you know, Mister Asherton, the queen asked me for an–ah–nightly assignment.”
As Will cannot picture Professor Fagg as anything other than what he is at the moment, and the only glimpses he has caught of the queen presently are at best unflattering, the image conjured is appalling to his young, impressionable mind.
“An honor beyond what I could imagine,” Will nods frantically, hoping to finish this strange interview.
“When you get to be my age, Mister Asherton,
“You're only as young as the woman you feel, eh?” The high cackle that follows this jaw-cracking wit is not comforting to Will, who in panic envisions himself, not a debonair, dashing lover but a dirty old man. His only separation from this crabby gnome is in years, and suddenly that bridge is too short for his liking.
“Well, yes, sir,” Will
Kinkly has a rude talk with him
Enter Prince George, tutor, ______ (princess), Bernard, king, queen
Prince is bored to death, is taking everything for granted
Indeed, why should he have to ask anyone for permission to go out? He is the heir apparent, next in a very long line of succession due to his royal birth to tediously royal parents whose blue blood can be traced back to the time of Creation probably related to God, descended from Him. As such, George need not beg consent from anyone, as no one would dare punish him.
Besides, if he is very sneaky, no will ever know.
With this newfound courage, he ventures forth into the world. George is not five minutes into his escapade when he nearly collides with a guard.
“Your highness,” the man bows, and only then does his head lower to be on par with the prince's. George stares, and his young pimply face becomes pinched with sourness. Of a fair height himself, he dislikes being loomed over, and usually gets rid of anyone taller than he, one way or another.
“Who are you, fellow? I don't recall ever seeing you before.” Before the colossus can reply, George waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, I don't care. Be on your way.”
“The king has ordered me to act as sentry for your door, your highness.” He bows again.
Obviously his going would be another way. “Well, I'm telling you I require neither the protection nor the intrusion.”
The giant holds only one note, and he continues to play it. “I have orders from his majesty, your highness.”
“Did he tell you why I'm being held prisoner in my own kingdom, my own palace, my own room?”
“No, your highness. You may go wherever you wish, your highness, so long as your desires end at your door.”
“Very well, then! Be an obstinate mule peasant!” George huffs into his room and slams the door.
A short time later he pokes his head out. “Still here?” He sounds aggrieved.
“Yes, your highness.”
“Why?”
The guard repeats his tiresome litany.
“Oh, be quiet! I know that!” George's nails scrape down the door in a disturbingly girlish gesture as he gnaws his lower lip in frustration. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Bernard, your highness.”
“What a hideous appellation. Your parents must have hated you.”
“Certainly, your highness, if they had ever known me.”
“I only asked because I want to know the names of people I send to the chopping block. It's more satisfying that way.”
“Let's go the country! Now which of you fainthearted rabbits can muster some courage for a hunt?” There is a general assent, followed by mutters of boring practicalities, like this is the sort of thing that had to be planned, and no equipment could be had at the wave merely at the wave of a hand unless its palm was greased with gold, and on and on.
“I'm game!” Thomas shouts eagerly, blinking his round blue eyes in confusion as the other boys guffaw. His ears become suffused with red while his fellows clap him on the back and nastily congratulate him on his never-failing wit.
Joseph holds up a hand for silence. “Yes, yes, we all know the quarry that lurks in our poor Thomas here.”
This doesn't need to be first-hand.
“You have to make a surprise attack on me.”
“All right. Are you ready?”
“I am now!”
Will is the son of a moderately well-off knight
Thomas is pretty rich, but very trusting and overly passionate, only brave when drunk
Thomas begs Will to intercede for him
Will refuses at first, then gives in
Although it's night, Will goes to call on Catherine
Will is warmly ushered in by parents (think that he is interested in their daughter and desperate to marry her off to whoever wants her)
George's mother has her portrait taken (funky hair)
“Now, Leopold, you had better do me justice.”
“I would ask for mercy.”
Niagra falls will make a fine backdrop for your picture.
Queen Isabel has demanded in her full capacity as queen a portrait done by the finest painter in the country. That said painter's subjects usually are febrile, grass-masticating, road apple-defecating creatures does not deter her in the least. Her qualities resemble theirs closely enough for an easy transition.
Edmund likes James very well, but he is entirely too upright and honest, telling Edmund the truth when he would prefer inflated lies. He likes those very much.
Sir, we feel a need to impart to you our standards.
None.
Regards,
“My, my, look who is working hard.”
“I don't know how to begin,” Charles mutters, throwing down his pen in dejection.
“Well, I always start writing with a perfectly clean piece of paper,” Edmund reaches over and flaps the doodled page in front of Charles,” and an exceptionally dirty mind.”
