Written from 2:54-3:59 A.M.
My mind has been anticipating this day past probably all days out of the year 2013 minus my birthday and Christmas. It will be the first time I finally meet her, who I've known for nearly four years now but have never seen once in real life. I guess online schools are just plain aggravating that way, but now...
All that frustration will melt to sheer joy.
Finally.
It's definitely been too long.
I get to the building and pause because I'm alone and a little confused as to how I got there...I can't drive yet, can I? Hastily and guiltily, my head - ever ready to offer my a delight, then sadistically take it back in moments - pushes me into a building.
And like a lamb, I obey without question.
I'm one of the first in. My mom and her friend have organized a SAT prep class so I had to come early like Mom's friend's sons who are there, sitting in the back row quietly. I glance uncertainly at the older of the two; he's frozen, leaning back in his seat, his arm on the windowsill. Is something wrong with them as well?
I know they're both very good at being still, but I feel like they should at least be breath--
My first notion that I'm not actually in the class is when my mind, unable to cease my instincts' curiosity, turns the clock forward thirty minutes to the starting of the class. From there, my mind is the master, shutting off parts of itself that question reality.
I am now deceiving myself completely.
I do not know up.
I cannot awake.
She is there. We do check homework. Things do move. But...
Homework?
It's the first day; there is no homework, no lessons, no red marks, no--
"CLOVE." I recoil at the aggressive voice, which my brain morphs to sound like the teacher's. "You do not argue with me."
The tan-haired woman storms towards me, looking like Zoe, an antagonist in a story I'm writing.
Writing?
My mind nabs that too.
BAM. I'm holding my notebook, the one that has pages of hand-written story pieces, most of which aren't yet in the computer. My teacher or Zoe or whatever mental-monster she is...she grabs the book from my hands, and, rather than destroy it, she takes it with her. In an air of superiority, she flops into a seat, and I, paralyzed, can only gape in horror as she rips apart raw, wholly unedited work with biting criticism. The class aids her in my work's destruction, and all my friends, my online friend included, vanish.
No.
Let me out.
There is, at some point, a 2-D dot in space where a line cannot travel through without my doubt. A dot when things are too terrifying or cold to be tolerated. In a final ditch effort, my mind transports me to a happier place, hoping that I'm stupid enough to let it offer me hope so it can gleefully annihilate my evanescent pleasure again.
But no.
I thrust at the barriers of my head. Exit, exit, exit. I will not...
LET ME OUT.
I won't go through this, I won't cry more. I must get up NOW.
I hear myself laugh in condescension.
Oh well...have it your way, my mind says resignedly with a happy sigh, There will be more nights.
NOW WAKE UP.
I stumble out of my bedroom, throw the bathroom lights on, and for a long moment, stare at the golden, glorious light. There is never enough light in my nightmares...
Finally, when my eyes are properly dazzled, I realize that exhaustion shakes me. I take another step forward and lean against the counter, gripping the edges to stop the trembling.
Tying my hair back, I knock the faucet up and soak my face and neck in the frigid water. I don't always get ones that real or bad; my head likes to space the good ones out nice and even to always remind me that it is the one in control.
Almost fueled my anger, my fist slams on the metal lever in front of me, and I glare at myself as water drips off my chin and nose. Ever since I professed Christianity, self-discipline slowly pervaded every part of my being, but I can never, I will never...I'm reconciled to the fact that I can't master my mind.
Dreams are bad when they take someone you love and make them a monster. Dreams are worse when they make you live in a surreal tomorrow so your sense of time is messed up when you are awake. Dreams are worst when they won't go away.
I'm awake; they're asleep now, so why don't they leave me alone?
Write on!
Clove
9.26.2013
A Poem - Onward Christian Soldiers
Can we say we were not children?
Can we know we're never still and
Will them to our adult ways and
Build when they have gone astray?
The silver rays of sun so white
Hail tan, the hue of young doe's eyes,
But more, I wish I'd see inside
Your mind to know that you still fight.
No soldier gets entangled in
Civilian goals and mangled sins,
But disciplines himself to please
The One who called out over seas.
So CEASE these endless, empty wars
Since I keep looking towards the door.
At shores, I gaze with eyes of pearl
"Be born," I hear, "In double worlds."
You choose to take the soldier's path;
God chose you to be free from wrath.
With aftermath I'm overwhelmed,
The physical and godly realms.
...I wait and wait and wait for you...
Reality and dream confuse.
You soldier on, entangled not,
So in both worlds, I'll know you fought.
Write on!
Clove
9.24.2013
Ghostly Guardian - A Tragedy
If you haven't read this, then read it, and after that, then read this.
All caught up on yer homework?
I got The Ghostly Guardian in paperback form from Michael on November 21, 2012.
At the time, I told him I liked it when I read it, but...well, I didn't think it was his best work, and I think he'll agree. I didn't want to tell him what I really thought of it, but turns out, give it a year or so, and he condemns himself. Cool beans.
If you did your homework, you would know that in his self-critiquing post, Michael's laughing at some plot holes. He's got some elements for romance, but he missed out on some...or...a lot...of loose ends. (Sooorry.)
All caught up on yer homework?
I got The Ghostly Guardian in paperback form from Michael on November 21, 2012.
At the time, I told him I liked it when I read it, but...well, I didn't think it was his best work, and I think he'll agree. I didn't want to tell him what I really thought of it, but turns out, give it a year or so, and he condemns himself. Cool beans.
If you did your homework, you would know that in his self-critiquing post, Michael's laughing at some plot holes. He's got some elements for romance, but he missed out on some...or...a lot...of loose ends. (Sooorry.)
Me, being the CDO (like OCD, just with the letters in alphabetical order AS THEY SHOULD BE) person that I am, thought I'd work off of his story and write a sequel and tie up as many loose ends as was humanly possible. I wrote the story, saved it, and then, when I realized it might hurt his feelings, decided to let it rot a little in the digital corners of my computer. Now that Michael has renounced his romance-writing ways, it seems like a good time to bring it back out. :)
Yeahhh...despite my best efforts, I couldn't figure out the monster, and I couldn't come up with a reason for Toshiro's memory loss, but the rest of it makes more sense...I hope.
~ ~ ~
The Tragedy
Part II of The Ghostly Guardian
For, as once spoken by a well-known pastor's wife, “There are no good break-ups. That’s an oxymoron. Like jumbo shrimp.”
“No, we don’t need memories now.” [Editor's note: Michael had this whole phrase closing his story when I got it; I guess he edited it out for his blog to just, "No."]
As soon as Mariel spoke those words, she felt herself flying up back through the black tunnel. The light from the cavern was growing dimmer and dimmer as the unreadable signs flashed by.
Toshiro’s arms were still wrapped around her, and she clutched him, fearful that he would return to just an apparition, but he remained solid to the moment that Mariel opened her eyes and collided with the ground of her room.
Toshiro joined her on the floor, and instead of rising with her, he stayed there, his breathing ragged.
Scrambling to her feet, Mariel realized his blood was still soaking through the jacket where he had a weak hand to apply pressure.
It was worse than what he let on to.
Without hesitating--or thinking--she called 911.
The moment she put down the phone, Mariel was hit with an aggravatingly sane thought:
How the heck am I going to explain this to Mom and Dad?
~ ~ ~
“So...”
Mariel shuffled uneasily and glanced at Toshiro who was knocked out on the couch from the sedating drug he was given at the hospital. The ER did a quick stitch job, and having paid with her own money for their services, Mariel had driven Toshiro home, lugging him by the arms to where he was positioned now.
“Your friend...” Mariel’s father intoned, “...what’s his name again?”
Pushing her cold hands into her pocket, Mariel answered slowly, “Toshiro. I named him Toshiro.”
Her father raised an eyebrow and questioned, “And how did you get to know this...Toshiro?”
Mariel met the skeptical eyes of her father and turned to her mother, looking for any signs of understanding. “He’s always known me.”
“Mariel,” her mother addressed, irritable reason at her tone, “I know and approve of a lot of your friends, but I’ve never seen this boy before, and I’m not quite sure you should stay associates with him. You say you don’t even know his age or what you did before today when he got hurt by a...” Confusion flashed by Mariel’s mother’s visage. “A, what was it again?”
Mariel closed her eyes.
It was dark when Toshiro had gotten hurt by that monster.
She couldn’t say.
She didn’t know.
“Whatever it was,” her mom went on after the silence, “Well, I don’t see a problem with it for tonight since he’s already...” She gestured at Toshiro’s muscled chest, rising and falling with his easy breathing.
“But tomorrow,” Mariel’s dad cut in, “I don’t want to see him around you until we get solid answers, Mariel. This isn’t a homeless shelter, and he probably has family elsewhere.”
The matter was obviously disclosed, and Mariel crossed her arms and watched her parents until they left the living room, not making any further objections partially out of shock, but mostly because her anger was strangling her, stopping the words dead in her throat.
Hearing the door to their room shut, Mariel jerked her arms down and caught the cry of hatred before it rung out. Frustration put tears in her eyes, but she was too heated to think of crying, and she swallowed, biting back her anger.
Her nerves were shot.
She was nearly killed by a monster, saved by Toshiro, who turned out to be flesh and blood, and had fallen in love.
All in a day.
And now that was being ripped apart.
