My nieces moved to Texas just before I came up to school. I wanted to write them an arizonan Lullabye, but I couldn't quite get it right. Here is what I have. If anyone has thoughts...Help!
Oh desert child, the lonesome flower,
blooming like the stars up above
chereish these, the midnight hour.
It sings to you with love.
Warm winds blow the rain to you
and fill the desert with it's song
and sweet like sounds of deseret
It will keep you all night long.
Oh desert flower, oh precious little one
born to an endless sky,
The colors of the western sun
willsing to you a lullaby.
The cricketts and the citrus tress
the honey suckle vine
the creotes and all their melodies
all of these things are thine.
So child then rest easily
in your little room.
All treasures there are meant for thee
Sweet little desert bloom.
Friday, December 7, 2007
A brief thought on the world
I think I was in one of those meloncholy moods when I wrote this. It wouldn't surprise me, but here is a poetic thought on the world.
Anyone whoever said silliness and poppycock never changed the world has obviously never cried. They have never had a good day, they have never been in a good mood and have obviously never been a child. Silliness does a great deal to change the world. It makes the serious moments what they are and brings to light a startling perspective on our world. Too much of one or the other is just that, too much. Take a moment in your day to just be odd and have fun. In fact, take several. Without solemnity there is no laughter. The same rule applies in reverse.
Anyone whoever said silliness and poppycock never changed the world has obviously never cried. They have never had a good day, they have never been in a good mood and have obviously never been a child. Silliness does a great deal to change the world. It makes the serious moments what they are and brings to light a startling perspective on our world. Too much of one or the other is just that, too much. Take a moment in your day to just be odd and have fun. In fact, take several. Without solemnity there is no laughter. The same rule applies in reverse.
I Am
This is a piece that floated up to my brain a little while back. It's really experimental, so I'm not sure about it. It's all about being remembered and remembering others.
There are two types of moments in this world. The kind that you remember, and the kind that you forget. Now, you can sub categorize these areas all you like. You can say there are the good moments, the bad moments, the odd moments, the moments that really don’t mean anything, and the moments that you try to forget. But when it comes down to it, there are still only two types of moments.
The kind you remember.
The kind you forget.
And with these moments there are three ways to live.
With the kind you remember.
Without the kind you forget.
And someplace in between.
You might think that these all lead to the same solution. Of course you have what you remember, and everyone forgets. Don’t we already live in between? But consider, every moment of everyday has an influence on us. Our minds, our souls and especially our bodies are subjective to the time that we pass in existence.
The average person lives somewhere between the good and bad experiences, disregarding the parts they don’t remember, and always looking to the future.
But, what if there were someone who’s life existed solely in moments. Other people’s moments, other people’s memories. Slipping in and out of the conscious mind. What if that person were you? Your future, depending on someone else’s past. Who would you be, to be created tomorrow. What would you say to go into the next day? What would you do…to stay remembered?
Steven was no one. He wasn’t not, and he wasn’t someone. He wasn’t that guy over there or Joe somebody, or even John Doe. In point of fact, Steven was indeed no one. That is, Steven was no one, until he met Tillie. Then he became a someone. In point of fact, Steven became someone. Steven became Steven.
Tillie, is a nine year old girl with long blonde hair and great big blue eyes. Her favorite outfit is a pink sweater with a large sparkly kitty and butterfly print pants from one of those sweater set outfits parents make their children wear. It was perfect to wear on a crisp, clear blue sky day.
We do not know what Steven’s favorite outfit was, because until that time, Steven simply did not exist. As we all know, finding a favorite outfit takes time. You cannot expect a person to exist at one moment and decide their favorite outfit in the next. That would be unreasonable.
Tillie met Steven at precisely 11:02 am on a Saturday afternoon in September at a park in Seattle. Near the swing set, across from the teeter totters and catty corner to the merry-go-round. This was of course no where near the jungle gym. Tillie does not like the jungle gym. She swallowed her gum there after stubbing her toe. Tillie would never have met Stephen by the jungle gym; she simply would not have allowed it.
At 11:01 Tillie decided that she wanted to meet a new friend. She wanted his name to be Steven. So right that next moment, at 11:02 am precisely, she did. Tillie and Steven shook hand. “I’m Tillie,” she said.
“I’m Steven,” said Steven.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Tillie.
“Likewise,” said Steven.
By the time this conversation had passed, it was 11:03 am. At 11:03 am, Steven realized he had entered the world. That’s where all the trouble began.