“Your methods are not mine, and for that I thank God on my knees.”
“Don't do that. You'll wrinkle them.”
“Can you see me as clerk?”
Edmund scrutinizes him. “Not really, no. A sad mental case, maybe. A buffoon, certainly–”
“Edmund–”
“–But not a clerk,” he finishes.
“Are we friends?”
“'Are we acquaintances?' may be the better question. Allow me to consult the dictionary.” Edmund rummages through his coat
Charles sits back, amazed. “Frankly, I didn't know you harbored such dangerously intellectual influences in your very pockets.”
“Ah, but this belongs to the devil.” He finds it and recites, “Acquaintance, n.: A person whom we know well enough to borrow from, but not well enough to lend to." He tucks it back, and utters cautiously, “If, incidentally, you plan to ask me for money, I must beg to be demoted from friend to acquaintance.”
“I am wholly capable of providing for myself, thank you. I intend to–”
“To what? Work?” Edmund vomits the word in a great show of disgust.
“I was considering it, yes,” Charles says wryly. “It seemed a pleasant alternative to starvation and beggary.”
“You're a gentleman, Charles! Not much of one–you have far too many morals to be rid of before you truly are–but nevertheless, dedicating yourself to honest labor would be most unbecoming.”
“And what would you suggest as a substitute for my own criminal proposal?”
Edmund shrugs. "Your dilemma is easily solved, my friend. Wed a wealthy heiress, preferably desperate, ugly, and about to die.”
“That is the vilest plot I have ever heard,” an appalled Charles decries. He stares at Edmund, pondering this new wickedness. “And possibly the most brilliant.” As Edmund begins to grin, he adds piously, “But it is evil still, no matter the cleverness.”
“Oh, don't be scrupulous now. Only the rich can afford to be that because it doesn't pay. And you, my friend, are not rich. Far from it, as you have acknowledged.”
“Edmund,” Charles says finally. “I do plan my final destination to be Heaven, though I may embark on several detours and false leads on the way.”
“So do us all.” Edmund claps him on the back, ushering him from the door. “So do us all.”
Edmund examines him closely. “You're not particularly easy–”
“–I should hope not–”
“–on the eyes, but we'll manage with what we have.”
Edmund nudges him. “That woman is in urgent need of a good, reliable husband.”
“And may I ask why you are informing me of this?”
“Well, marry her before she finds one.” Charles sighs heavily.
The young woman peers at him suspiciously. “You are–?”
“–whoever you are looking for.”
“I doubt that very much. If you'll excuse me–”
“Do you like music?” Charles asks in a rush.
Her frown deepens. “Not when it's played.” Her eyes wander past him. “Now I really must–”
“It's better than it sounds,” he says desperately. “Opera does not appeal to you at all?”
“I find opera to be the politest form of mortal agony, but that is the best of its virtues. No, it does not.”
She smiles sweetly. “I never forget a face, but I have made an exception for you. You are?”
“Lord Falkner. Lord Charles Falkner. I already know your name.”
“Oh, really?”
“Lady Falkner.”
She laughs. “Baroness Halle Wheldon. Should I be honored to have your acquaintance, Lord Falkner?”
“Please, call me Charles. I am privileged to have yours, and if only a more intimate relationship blossoms, I shall count myself the luckiest man in the world.”
She declines his offer of informality. “Is it not said that familiarity breeds contempt, Lord Falkner?”
“You must not forget the children.”
“And are you planning to have children?”
“Someday. I am searching for the mother meanwhile." He smiles ingratiatingly. "Let us get better acquainted."
“What is your occupation, if any, Lord Falkner?”
“I cannot sing, dance, act,” Charles makes a careless gesture with his hand, “or do anything of use, really.”
“A gentleman, then?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a philosopher. I cogitate deeply on the mysteries of the unemployed life.”
“William! What are you doing, sleeping at this time of day?” Natalie scolds, slapping the back of his head with her hand.
“I was,” Will says with dignity as he tries to avoid her swats, “rehearsing for my future position in the Great Council.”
“You measure yourself highly, little brother. To achieve such an exalted placing requires diligence, responsibility–”
“–a fat purse, a bigger belly, and a bribed relative to get into this sublime group.” He reburies his face in his arms. “My life is so boring.”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “You would complain if you were the prince. Don't you think you should express some appreciation for the security of knowing your future?”
“Or I could whine like an ungrateful snot,” Will points out reasonably.
“Did you get the money father sent you?”
“The thirty pounds?” Will curses himself. “No.”
Her voice is carefully neutral. “Did you? I hear a great fire just swept through the area. Do tell me about it.”