Just when things could be settled back to normal. Or was it normal? Was it magic of some sort?
Determination streaking her vision, Mariel paced to Toshiro and gazed resolutely at him.
His presence melted part of her ire, and Mariel ran her fingertips across his jaw and lips.
If she looked like an angel when she slept, he looked like a god.
Mariel would never let him go back to a no-name.
Never.
Mariel’s dreams were haunted with the look of Toshiro’s face as he was sitting outside her window, weeping bitterly. The hatred in his unfocused eyes. His clenched hands.
No human contact had turned him to look at insanity as a possibility.
And somewhere in the subconscious of her sleeping mind, Mariel vaguely recognized that she was being told to turn him back to that.
When she woke, she was startled to first see Toshiro examining the stitches at his torso in the full-length mirror at the wall of her bedroom.
“Toshiro! You’re up.”
He turned and smiled at her. “And?”
“You should be--”
Mariel caught sight of his bare, muscled chest, the deep shadows of his abdomen, and a few scars at his side. She faltered, averting her gaze and blushing.
Toshiro laughed. “Mariel, you know I always follow you. I don’t mind the pain. Just because I’m real now doesn’t change my loyalty.”
Pacing over to where his black shirt was thrown over a chair, Toshiro slipped it over his head as Mariel shook off her nightmare, slid her feet out of bed, and combed her white hair with her fingers, walking up to him.
There was a glint in his eye, like he was in ecstasy to be real, breathing, feeling, being felt. As if translating her thoughts to action, he palmed her cheek and gazed at her gray eyes, pressing his lips against hers.
While reciprocating physically, Mariel inwardly felt her heart scream and shudder beneath her chest.
He was so happy.
Any intention Mariel had to talk to Toshiro about her parents’ hostility faltered and fell through.
Unable to remain in that contact, Mariel broke away, cast her glance down at his feet, and turned her head away from his touch, escaping to the bathroom.
~ ~ ~
Everything was different now that Toshiro no longer operated in Mariel’s mind.
She drove him with her to college, and it was weird to hear his rich voice speak out loud when his words were once only thoughts in her mind.
It was even weirder when he shamelessly embraced her before her first class, causing at least fifteen pairs of eyes to swivel to her back.
Before Toshiro, college had functioned with Mariel evading the campus-girl-hunting males. Mariel’s friends used to badger her with assigned dates and dances, hoping she would hook up.
Now, they were overjoyed to know Mariel was in love, and yet she felt like what she lived in and what her friends lived in were two completely different dimensions.
If faced with evil, winged, memory-stealing creatures, she doubted her friends’ lovers would have the courage to take the hit like Toshiro.
Mariel sat now, same history class, same teacher.
It was difficult with Toshiro’s absence, one because she missed his presence, two because despite the fact that he was restrained to pacing in and out of the doorway when the class and teacher were distracted, he kept making heart signs with his hands and acting wooed by tripping over his feet.
She found it unfathomable to see this amusing Toshiro as the same one that had first cried outside of her window just a little while ago.
He was so happy now.
In the car ride back to home, Mariel cleared her throat and turned to Toshiro.
He raised an eyebrow and asked, “What’s the face for?”
“I...” Mariel cleared her throat again and looked at the road, resettling in her seat to find her with some annoyance that her new position was just as uncomfortable as her previous one. “Mom and Dad said...they said they won’t let you stay anymore.”
There was an unhealthy silence.
“Why not? They think I’m a bad influence?”
“No, it’s not that.”
Realizing the conversation was going to stretch, Mariel turned the car to a longer route home. When she had crossed an intersection, she added, “They want to know more about you.”
Toshiro folded his arms and leaned against the door in his seat. “Like what?”
“Well, your age for one. And your past, how you got hurt, how you know me...aside from soccer and walks back from school. Toshiro, I don’t even know those things, and either you’ve changed too much for them to recognize you or you weren’t significant enough in the past for them to remember.”
“But my past doesn’t matter to our relationship now.”
“Exactly.”
“So why would it matter to them?”
“Because--”
Mariel cut herself off and frowned.
Toshiro tilted his head to the side, the action obviously translated as, “See my point?”
“It’s not me you have to convince.”
He gestured at the sword resting between his knees. “Consider it done.”
“Toshiro.”
He smiled and leaned towards her. “I dare them to take this, Mariel.” That glint in his eyes grew wild, and he put his warm hand on hers. “I might as well tell you this now,” he whispered, “but I’m as stubborn as iron at times.”
She raised her eyebrows and countered, “Then I might as well tell you they’re as stubborn as diamond, and diamond can cut through iron quite easily. I can find you a place to sleep and eat, but Mom and Dad are serious. I...” She blinked back tears, paying special attention to the road. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He leaned back with somewhat of a superior air and continued to smile coldly.
~ ~ ~
Toshiro said he would survive on his own for the night; he refused any help from Mariel, and she wondered if that was just to prove a point.
So that night, Mariel cleared her thoughts of Toshiro and tried to locate that black wall in her memory.
She wanted Toshiro.
Badly.
And it was obvious that she couldn’t have Toshiro without her remembering.
That safe.
And the key.
Toshiro said he knew that monster.
It hardly made sense.
She’d have to return.
She’d have to find another way.
A soccer game, Mariel thought, he said we played soccer. Where?
There it was again, that blank wall. Mariel probed it with her mind, tried to find the corridor leading down the tunnel to the cavern with the monster.
Before she even recognized locating it, Mariel fell, desperately hoping Toshiro could no longer follow her. The familiar ride seemed to be much shorter this time, and she touched the bottom, gently catching herself with a hand to the ground.
Rising, Mariel noticed with a grim demeanor that the cave had gone from darkness to light, and it seemed to be fading into dusk now.
Like us, Mariel thought, We were nothing--darkness. Then we loved--light. And now the light is threatened--dusk.
An amusing analogy.
Mariel jumped and caught her shriek. The monster’s voice; it was hardly audible.
Oh, yes, I’m still here. I see your friend is not with you.
Mariel circled in the semidarkness, trying to locate the familiar white-masked face and green body. “W-where are you?” Mariel cursed her voice for shaking.
Instead of answering, the thing just hissed, What brings you back? An urge to remember? Why?
Mariel swallowed and refused the urge to answer or even contemplate how the thing could still be alive. Instead, she began by rote, “You said I must defeat you to remember.”
And you never did.
“No,” Mariel replied, “but Toshiro did. Let me see his memories.”
There was a cackle of laughter, and for a long second, Mariel wondered if she had just walked into her death. She shrieked when a bony hand pressed into hers. There was a cling and the sound of wind. Realizing the monster had just given her the key and she had dropped it, Mariel knelt, searching for the item.
It was getting darker.
You don’t know what you’re getting into.
“Sh-shut up,” Mariel squeaked.
She quickly found the key and stumbled to the shaft of light that was resting on the safe. The key was the right fit, and afraid of losing an opportunity, she quickly swung open the safe.
The first thoughts hit her like a ton of bricks.
He was born exactly two years and twenty-six days before her. That would make him nineteen.
Before the memory loss, Mariel had lived elsewhere, playing tag with Toshiro and other children.
That had to be at least a decade ago, Mariel thought.
After that, Mariel was presented with so many memories to sort through. She found herself standing in the center of a globe of flashing scenes. Realizing it would take years to scan them all, Mariel focused on the easiest one in her mind, one that stemmed from her own memory and was related to Toshiro’s memory.
~ ~ ~
A young Mariel had been walking to school alone, savoring spring. An older boy had leapt out, surprising Mariel at the school gates and demanding she give him her lunch. She refused in fear, and he grabbed her wrists, dragging her by the arms to heck-knows-where.
She was saved before long by some teachers, and after a few moments of composure, Mariel had gone off her own way.
A typical day of bullying to the girl of the “moonlight.”
But it wasn’t just that.
Mariel had always noticed a particular blank wall when it came to school after that day.
What happened?
Who had walked her back from school?
Who had accompanied her?
And even more, Mariel distinctly remembered a sudden halt to the bullying after that incident.
She had a vague notion that it was all tied to Toshiro.
Delving into Toshiro’s memory of the account was an interesting experience.
It was like Mariel was there, however many years ago it was, watching the young Toshiro.
But it was more than that.
Like she could also understand his thoughts and motives.
The memory began with the former Toshiro walking the former Mariel home; they had been friends for some time now, and Mariel was recounting the story of the bullying to Toshiro. The black-haired boy walked with his arms crossed, lips set tight.
Mariel’s tale was finished as they reached home, and the past Toshiro bade her farewell.
As the image began to fade, Mariel thought in the safe, Well, this is more drab than I thought it would be.
But it wasn’t completely over.
The young Toshiro was angry.
Angrier than any child should be.
The memory faded out, leaving the montage globe surrounding Mariel again, but there was one lingering thought that lasted in Mariel’s mind. It echoed there in Toshiro’s voice:
She will never be harmed again.
I will never let her be by herself. Even if I die, my ghost will protect her.
I swear to it.
~ ~ ~
Mariel spent a good part of the night digging into Toshiro’s memories. He really had died...in a car accident...then his ghost really had protected her, just as he vowed. She emerged from the tunnel with enough memories to convince her parents about anything they would ask and had put the key to the safe on her nightstand in case she ever needed to go back again.