There are two types of moments in this world. The kind that you remember, and the kind that you forget. Now, you can sub categorize these areas all you like. You can say there are the good moments, the bad moments, the odd moments, the moments that really don’t mean anything, and the moments that you try to forget. But when it comes down to it, there are still only two types of moments.
The kind you remember.
The kind you forget.
And with these moments there are three ways to live.
With the kind you remember.
Without the kind you forget.
And someplace in between.
You might think that these all lead to the same solution. Of course you have what you remember, and everyone forgets. Don’t we already live in between? But consider, every moment of everyday has an influence on us. Our minds, our souls and especially our bodies are subjective to the time that we pass in existence.
The average person lives somewhere between the good and bad experiences, disregarding the parts they don’t remember, and always looking to the future.
But, what if there were someone who’s life existed solely in moments. Other people’s moments, other people’s memories. Slipping in and out of the conscious mind. What if that person were you? Your future, depending on someone else’s past. Who would you be, to be created tomorrow. What would you say to go into the next day? What would you do…to stay remembered?
Steven was no one. He wasn’t not, and he wasn’t someone. He wasn’t that guy over there or Joe somebody, or even John Doe. In point of fact, Steven was indeed no one. That is, Steven was no one, until he met Tillie. Then he became a someone. In point of fact, Steven became someone. Steven became Steven.
Tillie, is a nine year old girl with long blonde hair and great big blue eyes. Her favorite outfit is a pink sweater with a large sparkly kitty and butterfly print pants from one of those sweater set outfits parents make their children wear. It was perfect to wear on a crisp, clear blue sky day.
We do not know what Steven’s favorite outfit was, because until that time, Steven simply did not exist. As we all know, finding a favorite outfit takes time. You cannot expect a person to exist at one moment and decide their favorite outfit in the next. That would be unreasonable.
Tillie met Steven at precisely 11:02 am on a Saturday afternoon in September at a park in Seattle. Near the swing set, across from the teeter totters and catty corner to the merry-go-round. This was of course no where near the jungle gym. Tillie does not like the jungle gym. She swallowed her gum there after stubbing her toe. Tillie would never have met Stephen by the jungle gym; she simply would not have allowed it.
At 11:01 Tillie decided that she wanted to meet a new friend. She wanted his name to be Steven. So right that next moment, at 11:02 am precisely, she did. Tillie and Steven shook hand. “I’m Tillie,” she said.
“I’m Steven,” said Steven.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Tillie.
“Likewise,” said Steven.
By the time this conversation had passed, it was 11:03 am. At 11:03 am, Steven realized he had entered the world. That’s where all the trouble began.
What Women Really Want 2
So, I already posted this essay, but I recently revised it and I thought that it was different enough that it deserved a second post. I focussed a lot more on Jane Austen and her affect on out lives. Enjoy.
WHAT WOMEN REALLY WANT
Every woman has a dream man.
Let me rephrase that. Every straight woman has a dream man. Whether they are willing to admit it or not, in the deep recesses of the mind where all fantasies live, each woman has created their perfect guy.
It’s a rather humiliating thing to admit, one’s dream man. But, let’s fact it, we’ve all got one. And every reasonable woman has had one, wives, Mothers, and sisters alike. The dream man changes with time and may vary from girl to girl, but he’s always there.
Being in college, I have had a lot of encounters of hearing women’s requests in a man. Perhaps I should market my experience and make a fortune selling these ideas on the internet to lonely young men. It wouldn’t be hard because we all want the same three things: Personality, looks, and security.
Almost every girl I have spoken to wants a man with a great sense of humor and a romantic streak. Most want good looks and big arms. Lots of girls are very big into eyes, windows to the soul and all. Money and good health are very important. As my roommate puts it: It goes back to cavemen times when you wanted a man who could bring down a mastodon.
This same roommate also introduced me to the very entertaining game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff.” In this game the participating girls are given three choices in men. For instance, Princes from Disney films. Take Prince Phillip from Sleeping Beauty, Prince Charming from Cinderella, and Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid. The girls would then have to decide who they would marry, who they would kiss and who they would push off of a cliff. Hence the name of the game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff”. Charming, no?
But what’s most fun about the game is not who they pick, so much as why. Every girl has a different reason. I’d marry Prince Eric and push Prince Charming. My roommate would also marry Eric, but for her, Phillip would have to go.
It was through many rounds of this game that I started to see a trend among the single, female, part of the species: Sensitivity, security, and sex appeal are a must. My recipe is a prime example of this. It took some thought to discover all of the appropriate ingredients. Take one part Robin Hood, one part Mr. Knightley, and one part MacGyver. Add a little JD Dorian, a heaping helping of Daniel Jackson and a dash of Han Solo, for flavor. That’s right; my fictional man is comprised completely of fictional men. Surprise, surprise.