Will glares, chewing his lower lip. He has not an inkling as to what she was referring to. “It was…fiery,” he offers finally. “With reds and yellows and blues.”
“It must have been an unprecedented catastrophe,” Natalie continues smoothly, “especially considering that the fire was actually a flood.”
“Tell me what you know!” Will nearly shrieks.
“Enough, Will, and even that is too much for my peace of mind.”
He looks at her sullenly. “Careful, you already begin to lecture like a husband-weary wife, and you hardly affianced.”
“I worry about my only brother. It's an older sister's prerogative.” She lowers herself, unasked, onto a couch, carefully holding her skirts away from the questionable stain on the seat. “What have you been doing these days, Will? Nothing good, I suppose?”
He shrugs restlessly. “You know me too well.”
“I wish I did not.”
“So I am not the scholar Father would want me to be! I am not a doll of a brother either, nor a perfect dunce for Mother.”
“Will you stop making yourself the victim of a tragedy? You babble endlessly about fetters, but it is I who still reside with our parents.”
“Right.” Will feels considerably less manly than he would like.
“Are you keeping a girl?” she asks suddenly.
“No! I mean–it's more like she's keeping me, really–from sleeping, eating, studying…”
“One day, Will, you will learn it isn't always possible to use…intimate relations to get what you what.”
“I can't use sex to get what I want,” he says reprovingly. “I am a man now. Sex is what I want.”
“By-the-by, what brings you to these undeserving lodgings?”
Her expression is a little pitying, but more implacable than he likes. “Father is coming to see you.”
“He's what? Why, for the love of all that's holy! Why?”
“Let us say that the reports reaching home of your conduct have not been flattering.”
“But I took care of–” Too late he realizes his irresponsible, probably fatal, error. “I personally threw them in the fire–I mean the mail cart.”
“Apparently a few passed through your…selective filter.”
“You have to stop him!”
“I'll do no such thing. You are slandering the family name with your vulgar dalliances, squandering money as though you were a sultan…in short, I think it high time you and sense were reunited, and if that association is not easily forthcoming–”
“You found your prince charming. I helped you then. You must help me now!”
“Break the horse's leg. Break your leg, if it'll get his attention. But slow him down.”
“They say nice things about people at their funeral, don't they?” Will remarks wistfully. “I am saddened to think I will miss mine, by just a few days.”
Yes, Charles freely admits he married his wife for money and she him for a title, but sullenly cannot see why that bars their relationship from being more than a business transaction.
“Stop brandishing your state of impoverishment like the brand of Cain, and perhaps you may see results yet.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Yes.”
Edmund ponders this. “Would I lie to you, if I was not benefited in any way?” he amends.
"Probably not, but you would ask misleading questions."
"Are you insinuating that I--" Edmund snaps his mouth shut.
“What do you think about … let's say, that one?” Edmund waves a carefully negligent hand at a man who will be very attractive if he only stops self-consciously shrinking into the wall every time a woman passes by as though he will gift her with leprosy.
Halle shrugs lightly, her gown sparkling at the movement. “He is well enough, for a specimen old, bald, and in acute decay.”
“Eh–what?” Edmund spies the man besides Charles, verifies the observation for the generous assessment it is, and quickly directs Halle's attention to a more appropriate subject. “No, no. The blond gentleman.”
Charles, oblivious, forthwith suffers intense, if brief, scrutiny. Edmund waits confidently for a favorable reaction.
“What is the matter with him?” is Halle's first inquiry.
“He's perfectly fine,” Edmund splutters huffily. “There's nothing wrong with him.”
“Does he have a history of excessive nail-biting, lip-licking, purse-emaciating, or otherwise unbearable habits, in bed?”
“How would I know?” Edmund snaps, embarrassed. He, who can engage in a heated eye-to-breast lock until the nipple blinks, absentmindedly experience a naughty private interview granted to him by the most fashionably wicked exotic dancer, and swear to smoke only after making love and still manage to be a twenty-a-day man, blushes when speaking of the vaguely indecent with his cousin.
She gives him a disapproving look. “Edmund, I thought you cared about my wellbeing.”
“I do–”
“Then it's only right that you should have ensured his qualities to be good, and how else except through rigorous testing of all aforementioned qualities. I think a decent analysis would require a profound yet hardy method, preferably executed by hand–well, 'carefully' may be a better choice of words.”
“What? You couldn't rise to the occasion?”
“There's nothing funny about it.” Charles shrugs into a jacket. “Wipe that grin off your face, you insufferable fool. If you have the indecency to think–”
“You assume I think? I have never been so insulted.” Edmund makes a moue, whirling dramatically to take a reproachful stance by the window. “I would rather feel–and I feel many things: love, hate, grief, jealousy–”
“–women?” Charles suggests sourly.