Sleep was delightful, and Mariel was horrified to wake to the sound of sirens.
She jerked up and ran to her room’s window overlooking the front driveway. There were two police-cars parked and an assortment of people--her parents, cops, neighbors. There was someone dressed in black with his face against the car, his hands being cuffed...
Was that Toshiro?!
“Toshiro!”
Mariel flew to the front entrance, bursting out of the door as the policeman hauled Toshiro up.
“Toshiro!” Mariel exclaimed, “What the--”
“Mariel.”
Mariel whipped around to see her parents beckoning her. She stopped her movement and raised her eyebrows, demanding an immediate answer.
“Don’t be worried,” her dad began in a tone that only invited worry, “Nothing too valuable was stolen, but we were broken into last night, and they’re just taking Toshiro away for interrogation.”
“But he’s--”
“It’s just interrogation. He was waiting on the front porch when we noticed the break-in, and he was still waiting there when the cops came. It’s just an interrogation; they have no evidence against him.”
Something in Mariel’s father’s voice made it seem like she wished there were evidence, and Mariel bit her tongue in her desperation and turned back to see Toshiro sliding into the backseat of the car.
He had always been protecting her from the break-ins. The night that Mariel had been forced to send him away, they had gotten robbed, and now...
They were coinciding the break-ins with Toshiro’s sudden appearance.
It made too much sense.
~ ~ ~
Mariel had gotten a call from the police department a few hours after the incident saying Toshiro was found innocent of any thievery, although they suggested he find a psychiatrist for his acute memory loss.
Skipping class, Mariel had put away her cell and had run out to her car, leaping to an instant ten above the speed limit. Her speedometer threatened to edge higher, and Mariel displayed as much self-control as she could to keep it steady. Getting a ticket wouldn’t help anything.
Hardly soon enough, the police department came into view, and Mariel quickly parked, slamming the door closed and leaping to the lobby where she found Toshiro pacing.
Before she could even react, he had turned to her and wrapped her in his arms.
Mariel nearly pulled back in her surprise--and then realized that that would be a stupid mistake. Pressing into him, she put her hands at his back, feeling the deep dip of his spine, smelling his masculine aroma. His palms slid up to her cheeks, and he put his mouth on hers. She nearly groaned out loud when his tongue touched her lips.
The receptionist’s cough was the first thing to bring reality back, and Toshiro and Mariel pulled away at the same time, glancing at the lobbyist, who at the sudden hostility and attention, sunk into his seat and began tapping at a keyboard.
Toshiro leaned back with disdain and finally said, “So much for that moment. Let’s go.”
~ ~ ~
“So what happened?”
“Ask them,” Toshiro answered as Mariel’s car rumbled back home, “I was waiting for you to get out of bed so we could get to your school, and then suddenly the cops were at the front door, asking who I was and how I was affiliated with your family. I told them I was your friend, and they said I was under arrest for interrogation.”
Mariel felt her eyes narrow. “And what did they ask you?”
“Everything I don’t remember about you.”
Mariel shook her head and gazed off; she was relieved beyond words that Toshiro was safe, but she knew what was coming upon arrival.
Her parents wouldn’t be happy.
~ ~ ~
They weren’t.
Mariel laid in her bed, glaring at the ceiling as she ruminated over the conversation she just held with her parents. Her back and thighs were slick with ire-originated sweat, and she shed her outer clothes, heaving a sigh as she threw her white hair from his neck.
“For one,” her father had said, “Toshiro was arrested. I don’t want you associated with those type of people.”
As if Toshiro were a drug-dealing murderer.
“And for another,” he had pontificated, “That boy is causing you to skip class.”
Toshiro saved my life!
That was what Mariel had wanted to scream, but she bit her tongue, clenched her hands, and forced herself to remain silent.
Toshiro had saved all of their lives. And their belongings.
And Mariel’s parents were paying him back by restricting her from any contact with him. Almost as an afterthought, they had grounded her as well.
Mariel still couldn’t get cool, and she rose out of bed, pacing and airing her flushed face.
It was near dawn when she finally fell asleep.
~ ~ ~
The next day as Mariel was about to get into her car, she heard a familiar voice speaking her name in a near-inaudible whisper.
“Mariel.”
Startled, she turned around to see Toshiro, his sword in its proper place at his back, his black hair tussled in the wind. The male stood tall, heroic almost, but he looked tired; he looked committed; he looked beautiful. He was beautiful, his black clothes and eyes framing his light, smooth skin. He was a warrior, her protector.
Her surprise and awe had no time to turn to words before he closed the space between them, grabbing her shoulders and saying in a tight voice, “Mariel, please listen. I mean to change back to a ghost.” He hesitated and corrected, “I am going to change back to a ghost.”
Silence.
She almost laughed.
But he was too serious. His eyes were too cold, too narrowed, too...real.
Real.
Ghost.
Crying outside of her window, protecting her countless times, amusing her in class.
Then to this, flesh and blood. Everything she wanted. Bravery, empathy, attention. His lips, so soft and comforting, his body. His real body, his vulnerable body.
His beauty.
It was hers. It was hers. He couldn’t just disappear; he couldn’t just take it all when it was getting going again. They had their memories, their answers; she needed him, his love, his attention; he couldn’t just disappear, he couldn’t take it all, he--
“YOU CAN'T!”
A flock of birds took flight in the early morning at Mariel’s shriek. She started to laugh hysterically, devoid of further words, the thousands of excuses at her mouth, as he tilted his head to the side.
Her mania morphed to sudden sorrow, and she snapped, choking on her tears, “Toshiro! How could--why are you--is this a joke?!”
Fluid thought seemed impossible, and Mariel stamped her foot, crying out in frustration and turning with all the intention to drive away, but he grabbed her shoulders, turning her around, and putting her back against her car as he pleaded, “Mariel. Please. Hear me out. I’m going to stay true to my vow.”
Mariel felt her eyes narrow until Toshiro slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out the key to the safe; he must have taken it from her nightstand. His eyes held the sorrow of remembrance. “I found out who I was, Mariel. I remembered why I must protect you.”
“Because of that bully?” Mariel exclaimed, “Toshiro, that was an eternity ago! That doesn’t matter anymore!”
“No. It doesn’t. I no longer protect you out of fear for your safety, but because I...” Toshiro cleared his throat and looked down.
“I love you, Mariel.”
Something in Mariel’s heart began to roil, and she took a step forward and put her hand up to his chest. He grabbed her hand in his warm palms and added, “And I can no longer protect you if I am a mortal.” Before she could speak, he covered her mouth and said, “Don’t object, Mariel. You saw the break-in. What if you had been there?”
She pulled his fingers off of her lips. “Then you would have saved me.”
“And how could I? Mariel, you know there was no way. You know you were in danger. Besides, I’m ruining your family. Your parents hardly trust you, knowing that I was arrested. I mean, just think of it from their point of view: they find their daughter hanging out with a guy that they don’t even know, who’s wounded by some unknown creature, and then he’s interrogated for what appears to be a robbery. Mariel, they don’t trust me, and I--”
It was Mariel’s turn to cover his mouth with her hand. She jerked her head back in frustration, the tears streaking their familiar paths.
The silence grew intolerable, and Mariel said between grit teeth, “I don’t want to hear it!”
His jaw clenched behind her hand, and as gravity seemed to strengthen, Mariel’s hand slipped back down to her side as she cried bitterly. Toshiro raised his own hand and stroked the hot tears off her cheeks with his thumb, saying softly, “Mariel. You don’t understand that this is what I must do. Your life will be in danger if I don’t.”
“My life will cease to exist if you do, Toshiro. I don't want to live without you.”
He just shook his head and looked past her shoulder in a pensive, agonized state of mind. “And would that be better? It’s an impasse, Mariel. Either I stay here and can't protect you, or I change and can protect you. Either way, you're miserable.”
She grabbed his wrist and put her hand in his. “Don’t care about me, Toshiro...I’m not miserable. I’m happy that you’re here--”
“And your happiness is what kept you up until five last night?” He shook his head as her mouth dropped open and said, “I came to say goodbye.”
Mariel hardly stopped to consider what that fully meant, how she was going to convince him, why he would think of changing again.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his torso, feeling his heartbeat with her chest and delving into the softness of his lips, his tongue, his hair in her fingers.
For the last time.
~ ~ ~
Write on!
Clove
P.S. Wondering why the tragic ending? This had a tiiiny bit to do with my own life at the time I wrote it. Just a smidgen. Also, at school, I was assigned to read a bunch of Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe...hehehe, you write what you read. ^.^
P.S. Wondering why the tragic ending? This had a tiiiny bit to do with my own life at the time I wrote it. Just a smidgen. Also, at school, I was assigned to read a bunch of Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe...hehehe, you write what you read. ^.^
9.21.2013
Mind Over Matter
I will get through this blog post.
Mind over matter.
(...ksauhhhgh...)
Speaking of mind over matter, that's one of the chapter titles in the Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer, and speaking of Twilight, I intend on writing a review on that book like...
Here. Today.
People have asked me for my opinion of those fangirled books, and before today, I had been able to evade that question by telling them I honestly didn't have an opinion because I had never finished the series. So why was I trying to evade the question, you ask? Because - it's sadly true - while I've never finished the series, I have read pieces of books two and three and four plus two-thirds of Twilight (the book) and...don't kill me now but.....