I dream of a man who can teach me skills, has a sense of humor, and is fun to argue with. He would be appropriately sensitive, intelligent, knowledgeable, clever, British if he can possibly help it (accents are hot), and handy to have around in a tough situation. On top of all this he should be able to sing, ballroom dance, own a really nice long coat, and be able to gain the approval of my brothers. Meaning he’ll have to like sports and have impeccable taste in movies. And he must be willing to tell me that I am a wonderful, worthwhile individual.
No wonder I’m single.
I was told about a t-shirt being sold at a Jane Austen fan website. The shirt said “I blame Jane, and I’m sure she blames herself”. Meaning, it’s her fault that we are expecting a Mr. Darcy to turn up. As most girls know, Jane Austen created some of the very best fantasy men of all time. Every time Pride and Prejudice is watched in our household, it takes days to get out of the “lack of regency hero” slump.
Our favorite rounds of “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff” often have to do with Austen men. “Who would you pick? 6 hour Mr. Darcy, Book Mr. Darcy, or Mr. Darcy from the new movie?” one of us will ask. We all choose. But it’s funny; we can’t seem to throw a Darcy off a cliff without providing a way for him to be fine. “I’ll throw new Darcy off the cliff, but it’s okay, there’s a giant pillow there.”
We have divvied up the different characters, just in case realities cross and Mr. Knightley and Mr. Darcy should show up on our door step. About half of us would choose Knightley, and the other half of us would choose Darcy. If, you know, for some reason or another we had a choice. None of us would object to a Mr. Bingley.
“Where are the Darcys?” we cry. “I’ve had my fill of all the Collins and Wickhams!” To be fair, when you start noticing that the villains in your own life have a stinking resemblance to those you’ve watched and read about, how can one help hoping that a Bingley or a Darcy will come along?
But, we can’t blame fiction for all our fantasy woes. When it comes down to it, women spend a lot of time dreaming about their fantasy man. We know what we want. When it comes to that, we’ve got ideas in spades.
Reality check! Perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when you’re lacking perfection yourself. We should be looking for what’s right for us, not the ideal of all womankind. I could go into a deep philosophical discussion about how finding the perfect man is about becoming perfect and valuing the qualities within ourselves but, I’ll forgo that dialogue for now.
Instead I will say this: If we spend our lives looking for perfection, we aren’t going to find it. I’m not saying that we should stop dreaming, and I’m certainly not saying that we should settle. But we don’t have to find Mr. Darcy to be perfectly content, even blissful, at times. If we look for what feels right- in any situation- we are going to be happy.
Men aren’t perfect; That’s what makes them men. Women aren’t perfect; that is what makes them think they are going to find that perfect man. When it comes down to it, we are all just people.
Fantasies provide a valuable service and they shouldn’t be looked down upon. They give hope in times of loneliness and teach us what qualities we most value. The problem comes when we can’t step outside of them. Really the search for the perfect man should be the quest for perfect love. Perfection doesn’t exist. But love does. And, I hear, when everything works out, every person has the chance to become someone’s fantasy.
Until that time comes though, I am perfectly happy to dream the dream with the glad hope of waking to a more worthwhile reality. So, to Jane and all the other dreamers out there, I say: here’s to you.
WHAT WOMEN REALLY WANT
Every woman has a dream man.
Let me rephrase that. Every straight woman has a dream man. Whether they are willing to admit it or not, in the deep recesses of the mind where all fantasies live, each woman has created their perfect guy.
It’s a rather humiliating thing to admit, one’s dream man. But, let’s fact it, we’ve all got one. And every reasonable woman has had one, wives, Mothers, and sisters alike. The dream man changes with time and may vary from girl to girl, but he’s always there.
Being in college, I have had a lot of encounters of hearing women’s requests in a man. Perhaps I should market my experience and make a fortune selling these ideas on the internet to lonely young men. It wouldn’t be hard because we all want the same three things: Personality, looks, and security.
Almost every girl I have spoken to wants a man with a great sense of humor and a romantic streak. Most want good looks and big arms. Lots of girls are very big into eyes, windows to the soul and all. Money and good health are very important. As my roommate puts it: It goes back to cavemen times when you wanted a man who could bring down a mastodon.