It is positively indecent to marry after one meeting. Everyone will gripe and moan that it simply isn't done.
Edmund makes a point of doing things for the simple reason that they are not done.
He spies a vision so breathtaking, his breath stops. A cascade of golden curls sweeps down the perfect curve of a shoulder. Lovely brown eyes catch his, and then demurely glance away. Edmund stumbles forward, feeling caught in a dream.
The length of the ballroom yawn between them, its breath hot and stifling and smelling of too much smoke and perfume.
“May I know your name?” he gasps breathlessly, gaping like a naive schoolboy.
"I, Rose," she stands.
"No," Edmund whispers gamely. "Sit down."
“I fear I am dead, for this is surely heaven.”
“It's late. You should be going to bed. Or is that redundant?”
“No, our date wasn't like that.”
“She's a bit…insubstantial, isn't she?”
“Not at all. She's quite generously made.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I should hope not. I find myself exceedingly jealous of Rose.”
"For reasons unknown to the rest of mankind."
He hates this particular servant with a deep and abiding passion. The intensity is such that if it had been in the least sexual, the experience would be a tormenting pleasure, but as it is it is only tormenting, and beginning to interfere with the cool aloofness he believes in preserving with the working class.
“That servant of yours, he is an insolent fellow, isn't he?”
Her laugh is a silver trill. “Don't be silly, Charles. He has never been insolent in his life.”
Charles takes her hand, earnestly inquiring, “Why is he always skulking about? I believe that every time I have entered your rooms, he is there. It is most improper.”
Halle becomes chill and turns away. “I have always thought that propriety is overrated, and if it deprives me of an old friend I could do away with it altogether.”
Offended, Charles too withdraws, and the rest of the carriage ride is enveloped in silence.
“I am going to kill you now. Whether you will take your death as a man or blubber as a coward will be your decision.”
The man chooses to blubber, and he kills him anyway.
Charles swallows uncomfortably, drumming his knuckles on the table. Halle is smiling at him, with the patient, indulgent smile she showers on her sister's children. It is both intimidating and endearing, although he cannot imagine why he should be frightened of his lovely, friendly spouse.
“My dear,” he begins carefully, watching her. He is blissfully unconscious that she thinks he looks as though he ate something especially upsetting at lunch. “What would you say if I–if I happened to mention that I love you?”
“I would offhandedly respond with a surprised, 'Oh.'”
Very encouraged by this indication of favor, he blurts, “I love you.”
“Oh.”
“What Edmund really needs is someone who does not appreciate him. He does that entirely too much, too well, all by himself.”
“Are you subtly suggesting that he is conceited?”
“I am blatantly stating it. He is intolerably supercilious.”
“His merely conscious of his own uniqueness.”
“Oh, anyone can be cynical and absurd, Charles. I like him very well as he is, but I am not blind to his faults, and he perceives mine clearly enough.”
“Fie, Lady Falkner! My wife does not possess any. She is perfect, perfectly flawless. ”
Charles swallows uncomfortably, drumming his knuckles on the table. Halle is smiling at him, with the patient, indulgent smile she showers on her sister's children. It is both intimidating and endearing, although he cannot imagine why he should be frightened of his lovely, friendly spouse.
“My dear,” he begins carefully, watching her. He is blissfully unconscious that she thinks he looks as though he ate something especially upsetting at lunch. “What would you say if I–if I happened to mention that I love you?”
“I would offhandedly respond with a surprised, 'Oh.'”
Very encouraged by this indication of favor, he blurts, “I love you.”
“Oh.”
The king commanded that he be shot to death and then stripped of everything. The queen reversed the order, commanding instead that he be stripped of everything, and then shot. Ah, a woman's gentle nature and lascivious eyes.
Torture by feather
The dungeon had witnessed countless torments, exhorting victims for money, religious confessions, and certain very rare face creams. But this was the most brutal yet, and it was for love.
“I will never…submit to you,” the man gasped, shaking in the aftermath of his ordeal. “There is there is nothing left in this world for me, as you have destroyed everything I cared for. What more would you have?”
“It is only because I love you that I have done this. If it only because you will not return my affections that this has come to pass.”
Thomas looks up. “Could this be a different sort of love? A bit more flexible, perhaps not so obsessive?”
“I swear to wash this stain on ______'s honor with blood, and by God if I do not, may I be cursed, and my family, and my descendents, and…”
“Don't bring us into this!” his presumably dead and to be relatives shriek.