Well, to tell the truth, I thought they were decent books.
There. I said it.
Now before this heavy storm of rotten tomatoes gets any worse, I'll just tell you this:
I thought they were decent to an extent.
Yes, Stephanie Meyer definitely knows romance. Some of the things she mentions - such as laundry being for the hands not the mind...and...wanting to touch someone sitting next to you during a movie...and...squeezing your own arms to stop that want - admittedly, I do and have done those things. Funny, I know, but exact phrases that she's uses to describe Edward Cullen, I've used to describe my story characters and my.....
Uhhh...
Yeah.
My characters.
*clears throat*
But on the other hand, I really didn't like the series because of the absurdity of all romance novels.
Real life romance:
Guy meets girl or girl meets guy. Mutual interest. They go as far as social relationships are allowed then decide to cross over to a more intimate relationship. Sometimes, they break up; sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, they get married; sometimes, they don't. The end.
Novel romance:
Guy meets girl or girl meets guy. Mutual interest. They go as far as social relationships are allowed then decide to cross over to a more intimate relationship. Added complication. (Like...vampires...or social issues...or family issues...) Sometimes, they break up; sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, they get married; sometimes, they don't. The end.
...this:
...and this:
Mind over matter.
(...ksauhhhgh...)
Speaking of mind over matter, that's one of the chapter titles in the Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer, and speaking of Twilight, I intend on writing a review on that book like...
Here. Today.
People have asked me for my opinion of those fangirled books, and before today, I had been able to evade that question by telling them I honestly didn't have an opinion because I had never finished the series. So why was I trying to evade the question, you ask? Because - it's sadly true - while I've never finished the series, I have read pieces of books two and three and four plus two-thirds of Twilight (the book) and...don't kill me now but.....
Well, to tell the truth, I thought they were decent books.
There. I said it.
Now before this heavy storm of rotten tomatoes gets any worse, I'll just tell you this:
I thought they were decent to an extent.
Yes, Stephanie Meyer definitely knows romance. Some of the things she mentions - such as laundry being for the hands not the mind...and...wanting to touch someone sitting next to you during a movie...and...squeezing your own arms to stop that want - admittedly, I do and have done those things. Funny, I know, but exact phrases that she's uses to describe Edward Cullen, I've used to describe my story characters and my.....
Uhhh...
Yeah.
My characters.
*clears throat*
But on the other hand, I really didn't like the series because of the absurdity of all romance novels.
Real life romance:
Guy meets girl or girl meets guy. Mutual interest. They go as far as social relationships are allowed then decide to cross over to a more intimate relationship. Sometimes, they break up; sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, they get married; sometimes, they don't. The end.
Novel romance:
Guy meets girl or girl meets guy. Mutual interest. They go as far as social relationships are allowed then decide to cross over to a more intimate relationship. Added complication. (Like...vampires...or social issues...or family issues...) Sometimes, they break up; sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, they get married; sometimes, they don't. The end.
Romance works in novels because it's complicated. Period. Stephanie just did a good job of putting added complications into an already complicated plot, and that was the thing that drove me craaazy. I mean, if I put my romance life into a book, I could be a Best Seller too. (Come on, hasn't my romance life been complicated too?) Love works in that people like it, and people like to hear about it. Just have a handsome male, a hormone-sick girl, and a bunch of fantastic phrases like marbled musculature, excruciatingly beautiful, and agonized eyes, and bam - instant viral book.
Seriously.
You can have this:
But, somehow, when you put them together into a this:
People start screaming and gasping and blushing and oohing and awwing and hemming and hawing.
"Fangirlism, ladies and...ladies."
Write on!
Clove
9.20.2013
What did I just read...?
I don't normally do synopses. In fact, unless if I read something this horrifying again, I never will.
So today, I was assigned to read "To Build a Fire" by Jack London.
This whole blog is a spoiler, a synopsis of the novelette WITH the end, so if you want to read it and enjoy it, go ahead. Just know that it makes no censored censored sense to me why the censored censored you'd censored with censored censored.
(Clean version: it makes no sense to me why you'd do that.)
The story begins with a man.
And a smart dog.
In the Yukon.
And it's COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLD.
All right, everyone. Knowing the depressed, Goth, funeral executioner Jack London must have been when he wrote this story, GUESS how the story will end. ... Got a good idea?
If you said like, "man freezes to death", you are absolutely correct.
Man walking along, chewing tobacco in what he thinks is negative fifty degrees but is really negative seventy degrees.
Tobacco juice is dribbling down chin, freezing his face off.
NOT a good idea.
Man keeps walking along. Man keeps chewing tobacco, making tobacco juice icicle off his beard. Man slips and falls into cold water. Man's shins and feet are soaked. Man tries to build fire to thaw his feet. Snow from trees falls on fire. Man fails. Man tries to run to home. Man fails because he overestimates his own strength. Man falls on ground. Man tries to get up. Man fails. Man, at this points, knows if he survives, he's going to lose fingers and toes. Man decides to kill smart dog and stay warm in smart dog's carcass. Man's fingers are so numb, he can't kill smart dog. Man fails. Now insane man decides to take a nap.
MAN DIES.
WHAT THE censored censored censored DID I JUST READ?!
NOOO.
Clove
So today, I was assigned to read "To Build a Fire" by Jack London.
This whole blog is a spoiler, a synopsis of the novelette WITH the end, so if you want to read it and enjoy it, go ahead. Just know that it makes no censored censored sense to me why the censored censored you'd censored with censored censored.
(Clean version: it makes no sense to me why you'd do that.)
The story begins with a man.
And a smart dog.
In the Yukon.
And it's COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLD.
All right, everyone. Knowing the depressed, Goth, funeral executioner Jack London must have been when he wrote this story, GUESS how the story will end. ... Got a good idea?
If you said like, "man freezes to death", you are absolutely correct.
Man walking along, chewing tobacco in what he thinks is negative fifty degrees but is really negative seventy degrees.
Tobacco juice is dribbling down chin, freezing his face off.
NOT a good idea.
Man keeps walking along. Man keeps chewing tobacco, making tobacco juice icicle off his beard. Man slips and falls into cold water. Man's shins and feet are soaked. Man tries to build fire to thaw his feet. Snow from trees falls on fire. Man fails. Man tries to run to home. Man fails because he overestimates his own strength. Man falls on ground. Man tries to get up. Man fails. Man, at this points, knows if he survives, he's going to lose fingers and toes. Man decides to kill smart dog and stay warm in smart dog's carcass. Man's fingers are so numb, he can't kill smart dog. Man fails. Now insane man decides to take a nap.
MAN DIES.
WHAT THE censored censored censored DID I JUST READ?!
NOOO.
Clove
9.19.2013
What I Hear - Tiptoe
I got a request from the eccentric and peppy Cofake to do a WIH on Tiptoe. My first thoughts from a musical stand-point were something like...
THE70'SAREBACKFORSLAUGHTERANDDESTRUCTION.EVERYONERUNFORYOURSANITYANDLIIIVES.
Seriously. This sounds like...Axel F or Rockit or...something from my parents' generation that belongs in a move like Top Gun. >.< Radioactive was ten times cooler. x)
As for lyrics...
Well...
She recommended them for a reason.
WHAT lyrics?!
THE70'SAREBACKFORSLAUGHTERANDDESTRUCTION.EVERYONERUNFORYOURSANITYANDLIIIVES.
Seriously. This sounds like...Axel F or Rockit or...something from my parents' generation that belongs in a move like Top Gun. >.< Radioactive was ten times cooler. x)
As for lyrics...
Well...
She recommended them for a reason.
WHAT lyrics?!
Ladies and gentlemen, smurfs and minions, introducing...
Tiptoe by Imagine Dragons
In the morning I let my roots take flight
Watch me fall
A boat?
Like a 'licious Dove*
They don't see me come
'O' can blame them
Hei** never seems to cash my eye
But I never wonder why
Owl, fall asleep
Owl, fold the sleeve
Hiy-ah! No manna
No, we're coming
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
Texas town too
Sin the dark, keep your head down low
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
From this wicked peel
See the morning dew
Think into the store
Watch the water pour
They won't see me row
'O' can blame them
Hei never looked to see me fly
So I never had to lie
Owl, fall asleep
Owl, fold the sleeve
Hiy-ah! No manna
No, we're coming
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
Texas town too
Sin the dark, keep your head down low
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
Nobody elves
Nobody elves
Nobody elves
Can take me higher
Nobody elves
Can take me higher
Nobody elves
Can take me higher
Nobody elves
Hiy-ah! No manna
No, we're coming
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
Texas town too
Sin the dark, keep your head down low
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
Hiy-ah! No manna
No, we're coming
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
Texas town too
Sin the dark, keep your head down low
Hiy-ah! Tip toe, hiy-ah!
*I assume he means the chocolate Dove.
**Hei, a character from Darker Than Black, an anime.
(On another note, this epic character [at least for the first seasons...] inspired me to create Jaug Sykes for my current story. Muahaha, I totally thought Millis was going to be my favorite, but I think Jaug beats him by a few long ebony strands of hair. More on that to come. :))
Write on!
Clove
9.18.2013
The dreaded...PEER REVIEW!