“I had hoped, beloved, that you would be more pliant. However, it seems you require more…persuasion.” Her elegant hands float over the impressive array of whips, knives, racks, and djfklajflsdjfdsf. Eron's eyes widened in horror as she approached him, bearing the one menace he could not endure. He screamed as she sliced across his torso with–a feather.
The dungeon began to echo with his screams, punctuated by snorts and silly giggling.
“Is it puberty? Has it finally hit you? Slapped me pretty hard.”
“The prince is mad. Almost frenzied at times, as his servants can and will attest. He rushes about, doing much of nothing, preening at his reflection in the soup and then ripping at his hair the next.”
“Oh? Why is this?”
A malicious smile unfastens across the man's face, dripping yellow in its wake. “Rumor has bruited about,” he pauses, relishing the importance of his message, “that his highness must marry the princess of ____ in order to ascend the throne.”
“And so he hastens to win her affections, and in this worthy endeavor--"
“–he is killing us all! His highness hounds me day and night. I cannot sleep, can barely eat. I am but a shadow of the man I was,” Arnold bemoans, wiping his perspiring face with a greasy napkin. His many folds and bulges cause his coat buttons to whimper with him as he turns about in conversation.
“Are you?” Edmund remarks innocently. “How terrible. You have my most sincere sympathies.”
“Do you dare disparage lapdogs? Why, they are in positions of ultimate power.”
“Marriage is only a slightly less draconian system than slavery, Edmund.”
“For the men, certainly.”
“For the women, Edmund.”
“Why do you say this? I've always thought females the most merciless overseers.”
Charles continues to stare in fascination at the wall. “Blegh. Gurble. Smuckers.”
“What?”
“Don't bother him. He's going through withdrawal.” As Thomas ogles blankly, Edmund clarifies, “Deprivation of sexual intercourse can do this to a man.”
“You are disturbing my patrons!”
“We are your patrons. Two mouths drink more than one. Edmund drinks more than ten. Helping us will be to your gain.”
More conversation, more yelling, Charles talk about really creepy affair w/ really creepy professor
“Fortuna bestowed upon you a deep French kiss, Charles. Halle is not only beautiful; her wit sparkles, her taste, refined…she retains a life apart from yours!”
“Yes, she does,” Charles says glumly.
Edmund stands, shoving the chair back. “Rose is always so vapid, so utterly predictable.” His voice lowers, a little guiltily.
Edmund buries his head in his arms, resting heavily against the fireplace mantel. “Then you know everything there is to Rose. Honestly, if her face was simply a mask and it was removed, I think only air would accuse me from behind what?. It's ghastly.”
Charles remains silent, knowing that once the floodgates have opened, a torrent will gush. It does.
“I am sick when I look at her. I want to vomit when I touch her. Her presence is nauseating to my senses.”
All the bad things she is and does
He shudders. “And she has the most mawkish taste.”
Truth reveals itself, and the sight is embarrassing and difficult to ignore, like a very large, very naked man. “Edmund, you are beyond belief. I warned you to think carefully about your marriage, but you chose to disregard my caution. And now, rather than confront–”
“Do stop lecturing! You remind me of my nursemaid.”
“It's only because you act as a child. Be a man, for God's sake, Edmund! I have usually disliked you, often been disgusted by you, but I have never been ashamed of you.”
“If you say, 'Until now,' I will smash your head with this paperweight.” He hefts it. “Don't think I won't.”
“Who are you to dictate my life?” Edmund demands harshly. “
“Love is a prick–”
“–of the rose.”
“Did you enjoy your dinner with Edmund?” Halle asks quietly as he comes in and throws himself on a chair.
“Not really. He's so gloomy these days and–” Guiltily he looks up. As an awkward silence drifts like miasma in their general direction, Charles leaps up and begins to pace. “It was Rowan, wasn't it? That little–“ Charles checks himself. “He told you! Someone should blindfold him…and pour wax into his ears.” He begins to be carried away by his fantasies. “In fact, what someone should really do is stuff him like a turkey, with lots of–”
“Charles.” Her manner is oddly grave. “I found out on my own.”
“Oh.” He sits down, feeling sheepish. “I didn't think…”
“I'm not surprised.”
He looks at her squarely. “Are you having an affair with him?”
Any other woman would have fainted at the question, or slapped the inquirer. Halle tilts her chin in defiance. “And if I am?”
“I'll rip him apart with my bare hands.” Charles starts up, but Halle grasps his sleeve, holding him back.
“And if I was the one who initiated the relationship?”
“That's different.” As her grip eases, he pulls away and continues vehemently, “Then I'll have at him with a meat cleaver.”
“Natalie, I am going to do a horrible thing. I am going to ask you for money.”
“No.”
“Dearest sister, I require it desperately!”
“Do you? I'm so sorry.” Her tone implies she is not very sorry at all.
Will casts himself at her feet in abject supplication. “Have pity on the prodigal son who wants only to return home–”
“For his follies, he eats pigs' fare first, I believe. Some hardship might do you some good.”
“I have learned from my past, Natalie! I tell you the truth, my errors are hideous blights on my soul, and if you will only help me, I will forever eradicate any notion of further misdemeanor
“Such change of heart is surprising, Will, not to say unbelievable. You will forgive me if I am not the credulous fool you take me to be.”
Her teacher's voice screeches in her head like a bow pulled across a badly strung violin. Halle grimaces. All who meet him inevitably soon bemoan sperm wasted in creating such an incurable wanker.
“Treat your instrument as a languid paramour. Fondle it, stroke it, bring it melodious ecstasy–and it will be yours for the taking. Ignore it–” here his voice drops in horror, “–and be deserted in turn.” Bulbous eyes roll rhapsodically at the ceiling. “You must crave the music, and it will desire you to touch, explore...”
Halle remembers privately thinking her teacher if so excited with inanimate object, what would he do with something actually alive? Hasn't gotten any for a long time, obviously needed a live lover to assuage his ferocious passions. But no mortal would have been capable of satisfying such an appetite.
“No, no! Don't grope!” As Halle's knuckles whitens and she grips tighter with frustration, he shrieks, “Hold it gently, and do not squeeze!” He snatches the instrument from her and cradles it lovingly against his face, crooning soothingly to it. “There, there, Oscar.”
Soon after she had discovered an interest in piano and abandoned the violin.
Halle slams down on the keys, and a cloud of dust flies in her face like a flock of hairy bats. “Milady, the piano appears in need of dusting before you play it.”
“So it seems,” she sneezes.
Surreptitiously she slants a glance toward Rowan as he bends over, before quite realizing what she is doing. Reality shortly knocks, and failing that, wrenches the hinges from her door of Dreams. She tears her eyes away and clamps a hand over her mouth, as distressed as though she had been peeping at her puritanical, grandfatherly neighbor–or a very odd-shaped radish.
“Milady, I am finished.”
Indecision wars within her breast. Decency battles valiantly, but cannot win. A cluster of Forbidden Fruit dangles in the innocent blue eyes that rake over the piano's surface. There is not a speck to be seen. “You missed that spot over there.” Halle stretches out a graceful arm, motioning at an area sufficiently far away so Rowan must stretch to reach it. The effect is quite good.
“Do you wish me to do anything else, milady?” Again the quick obedience she has never fully made use of. Fortunately, such careless oversights can be remedied. Wipe more things first…
She sweeps the room in a speculative perusal as she strolls to the couch and reclines elegantly. “Now that you mention it, I think everything could do with a bit of cleaning,” Halle beams.
“–eternal damnation!” the preacher thunders. “God hates the lewd, the promiscuous! He has decreed, 'Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled; for fornicators and adulterers God will judge.'”
Thomas shifts uneasily in his seat, certain that the man is speaking directly to him. Will stiffens, and not in the way he would like. Charles stares vacantly past the minister to a spot on the wall as bald as the man's head. Edmund openly snores, the pages of his hymn book fluttering up with each breath like a girl's skirts.
The minister's fellow parson takes over. “It is God's will that you should be sanctified,” he says, more gently, “that you should avoid sexual immorality, that each of you should learn to control his own body in a way that is holy and honorable, not in passionate lust like the heathen, who do not know God…”
Halle leans over to Natalie and hisses, “Why is he staring at me?”
Natalie looks at her oddly. “No, dear. He's not.”
“He's making straight eye contact.”
“The man's cross-eyed, Halle. It's all right.”
“Edmund, the man is preaching to save your soul, not entertain you.”
He looks injured. “I see no reason why the two objectives cannot coincide. Both are equally commendable.”
Charles, Halle, Edmund, Rose, Will, Catherine, Thomas, Natalie, James go to circus
“I'm certain the animals and lusus naturae will be greatly entertained by the show of humans making fools of themselves.”
James makes some sagacious observations
“Tom, you blush when girls sneeze at you. Now, sex–”
“I can think about sex! I can talk about it! I can certainly do it–”
“No literal demonstrations required, thank you.”
“After all, a human is a human is–”
“–A pig! Let's eat.”
“Rowan!”
“Milady…”
“Charles–”
“Will,” the young man says amiably.