Yesterday, I got stabbed through the gut with the heaviest, sharpest blade of peer review I think I've ever received.
I am now hospitalized, and my ego may be forever crippled. They had to give me back a spine and take out my lily livers. In order to write this, I had a computer moved into my hospital room, so I can type this out, but they keep having to sedate me as I have convulsions whenever a piece of paper or a pen enters my sight.
That being said, let's talk about the dreaded peer review, yeah?
Here are some DO's AND DON'T's TO PEER REVIEW from both an author's point of view and a critic's point of view:
1.) Do - give review thoroughly.
There's no such thing as a short peer review. No such thing. If you give something to someone and they say, "That's good; I like it," they have NOT given you peer review. They have given you encouragement (which is never a bad thing).
2.) Do not - try to separate good from bad.
I think one of the reasons why the peer review I got yesterday hurt so bad was because it was all negative feedback, and I had neither
a.) any positive feedback or
b.) a warni---hkahUWFAGSKEFisayspeelikejermaNOOOOOOOIT'SMYWRITINGjakossFOOSROHDAHHH---
...
a few hours later...
...
*groggily reaches for keyboard and bats away nurse with morphine shot*
Leave me alooon---
Er, sorry, guys.
What was I saying? Ah, yes, a warning. I think negative feedback sinks in much more nicely if it's dunked and fried in a load of, "I was really rough here, so don't be scared," and, "These are just my opinions, so don't feel like you have to use them all or even any of them," and, "Please don't freak out when you see all of the things I wrote because I was pretty hard." That sort of talk allows the author time to set his/her teeth before diving in; no warning is a slap in the face.
It hurts.
On the note of a positive feedback...well...GIVE IT. Negative feedback could be hidden in layers of, "Oh, I absolutely loved so-and-so," or, "Your story sooo reminded me of ___," and most mature authors will embrace both positive and negative with open arms.
As with any feedback, encase it in a capsule of love.
3.) Do - give grammatical feedback.
But...
4.) Do not - enforce your grammar rules on others.
Grammar is subject to change. Make sure to NOTE run-on's and dependent phrases, but don't scratch them out or rage about them.
Who knows? The author may have put them in on purpose.
5.) Do - edit twice.
Edit once from a recreational standpoint so you understand the story, then again, from a critic's standpoint so you can analyze the story.
6.) Do - feel free to spaz out.
I think every author loves a little fandom concerning certain characters and scenes. Smiley faces - :) XD x) ;P ;) - also help to deaden the sting of review.
7.) Do not - hospitalize anyone.
*glances warily at nurse coming in with clipboard*
Eh...I should probably sign off now.
Write oHYUHNONONONONONOOO!!!
Clove
P.S. Anyone catch the "I say 'spee' like Jerma"?
P.P.S. Then did you catch the Skyrim reference? I'm expecting to hear from you, Aaron. x)
9.17.2013
Thesaurisizing
My younger brother was writing a descriptive paragraph for his Composition homework today. (Sad to say, my class doesn't get into descriptive essays until next semester...the injustice. xD) Next to him, he had opened a Thesaurus to help him add more impressiveness to his words.
That, and an invitation for aid in editing extended to Josh and myself, resulted in a discussion on Thesaurisizing, a buzzword that has now come to mean, "to overuse and/or misuse the Thesaurus."
What that looks like is this:
Normal - "Here, most authors would recommend adding additional information in a persuasive paper."
Thesaurisized - "Now, by all technicalities, it is the opine of many grammarians to presently attach “ancillary intelligence” in such a cogent theme."
Normal - "But I don't have any additional information."
Thesaurisized - "However, I retain nil of such."
Normal - "So instead, I'll say this: I hope my grand voice and vocabulary have persuaded you to let me get a Facebook account."
Thesaurisized - "As an alternative, I shall record this: I hope my vapid, affrighteningly-long parlance in this pleonastic paper have procured sanction of visitation to aforementioned social networks, which have been falsely claimed "detrimental".
See what I mean? A Thesaurus could be your best friend as an author, but without knowing proper word usage, you're going to sound like a living library. No one wants to hear a living library.
So then presents the question, "When do I use the Thesaurus?"
FOR BEGINNING WRITERS:
I'd recommend using a Thesaurus all the time. Permanently take the words "good", "bad", "interesting", "amazing", "cool", "evil", "scared", and "sad" out of your writing and replace them with better, more specific words. Obviously and unfortunately, this replacement of mediocre words for glitzy vocab means you're going to be using "glitter" when you should have used "sheen" and "scholarship" when you should have used "wisdom". Those are some small nuances of English that you'll have to deal with for right now.
On the other hand, what you gain is a lot of word experience. You're expanding your vocabulary, and you'll begin to notice how certain words are used in day-to-day conversations. You might also notice that words like "pleonastic" and "affrighteningly" are not used AT ALL in day-to-day conversations; those are the words that you know are a bit too nerdy.
FOR INTERMEDIATE WRITERS:
I'd recommend using the Thesaurus along with a dictionary. If you look up a word in the Thesaurus (like grandeur) and come across another word (like pomp) but aren't sure exactly what the second word means, look it up. Generally, there will be a small difference between the dictionary definitions, and you can then utilize such small variations to your heart's content. (Grandeur is grandness in appearance or style; pomp is grandness in ceremony or display. You're welcome.)
Better yet, do you have one of those new-fangled dictionary apps that have sample sentences in them? Those are the absolute best because then you don't have to wait for your word to pop up in daily usage; you just read the sentence and see for yourself.
(I use the dictionary app that comes with every Mac computer - the New Oxford American Dictionary - along with the Mac's built-in thesaurus app - Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, and I particularly like the second because of the author-written notes on word variations and contrasts.)
FOR EXPERIENCED WRITERS:
What...? Thesaurus? What is that? OH! You mean that old clunky book I used to aid my writing eons ago!
Hah!
Write on!
Clove
P.S. For those of you who noticed it and know about it, yes, the example of Normal versus Thesaurisized sentences above does pertain to my getting a Facebook.
The last paragraph in the essay looks like this:
"My motives for desiring social media have been made known here--fellowship, evangelism, and closer relationships. Now, by all technicalities, it is the opine of many grammarians to presently attach “ancillary intelligence” in such a cogent theme. However, I retain nil of such. As an alternative, I shall record this: I hope my vapid, affrighteningly-long parlance in this pleonastic paper have procured sanction of visitation to aforementioned, falsely-claimed “detrimental” social networks. In other words, did I “convince” you?"
Heeheehee, the paper is still in waiting to be accepted by my pater and mater. Muahahaha...
That, and an invitation for aid in editing extended to Josh and myself, resulted in a discussion on Thesaurisizing, a buzzword that has now come to mean, "to overuse and/or misuse the Thesaurus."
What that looks like is this:
Normal - "Here, most authors would recommend adding additional information in a persuasive paper."
Thesaurisized - "Now, by all technicalities, it is the opine of many grammarians to presently attach “ancillary intelligence” in such a cogent theme."
Normal - "But I don't have any additional information."
Thesaurisized - "However, I retain nil of such."
Normal - "So instead, I'll say this: I hope my grand voice and vocabulary have persuaded you to let me get a Facebook account."
Thesaurisized - "As an alternative, I shall record this: I hope my vapid, affrighteningly-long parlance in this pleonastic paper have procured sanction of visitation to aforementioned social networks, which have been falsely claimed "detrimental".
See what I mean? A Thesaurus could be your best friend as an author, but without knowing proper word usage, you're going to sound like a living library. No one wants to hear a living library.
So then presents the question, "When do I use the Thesaurus?"
FOR BEGINNING WRITERS:
I'd recommend using a Thesaurus all the time. Permanently take the words "good", "bad", "interesting", "amazing", "cool", "evil", "scared", and "sad" out of your writing and replace them with better, more specific words. Obviously and unfortunately, this replacement of mediocre words for glitzy vocab means you're going to be using "glitter" when you should have used "sheen" and "scholarship" when you should have used "wisdom". Those are some small nuances of English that you'll have to deal with for right now.
On the other hand, what you gain is a lot of word experience. You're expanding your vocabulary, and you'll begin to notice how certain words are used in day-to-day conversations. You might also notice that words like "pleonastic" and "affrighteningly" are not used AT ALL in day-to-day conversations; those are the words that you know are a bit too nerdy.
FOR INTERMEDIATE WRITERS:
I'd recommend using the Thesaurus along with a dictionary. If you look up a word in the Thesaurus (like grandeur) and come across another word (like pomp) but aren't sure exactly what the second word means, look it up. Generally, there will be a small difference between the dictionary definitions, and you can then utilize such small variations to your heart's content. (Grandeur is grandness in appearance or style; pomp is grandness in ceremony or display. You're welcome.)
Better yet, do you have one of those new-fangled dictionary apps that have sample sentences in them? Those are the absolute best because then you don't have to wait for your word to pop up in daily usage; you just read the sentence and see for yourself.
(I use the dictionary app that comes with every Mac computer - the New Oxford American Dictionary - along with the Mac's built-in thesaurus app - Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, and I particularly like the second because of the author-written notes on word variations and contrasts.)
 |
| A screen shot of the Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus |
FOR EXPERIENCED WRITERS:
What...? Thesaurus? What is that? OH! You mean that old clunky book I used to aid my writing eons ago!