In a jealous rage Charles tries to punch Rowan's lights out, but ends up with his hand in a cast and Rowan unscathed
Charles has had enough. His jealous fist whistles through the air, and suddenly his world shrinks to a throbbing ball of pain as Rowan ducks and his fingers smash against wood instead of flesh.
“If you are such a good servant, you should have let me hit you,” Charles crossly reproves.
“Oh no, sir,” Rowan sincerely protests, “I should have been remiss in giving you cause to regret.”
“Believe me, I would have survived the trauma,” Charles says dryly. He winces, inspecting the bulky mass of white bandages his hand had become.
Halle comes bustling in, precariously balancing a tea tray. “Sweetheart,” she says with forced cheerfulness. “I thought you might like a spot of–”
“–bloody hell!” Charles's shriek echoes fearsomely in the room. He has craned around to watch her, and in doing so his hand drops heavily to the table.
Halle flinches. “You seem to be able to whip that up nicely yourself, darling.” She sets down the tray. “It's rather late now, and I think we should all go to bed…” she trails off painfully. “Oh, dear.”
“Yes, I agree.” He turns to Rowan and with perfect seriousness, “Which side would you like? Or better yet, do you prefer the top or bottom? Beds, of course.” Charles sleeps on the second floor, Halle on the first.
Rowan makes a strangled noise, quickly disguised by a discreet cough.
Charles gives Rowan Hobson's choice.
“Rowan, I think it only fair to tell you the consequences of your answers. If what your mistress says is not true, I will find it expedient to render you an instant eunuch by hacking at you with a very, very dull kitchen knife while blindfolded. If it is, why then, I will tear out your eyes with rusty iron pincers, strangle you with your own entrails, and then…” he waits expectantly.
“…render me an instant eunuch by hacking at me with a very, very dull kitchen knife while blindfolded. Yes, sir. Vivid imagery, sir.” Rowan nods agreeably.
“Halle, my beloved wife, would you like to tell me anything?”
She bites her lip. Rowan forms the most horrendous faces behind Charles, his hand slicing across his neck in an unmistakably negative gesture. “No,” she pronounces.
Charles twists his neck around. Rowan looks back at him placidly, face wiped clean. He eyes the servant suspiciously for a moment before turning back and motioning for his wife to continue.
“I would not…” She pauses as Charles' brows rush together in a skeptical collision and hastily adds, “…want to…er…tell you anything because…because there is…uh…nothing to…to…” She is not an impromptu thinker, and it shows.
“To what?” he prompts patiently.
“…tell you?” she finishes lamely.
Charles wriggles on the plush seat until he is comfortable, and from his relaxed vantage, peers at them over the lopsided pagoda he has made of his fingertips. “I see. You wouldn't like to tell me anything, because there is nothing to tell. Am I correct?”
“It is the truth verbatim,” Halle assents.
“I am glad to hear it. However,” his look becomes thoughtfully ominous, “there remains the question of why, if there is 'nothing to tell,' you felt so compelled to tell me of it.”
Halle begins to flounder.
“Sir, if I may speak?”
The expression of surprise on Charles' face cannot be more genuine if his dish had jumped to life and offered to run away with his spoon. “Only if necessary,” he dictates, savoring the heady power, “and then as briefly as possible.”
“This has all been a most unfortunate misunderstanding. Dfldfksa;djfk
When he sleeps, it is the sleep of the righteous.
Charles takes opportunity to read book
“I love you.”
“I love the way you love me.”
“I love the way you love the way I love you.”
“I love the way you love the way I love the way you love me.”
Well, this is a rigorous intellectual exercise.
“Edmund, I can explain.”
“Can you, Estelle?”
She pauses. “No.”
“Now, sweetheart,” Estelle says soothingly. “Who will know it's you, after all?”
“Estelle, when I came here, I expected a visual feast other than what I normally glimpse in the mirror. Why, then, am I still confronted with perfection found nowhere else?”
“You hate me, because you love Halle?”
“I despise you entirely on your own merits,” Charles assures him.
“Act so completely disgusting that your very name will be distasteful to her, and she will open the door herself to be rid of you and to assist in the departure, kick your–”
“I understand. And I can think of no better method than to act as you do, sir.”
“I see you are doing your utmost to ruin my life. May I congratulate you on splendid accomplishments thus far.”
Doesn't he govern that province?
Oh, he manages--to increase tension.
What does your heart tell you?
It's been rather quiet lately.
Sorry. Didn't mean to fog up your rosy lenses.
The only original thought I ever had was to plagiarize. It's pathetic. Copying is the refuge of the uninspired, and yes, I am. Uninspired, that is. Obviously I don't speak the way I write the story, and that leads to it often being stilted and painfully stiff like a–let's not go into comparisons.