Hah!
Write on!
Clove
P.S. For those of you who noticed it and know about it, yes, the example of Normal versus Thesaurisized sentences above does pertain to my getting a Facebook.
The last paragraph in the essay looks like this:
"My motives for desiring social media have been made known here--fellowship, evangelism, and closer relationships. Now, by all technicalities, it is the opine of many grammarians to presently attach “ancillary intelligence” in such a cogent theme. However, I retain nil of such. As an alternative, I shall record this: I hope my vapid, affrighteningly-long parlance in this pleonastic paper have procured sanction of visitation to aforementioned, falsely-claimed “detrimental” social networks. In other words, did I “convince” you?"
Heeheehee, the paper is still in waiting to be accepted by my pater and mater. Muahahaha...
9.16.2013
Text From A Dream
My goal here was to convey as much as possible in as few words as possible:
Gunshots fill the air.
He crouches down next to me, broad back against the house in Goa, India. I immediately recognize the thick, wet, suffocating air and peril as a dream. One, I don't know the first thing about firearms, yet a submachine gun is in my dirty hands. Two, he's never there in my dreams; he's never even there in reality. We had our association, a small fight, then he's creeping into my dreams.
"Stay on my tail." I still remember his voice through two years. "Watch my six. And the mud."
That's all he says. Run, sight, fire. We're light on our feet through the deep dirt.
He's in uniform, but I'm not, and suddenly, I know why I'm having this dream.
I wanted it.
That's what we fought about, wasn't it? That's why he cut me off. He was to be a soldier, and he wouldn't risk associating with me for my own danger.
"I can't."
How many times did he say that?
It hurts so much as we go, to see his face in a dream but never in reality. It hurts so much, the pain of silence for the past two years. I fight it, to escape the bondage of the dream, to ask him why, to put down my gun, to just tell him I'm sorry. But I can't. Something else, something that would flee from the agony of his presence, clicks in my head.
And I jerk up awake in bed with a cry, tears on my cheeks, my voice floating in my silence.
"...why would you begin a relationship with me when you knew how it would end?!"
Write on!
Clove
P.S. How'd I do? Did you get the feels? ;)
P.P.S. My younger sister is great at conveying much emotion in a few words. Here's the unedited text she wrote when I gave over the keyboard: "Meggyn is cwaaazyright now...poor Joe. poor me. poor Josh. poor Ma and Pappy." x) Love teh siblin's.
P.P.P.S. Have another awesome writing song:
Gunshots fill the air.
He crouches down next to me, broad back against the house in Goa, India. I immediately recognize the thick, wet, suffocating air and peril as a dream. One, I don't know the first thing about firearms, yet a submachine gun is in my dirty hands. Two, he's never there in my dreams; he's never even there in reality. We had our association, a small fight, then he's creeping into my dreams.
"Stay on my tail." I still remember his voice through two years. "Watch my six. And the mud."
That's all he says. Run, sight, fire. We're light on our feet through the deep dirt.
He's in uniform, but I'm not, and suddenly, I know why I'm having this dream.
I wanted it.
That's what we fought about, wasn't it? That's why he cut me off. He was to be a soldier, and he wouldn't risk associating with me for my own danger.
"I can't."
How many times did he say that?
It hurts so much as we go, to see his face in a dream but never in reality. It hurts so much, the pain of silence for the past two years. I fight it, to escape the bondage of the dream, to ask him why, to put down my gun, to just tell him I'm sorry. But I can't. Something else, something that would flee from the agony of his presence, clicks in my head.
And I jerk up awake in bed with a cry, tears on my cheeks, my voice floating in my silence.
"...why would you begin a relationship with me when you knew how it would end?!"
Write on!
Clove
P.S. How'd I do? Did you get the feels? ;)
P.P.S. My younger sister is great at conveying much emotion in a few words. Here's the unedited text she wrote when I gave over the keyboard: "Meggyn is cwaaazyright now...poor Joe. poor me. poor Josh. poor Ma and Pappy." x) Love teh siblin's.
P.P.P.S. Have another awesome writing song:
9.09.2013
My Game-Plan
So I was wondering exactly how I should start the outflow of my story and what boundaries I need to put on myself so that I don't go too fast, leave time for me to edit, and can avoid stressing myself out.
Here's the big idea:
Every month, I plan on posting one chapter. In my Table of Contents, I have 30 chapters, which means that, if I'm true to my word, you'll have read all of my story in a time period of two and a half years. I know, I know, it sounds uber long, even to me. ;) Just know that the outflow time is NOT set in stone. If I finish my story somehow by the next half year, you guys will get a chapter, say, every week.
Make sense so far?
All right.
So here's one little catch:
Every month that I post up a new chapter, I'll be taking down an old chapter. If chapter two goes up, chapter one will be taken down; if chapter three goes up, chapter two will be taken down. My dad recommended I do this to avoid exposure, so if, say, Billy Bob from down the slum, decides he wants to make some easy money by stealing my story and publishing it himself, he's going to 1.) wait two and half years and 2.) have a smaller time window.
This mean's I'm making one critical assumption about you all, and it's that you guys...
DON'T PLAGIARIZE.
Pleeeaaase. I beggeth of thee. :D I work hard on my writing, and if there's a phrase or simile or whatever you want to use, send me an email or comment to me! That's toootally okay. Taking without my permission is not, however.
All right.
Enough of the logistics. I'll bore myself to tears if I keep going on about rules. :P
If there are any of you brave enough out there to edit a Warrior of the Red Pen's writing, feel free! And for those of you who aren't brave enough, feel obligated. Thanks to years of sucking it up, I can take some cruel critiques, so go ahead if that's your style.
Like I said, I do plan, Lord willing, on self-publishing my story some grand, grand day. If you help me edit, I might put in a little piece about you in the "Thanks" section. But hurry! This is a limited time offer! ;P
Ummm...what else do I need to say?
I dunno...I can't think of anything else. :) So, without further ado, I hope you guys enjoy this trickling of writing. It will definitely be an adventure. :D
Write on!
Clove
Here's the big idea:
Every month, I plan on posting one chapter. In my Table of Contents, I have 30 chapters, which means that, if I'm true to my word, you'll have read all of my story in a time period of two and a half years. I know, I know, it sounds uber long, even to me. ;) Just know that the outflow time is NOT set in stone. If I finish my story somehow by the next half year, you guys will get a chapter, say, every week.
Make sense so far?
All right.
So here's one little catch:
Every month that I post up a new chapter, I'll be taking down an old chapter. If chapter two goes up, chapter one will be taken down; if chapter three goes up, chapter two will be taken down. My dad recommended I do this to avoid exposure, so if, say, Billy Bob from down the slum, decides he wants to make some easy money by stealing my story and publishing it himself, he's going to 1.) wait two and half years and 2.) have a smaller time window.
This mean's I'm making one critical assumption about you all, and it's that you guys...
DON'T PLAGIARIZE.
Pleeeaaase. I beggeth of thee. :D I work hard on my writing, and if there's a phrase or simile or whatever you want to use, send me an email or comment to me! That's toootally okay. Taking without my permission is not, however.
All right.
Enough of the logistics. I'll bore myself to tears if I keep going on about rules. :P
If there are any of you brave enough out there to edit a Warrior of the Red Pen's writing, feel free! And for those of you who aren't brave enough, feel obligated. Thanks to years of sucking it up, I can take some cruel critiques, so go ahead if that's your style.
Like I said, I do plan, Lord willing, on self-publishing my story some grand, grand day. If you help me edit, I might put in a little piece about you in the "Thanks" section. But hurry! This is a limited time offer! ;P
Ummm...what else do I need to say?
I dunno...I can't think of anything else. :) So, without further ado, I hope you guys enjoy this trickling of writing. It will definitely be an adventure. :D
Write on!
Clove
9.08.2013
My Manifesto
(Disclaimer: This post is highly biased. If you're not fond of or offended by my religion, worldview, or feelings, I'll get back to the actual story writing/updating part of this blog soon enough. That said...)
"Why do you write?"
Oh, how many authors, friends, family members, and faithful fans have asked me this question. Here, I, with an attempted manifesto, will attempt to answer that question with the best of my eloquence. Of course, if you, reader, still have an unanswered question, feel free to email or comment below. A good debate is always healthy. :)
All in all, I write for the glory of God.
Simple as that.
"But how can you do that when your stories don't include Him?"
Here, you're assuming that for a story to glorify God, He, in His full omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient glory, must be present in the story.
That's simply not true.
I do not blatantly shove God into peoples' faces due to my belief that that's not necessary to glorify God nor is it a wise evangelism strategy. Also, if God's glory is such a big deal to you, then 1.) congratulations and 2.) please don't make me short-sell my God by putting Him in words. Never, though I've tried, can I express the love I have to God. I'm not skilled enough - God is too grand - to put in words the joy of surrender and hate in self-reviling.
"Well, if you don't have a God figure in your story, then at least make an ultimate good and an ultimate bad with good prevailing."
Ugh, please don't tell me what to write. That's like a plumber ordering a chef to include banana, garlic, and...oh...Coke in his crockpot chicken when, really, tomatoes, onions, and pepper would be best. It's not that I know what is best in the end, only that I know what I, personally, would like. x)
Also, I have to say I personally don't like this writing plot because 1.) it's as cliché as the phrase "cut and dried" and 2.) it's a total lie. Most humans are upheld to some extent by God's grace, making them socially "good", and even the most pure of us Christians are tainted with sin, making us socially "bad". To create a perfect character and match him against a ruthless killer it to create a situation wholly impossible to relate with.
"Well, if you can't do THAT, then at least get your protagonists to stop sinning so much!"
Then answer me this: without sin, where is the plot?
Is Edmund didn't betray his siblings to the White Witch, where would the plot be? It wouldn't. If Bilbo had just told Gandalf that he had found the ring instead of lying, where would the Lord of the Rings be? Ding, ding, ding, you guessed it! It wouldn't. :)
All right, enough of the rebuttals.
If the content included in my stories happens to offend anyone...
1.) I'm sorry. My apologia is above.
2.) Never read Twilight. x) And...
3.) Maybe you shouldn't read my story. If it causes you to sin in some way, just don't. I can wait for you to mature spiritually, to get exposed to more sin in the world, to know how to define right and wrong more easily, and you can too.
That being cleared out of the way, let me make it expressly clear:
Glorifying God in my writing comes down to doing what I like to do to the best of my ability. I do also include morals and Biblical undertones that make my story different from adventure/romance/mystery fluff that you can find anywhere today.
I also write to express my emotions. The wings of my written words really do take me places I can't go with my human tongue. Sometimes, I'm just so confused or distraught, I can't get my words out straight. A pen, paper, and five minutes of time will help me express myself so much more clearly. A pen, paper, and a few more minutes than five can also help me express love, gratitude, and respect.
I write to work. If I didn't write, I'd be a very bored creature. ;) Who knows? There may be a little dough involved as well. :P
Don't forget; I write for fun too. I love writing. That's why I take the time to blog here; that's why I put off school for my writing. (Shame, I know.) Words crafted in a story are beautiful things, capable of bestowing wisdom and adrenaline and transporting us to places we'd rather be. They give experience, teach us lessons, and do it all in the crafted package of a story. Ahhh, it just makes me smile to think of how much fun writing is - to see a notebook filled with old scribbles of ideas, the thrill of beginning a new story, the fun of having a stare-eyes contest with a blank page, the characters that start as strangers to you and become your best friend by the final period, the interest of lying in bed and playing story scenes in your head until they are crystal clear, then getting up and writing something down before you forget the words, then realizing you were up until two in the morning, writing.
You out there, across the Interspace, let me tell you a little something-something:
THE LIFE OF AN AUTHOR IS AMAZING.
Write on!
Clove
9.07.2013
Text from Two Nights Ago - One in the morning
My vision is failing.
The dark living room is blurry, and the golden lamp is a smear of light rays.
Is that because I don't have my glasses or am so tired I can't see straight?
The dishwasher is running.
It's a homey sound. A six-membered family can pretty much fill up a dishwasher after three meals, and Dad normally runs it overnight before he goes to bed. The only time I hear the smooth rumbling is when I've come out late at night for a glass of water or am sick and sleeping on the couch.
But this is different.
I'm neither sick nor up for a drink. I sat on this couch at ten-thirty in full health, hoping to quickly discuss and close a small matter for the story my best friend and I writing. We discussed it, couldn't find a way to close it even after two and a half hours, and it's dwindled, the conversation, to companionable silence.
He's resting against the couch, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling evenly, his big, calloused hand wrapping mine, making me truly feel like his 누나. My head is on his lap, hair tucked beneath a shoulder.
Who's to tell if he hasn't already fallen asleep?
He says he can never get enough anyway.
But not me.
Looming separation is what keeps me from tempting la-la-land, to know he'll be leaving for college next year, and that means I won't see him much after that.
I love him too much for words.
I don't want him to go.
We did too much. Fought too much. Cried too much.
I smile at the thought. They say I used to cry when he was the one getting punished for hurting me. I guess my loyalty for him was always inborn.
Still...recently, I've seen a change. For most of the years in the past, I had felt like our maturity levels were close, despite the fact that he's two years older than I am. It used to be that anything he could do, I could do too, but now...I keep coming back to him for wisdom, how to study for the PSAT, how to format papers MLA style, how to interact with other males. I'm watching the silent, gradual rift grow too, the way he leads meetings so efficiently and smoothly, the way he has an indomitable smile, his polite and respectful mannerisms. Is this the silly, nerdy, mischievous boy I used to know? I ask myself at times.
And the answer is always no.
No, he's not. This is a newborn human, being sanctified in ways I can't imagine. He has become so tactful with humans; he's mastered empathetic listening; he can always make me laugh, even when tears are streaming down my cheeks.
This is not the boy I used to know.
And I don't want him to go...
I don't want him to go.
I want him to STAY.
He's my older brother!
He can't go off to college yet - he still has to teach me; he still has to be there. Who's going to lead?! Who's going to find things to do?! Who else is going to take the first step? He's always been the first one, the first child, the first in High School, the first to drive; he's always made the example, and I've always followed, and maybe I just like it that way.
But when he goes...
...it'll just be me...
...with two younger siblings who know like I do that I can never be as good, as wise, as honest and loving, as Biblically-rooted, as mature, or as fun as him.
When I hear the dishwasher's purr, I get sad. There will be five sets of dishes in there soon.
I'll miss him...
My 오빠, my older brother.
Write on!
Clove
P.S. I. is. definitely. sad. I cried and stopped crying three times while trying to write this...ugh. )`:
The dark living room is blurry, and the golden lamp is a smear of light rays.
Is that because I don't have my glasses or am so tired I can't see straight?
The dishwasher is running.
It's a homey sound. A six-membered family can pretty much fill up a dishwasher after three meals, and Dad normally runs it overnight before he goes to bed. The only time I hear the smooth rumbling is when I've come out late at night for a glass of water or am sick and sleeping on the couch.
But this is different.
I'm neither sick nor up for a drink. I sat on this couch at ten-thirty in full health, hoping to quickly discuss and close a small matter for the story my best friend and I writing. We discussed it, couldn't find a way to close it even after two and a half hours, and it's dwindled, the conversation, to companionable silence.
He's resting against the couch, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling evenly, his big, calloused hand wrapping mine, making me truly feel like his 누나. My head is on his lap, hair tucked beneath a shoulder.
Who's to tell if he hasn't already fallen asleep?
He says he can never get enough anyway.
But not me.
Looming separation is what keeps me from tempting la-la-land, to know he'll be leaving for college next year, and that means I won't see him much after that.
I love him too much for words.
I don't want him to go.
We did too much. Fought too much. Cried too much.
I smile at the thought. They say I used to cry when he was the one getting punished for hurting me. I guess my loyalty for him was always inborn.
Still...recently, I've seen a change. For most of the years in the past, I had felt like our maturity levels were close, despite the fact that he's two years older than I am. It used to be that anything he could do, I could do too, but now...I keep coming back to him for wisdom, how to study for the PSAT, how to format papers MLA style, how to interact with other males. I'm watching the silent, gradual rift grow too, the way he leads meetings so efficiently and smoothly, the way he has an indomitable smile, his polite and respectful mannerisms. Is this the silly, nerdy, mischievous boy I used to know? I ask myself at times.
And the answer is always no.
No, he's not. This is a newborn human, being sanctified in ways I can't imagine. He has become so tactful with humans; he's mastered empathetic listening; he can always make me laugh, even when tears are streaming down my cheeks.
This is not the boy I used to know.
And I don't want him to go...
I don't want him to go.
I want him to STAY.
He's my older brother!
He can't go off to college yet - he still has to teach me; he still has to be there. Who's going to lead?! Who's going to find things to do?! Who else is going to take the first step? He's always been the first one, the first child, the first in High School, the first to drive; he's always made the example, and I've always followed, and maybe I just like it that way.
But when he goes...
...it'll just be me...
...with two younger siblings who know like I do that I can never be as good, as wise, as honest and loving, as Biblically-rooted, as mature, or as fun as him.
When I hear the dishwasher's purr, I get sad. There will be five sets of dishes in there soon.
I'll miss him...
My 오빠, my older brother.
Write on!
Clove
P.S. I. is. definitely. sad. I cried and stopped crying three times while trying to write this...ugh. )`:
9.06.2013
Writing challenge #3 - Similes
These similes are all from my current book:
-His eyes were rich blue like a nighttime ocean.
-He looked like his soul had been ripped from his body.
-She sighed like she was giving up her final breath.
-Bruises mottled his skin like an artist had sprayed on dark yellow, green, and purple paints.
-She nodded as he paced off into the crowd, feeling like a shield of protection had somehow slipped away with his presence.
-The cement foundation was covered with scratched, peeling linoleum like the ground itself was trying to escape.
-They were all working with numb hands and shaking like leaves in their sleep.
-He looked bored like he had never been at play since the day he was born.
-His eyes were rich blue like a nighttime ocean.
-He looked like his soul had been ripped from his body.
-She sighed like she was giving up her final breath.
-Bruises mottled his skin like an artist had sprayed on dark yellow, green, and purple paints.
-She nodded as he paced off into the crowd, feeling like a shield of protection had somehow slipped away with his presence.
-The cement foundation was covered with scratched, peeling linoleum like the ground itself was trying to escape.