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens – naïve, likable character who is often taken advantage of (Thomas), (Edmund as he falls for Rose)
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte – helped with the phrasing
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte – helped with the phrasing
Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton - (it isn't done!)
The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck –
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen – a look on two contrasting couples.
Peter the Great by Robert K. Massie
Oscar Wilde by Richard Ellman – responsible for a lot of the background and humor, as well as the explaining away of plagiarism. (Saint Sebastian, usually pictured as nearly naked and effete. He should have been Nameless in Hero.)
The Last Lion by William Manchester – idea of Parliament and politics with war impending and people not believing. Churchill is excruciatingly brilliant and humorous, and he's very clever and funny as well.
The War With Hannibal by Livy
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert – the dangers of reading
Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey – this is a sexy book (cough). I mean, it's beautiful…and unique…and…sexy…[actually, I read about halfway, was outraged when Delauney and Alcuin died, and stopped. I'll resume later, when I get over it.]
Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie – began the idea for Best Left Unsaid. Love it, adore it, must have it!
HP and LoTR Breadbox Edition by Evadne (ff.net)
Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor – a lot like Gone with the Wind, except during King Charles II's reign. Marry for money, all the sleeping around, acting, titles, how to address
Shrek 1-2 - dinner
Disney (Aladdin, Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, etc) – the couples
The Search for Modern China by Jonathan D. Spence – glaring examples of incompetence leading to the general falling apart of the country
A Short History of Philosophy by Robert C. Solomon and Kathleen M. Higgins – concise overview of world philosophy/religion, gave rise to some views of characters
Emma by Jane Austen – great model of a reasonably intelligent young lady who, because she doesn't have enough to do, messes with everyone else
Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell – this book hit me at the impressionable time of 3rd grade. It has never left since. This says a lot about my nonexistent social life.
Numerous romance novels (too many, forever scarred by them)
Sidney Sheldon (cringe)
Danielle Steel (wince)
Thundera Tiger (LoTR) ff.net
Cassandra Claire (HP fan fiction) livejournal.com/epicyclical
Wikipedia – invaluable source for looking up various things
Wordweb – great thesaurus
Very loud, nonstop music (Conjure One, Evanescence – blare it, Shrek, Enya, Michelle Branch, etc)
Ambrose Bierce – priceless Devil's Dictionary
The Arms of Krupp by William Manchester - A side-splitting account of the German arms-making kings. The humor influenced this sad little ditty.
“You are a writer?”
“I am well known in that capacity, yes. How may I be of service?”
Disgrace, as Will is beginning to discover, has a distinct, disagreeable odor. People begin to raise their noses when he came near, pinching their narrow nostrils to mere slits. Soon, he thinks dolefully, mothers will cover their children's eyes when the dreadful, unspeakable pariah that is Will comes walking down the street, contaminating the air they breathe with Disgrace.
In the Mist
In the Mist
Friday, January 27, 2006
I Had a Dream...
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Gods on Earth
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
The Felling
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Heir-Less
Saturday, January 21, 2006
I Live! Ha ha ha ha!
I Live! Ha ha ha ha!
Betcha thought I was dead, right? Sorry to disappoint! :)
My mom and I had a meeting with the principal, someone from the Fullerton High School District, and Mrs. Wilson.
I was freaked out. I'd never been in the principal's office before. Any principal's office.
Anyway, I will be attending next semester as a junior.
Joy, I will see you in six days! ^_^
My last post (before the meeting) was pretty sad, wasn't it?
Betcha thought I was dead, right? Sorry to disappoint! :)
My mom and I had a meeting with the principal, someone from the Fullerton High School District, and Mrs. Wilson.
I was freaked out. I'd never been in the principal's office before. Any principal's office.
Anyway, I will be attending next semester as a junior.
Joy, I will see you in six days! ^_^
My last post (before the meeting) was pretty sad, wasn't it?
Search
Last posts
Archives
- 01/01/1990 - 02/01/1990
- 12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005
- 01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005
- 02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005
- 03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005
- 04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005
- 05/01/2005 - 06/01/2005
- 06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005
- 07/01/2005 - 08/01/2005
- 08/01/2005 - 09/01/2005
- 09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005
- 10/01/2005 - 11/01/2005
- 12/01/2005 - 01/01/2006
- 01/01/2006 - 02/01/2006
- 02/01/2006 - 03/01/2006
- 03/01/2006 - 04/01/2006
- 04/01/2006 - 05/01/2006
- 06/01/2006 - 07/01/2006
- 08/01/2006 - 09/01/2006
- 06/01/2007 - 07/01/2007