-They were all working with numb hands and shaking like leaves in their sleep.
-He looked bored like he had never been at play since the day he was born.
-Boot heels thudded on the wood like death drums.
-Patrya shook like one of the lifeless brown leaves scuttling across the asphalt.
The funny thing is...I never sat around and thought really hard for any of these. They all just came.
Anyway, I'll do a post on similes later. Want a quick writing challenge?
This one will be easy; I promise.
In whatever your current story is--the genre, voice, and characters matter not--include the simile, "Like a zombie."
Why?
Well...
What's not to like about zombies???
Write on!
Clove
P.S. My favorite zombie joke - "The zombie came looking for brains...and passed right by you." *giggle* =^.^=
9.05.2013
If you don't like it, then do it
Recently, I've had to do a lot of boring writing assignments for school.
Sad sadness.
Normally, the phrase "sad sadness" and "writing assignments" don't ever come within fifty words of each other, but unfortunately, that rule of thumb isn't the case in my current life. This is a blog devoted to my writing, so let it be known that I love, love, love to write. Getting a boring writing assignment is like when a teacher is reading her favorite student's Homeric simile, and I'm talking about the student who always brings her the shiniest, reddest apple, and then an evil Communist lord takes the Homeric simile and burns the page in front of the teacher's face for sheer cruelty's pleasure.
It's horrrrrrrrible.
I'm a sophomore now.
(Where is the second 'o' in sophomore? >.<)
In Greek, the word is 'sophizesthai', which means, ‘devise' or 'become wise.’
Become wise by being bored?
I won't go into details, but some of my assignments that I'm doing in Grade 10, I was doing in Grade 1.
And I skipped Kindergarden, guys.
Do you get what this meeeaaans??? I'M DOING KINDERGARDEN WORK.
(McDonald's theme plays - ba dah ba ba baaah, I'm luvin' it.)
But as sad sadness as it is and as much as I hate to say this, the title of this post applies to me and to you, reader, whenever we get suckishly easy writing assignments.
If you don't like it, then do it.
One of the reasons why I love writing so much is because I often overlook its hard work despite the fact that hard work does exist in the life of any author. Unfortunately, like with all things, practice is necessary. There are some areas, like written story analyses, where I need to do more reps until I'm can do them in half a minute instead of a minute; you get where I'm coming from?
...
Aggghhh...this isn't helping.
Let's just put this down to a Clove-is-being-geeky-again-because-she'stired-of-getting-her-week's-Literature-homework-done-in-half-an-hour case.
...
*sighs dramatically*
As I myself write onwards with insanely sad assignments, I challenge you, fellow author, to pick up hard (*coughBORINGcough*) writing assignments, may it be description paragraphs, smooth dialogue, or poetry. (*coughcough* Yes, you know who you are. ;))
And as that sports company says:
JUST DO IT.
Write on!
Clove
Sad sadness.
Normally, the phrase "sad sadness" and "writing assignments" don't ever come within fifty words of each other, but unfortunately, that rule of thumb isn't the case in my current life. This is a blog devoted to my writing, so let it be known that I love, love, love to write. Getting a boring writing assignment is like when a teacher is reading her favorite student's Homeric simile, and I'm talking about the student who always brings her the shiniest, reddest apple, and then an evil Communist lord takes the Homeric simile and burns the page in front of the teacher's face for sheer cruelty's pleasure.
It's horrrrrrrrible.
I'm a sophomore now.
(Where is the second 'o' in sophomore? >.<)
In Greek, the word is 'sophizesthai', which means, ‘devise' or 'become wise.’
Become wise by being bored?
I won't go into details, but some of my assignments that I'm doing in Grade 10, I was doing in Grade 1.
And I skipped Kindergarden, guys.
Do you get what this meeeaaans??? I'M DOING KINDERGARDEN WORK.
(McDonald's theme plays - ba dah ba ba baaah, I'm luvin' it.)
But as sad sadness as it is and as much as I hate to say this, the title of this post applies to me and to you, reader, whenever we get suckishly easy writing assignments.
If you don't like it, then do it.
One of the reasons why I love writing so much is because I often overlook its hard work despite the fact that hard work does exist in the life of any author. Unfortunately, like with all things, practice is necessary. There are some areas, like written story analyses, where I need to do more reps until I'm can do them in half a minute instead of a minute; you get where I'm coming from?
...
Aggghhh...this isn't helping.
Let's just put this down to a Clove-is-being-geeky-again-because-she'stired-of-getting-her-week's-Literature-homework-done-in-half-an-hour case.
...
*sighs dramatically*
As I myself write onwards with insanely sad assignments, I challenge you, fellow author, to pick up hard (*coughBORINGcough*) writing assignments, may it be description paragraphs, smooth dialogue, or poetry. (*coughcough* Yes, you know who you are. ;))
And as that sports company says:
JUST DO IT.
Write on!
Clove
9.03.2013
Story Album
One of the best things about writing a story is that, in your head as your write it, it sort of evolves into a movie. For me, if my book ever became a movie--yeah, yeah, have your laugh--I'd know exactly what my characters' actors would have to look like, specifically how they'd have to act, and precisely the genre of music I'd want to go with each scene. ^.^ It makes me happy just thinking about it.
As it is, my book isn't even finished, nonetheless published or famous enough to be made into a movie.
Wishful thinking. ;)
However, as I've been writing, I guess I've been unconsciously gathering a list of songs that fit for my story/movie. I decided I'd compile them, then decided I'd post them, so...
(Just so you don't have to go back to my outline and look up every scene and its context, I've provided the song title, then a brief description. :P)
Here they are:
Doomsday by Globus
I featured this song in an earlier post, but I'm posting it here again because it works very well.
Basically, what happened is Hyn, an assassin who is a friend of Patrya, took a duel challenge. The rules were - if he won the duel, he would have claim to an army of mercenaries which he would utilize for Patrya's sake. (She needs the army to take revenge on Syne, the main antagonist.) If he lost, he'd be dead.
Well.
Big epic fight, then he dies moments before his dueling partner dies of blood-loss.
After many tears are shed by the people he left behind, Hyn is later chemically resurrected and goes back to take claim of his army of mercenaries with my three main protagonists (Patrya, Pleibea, and Millis). This is that scene - it's supposed to be powerful and glorious.
Fight Inside by Red
If you're not a fan of rock, my apologies.
So this is Millis' song. It's just his song. Red wrote it (absolutely) just for him. x) If you remember, Millis is a chemically-altered human. He has the ability to utilize extra adrenaline and, at his assassins' school, has been taught to properly function under hyped adrenaline. Of course, there is also the risk of him overkilling on adrenaline and turning into a bloody war machine, which tends to happen when he's emotionally distraught. Thus...
"And it finds me
The fight inside is coursing through my veins
And it's raging
The fight inside is breaking me again."
Reconnect by Aura Dione
This song is for Patrya to Hyn. They're lovebirds, those two, and since Patrya is the one who asks Hyn to take up the duel, when he dies, she carries the full guilt (in her mind) and continually hates herself for killing the male she loved. When he's resurrected, he has to teach her the idea of "unconditional love", tying that also into the theme that "not even the grave can hold back 'true love'".
"We reconnect, we’re resurrected
Healing’s on the way
We’re almost home
It still hurts, but it ain’t over
We re-collide, and somehow I feel
We might be here to stay
This is a lost love ready for come back
We reconnect."
White Owl by Josh Garrels (ft. Mason Jar)
Pleibea, a main protagonist and the slave girl, with some of her friends and her brother, eventually decides to risk escaping her slave camp (through a series of events that differs from what I wrote in the outline). As they escape, one her mentors, an older male who played father for her (as she doesn't have one), is killed. This is his song to her.
I chose this one because it holds a lot of natural elements (owls, serpents, doves, wolves, moons, forgotten paths), which is basically her life as she escapes the safety of her slave camp and enters the mutated wildlife.
(On another note, any Christians out there? Go here. Listen to Rise and be encouraged! ;))
Here to Stay by Lenka
Let's just all be clear - I listened to Lenka BEFORE the Disney commercial ever came out, okay? (If you know what I'm talking about, you do. If you don't, you don't. :P)
This is another of Patrya's songs. Syne, my malicious malefactor, basically takes her parents' lives and her home, forcing her to run from him to another country. This song is towards the end of the story when she comes back with Hyn's army, defeats said antagonist, and is just...well, there to stay. ;)
The Howling by Within Temptation
And finally, there's the group anthem. x) This is the good-guy smirking at bad-guy song, and it works for any adventure novel, but I'm using it for mine.
So there. :D
"We've been seeing what you wanted, got us cornered right now
Fallen asleep from our vanity, might cost us our lives
I hear they're getting closer
Their howls are sending chills down my spine
And time is running out now
They're coming down the hills from behind
When we start killing
It's all coming down right now
From the nightmare we've created,
I want to be awakened somehow."
Write on! ...and listen too... :)
Clove
P.S. Did anyone notice I accidentally named Patrya "Patrya Starr"? As in Patrick Star from Spongebob? Ughhh...I have no idea how that got in my head. x) I won't be changing her first name, just her last. But do you all have any new last name ideas?
P.P.S. I don't own any of these songs. They all belong to their proper producers and artists, and let's just say I posted them for promotional purposes. Buy them. They're good songs. :P
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