This same roommate also introduced me to the very entertaining game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff.” In this game the participating girls are given three choices in men. For instance, Princes from Disney films. Take Prince Phillip from Sleeping Beauty, Prince Charming from Cinderella, and Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid. The girls would then have to decide who they would marry, who they would kiss and who they would push off of a cliff. Hence the name of the game “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff”. Charming, no?
But what’s most fun about the game is not who they pick, so much as why. Every girl has a different reason. I’d marry Prince Eric and push Prince Charming. My roommate would also marry Eric, but for her, Phillip would have to go.
It was through many rounds of this game that I started to see a trend among the single, female, part of the species: Sensitivity, security, and sex appeal are a must. My recipe is a prime example of this. It took some thought to discover all of the appropriate ingredients. Take one part Robin Hood, one part Mr. Knightley, and one part MacGyver. Add a little JD Dorian, a heaping helping of Daniel Jackson and a dash of Han Solo, for flavor. That’s right; my fictional man is comprised completely of fictional men. Surprise, surprise.
I dream of a man who can teach me skills, has a sense of humor, and is fun to argue with. He would be appropriately sensitive, intelligent, knowledgeable, clever, British if he can possibly help it (accents are hot), and handy to have around in a tough situation. On top of all this he should be able to sing, ballroom dance, own a really nice long coat, and be able to gain the approval of my brothers. Meaning he’ll have to like sports and have impeccable taste in movies. And he must be willing to tell me that I am a wonderful, worthwhile individual.
No wonder I’m single.
I was told about a t-shirt being sold at a Jane Austen fan website. The shirt said “I blame Jane, and I’m sure she blames herself”. Meaning, it’s her fault that we are expecting a Mr. Darcy to turn up. As most girls know, Jane Austen created some of the very best fantasy men of all time. Every time Pride and Prejudice is watched in our household, it takes days to get out of the “lack of regency hero” slump.
Our favorite rounds of “Marry, Kiss, Push off a Cliff” often have to do with Austen men. “Who would you pick? 6 hour Mr. Darcy, Book Mr. Darcy, or Mr. Darcy from the new movie?” one of us will ask. We all choose. But it’s funny; we can’t seem to throw a Darcy off a cliff without providing a way for him to be fine. “I’ll throw new Darcy off the cliff, but it’s okay, there’s a giant pillow there.”
We have divvied up the different characters, just in case realities cross and Mr. Knightley and Mr. Darcy should show up on our door step. About half of us would choose Knightley, and the other half of us would choose Darcy. If, you know, for some reason or another we had a choice. None of us would object to a Mr. Bingley.
“Where are the Darcys?” we cry. “I’ve had my fill of all the Collins and Wickhams!” To be fair, when you start noticing that the villains in your own life have a stinking resemblance to those you’ve watched and read about, how can one help hoping that a Bingley or a Darcy will come along?
But, we can’t blame fiction for all our fantasy woes. When it comes down to it, women spend a lot of time dreaming about their fantasy man. We know what we want. When it comes to that, we’ve got ideas in spades.
Reality check! Perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when you’re lacking perfection yourself. We should be looking for what’s right for us, not the ideal of all womankind. I could go into a deep philosophical discussion about how finding the perfect man is about becoming perfect and valuing the qualities within ourselves but, I’ll forgo that dialogue for now.
Instead I will say this: If we spend our lives looking for perfection, we aren’t going to find it. I’m not saying that we should stop dreaming, and I’m certainly not saying that we should settle. But we don’t have to find Mr. Darcy to be perfectly content, even blissful, at times. If we look for what feels right- in any situation- we are going to be happy.
Men aren’t perfect; That’s what makes them men. Women aren’t perfect; that is what makes them think they are going to find that perfect man. When it comes down to it, we are all just people.
Fantasies provide a valuable service and they shouldn’t be looked down upon. They give hope in times of loneliness and teach us what qualities we most value. The problem comes when we can’t step outside of them. Really the search for the perfect man should be the quest for perfect love. Perfection doesn’t exist. But love does. And, I hear, when everything works out, every person has the chance to become someone’s fantasy.
Until that time comes though, I am perfectly happy to dream the dream with the glad hope of waking to a more worthwhile reality. So, to Jane and all the other dreamers out there, I say: here’s to you.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Nano section
Alright, so, I really didn't want to post any of my Novel until it was finished, but I've been working on this scene that I'm just not sure how to end. Maybe seeing it in a different medium will help me. Also, I'm just not quite sure how to do this. I want to have dialogue between people who are having a conversation and people who are eeves dropping at the same time. So this is it.
Sargeant Sacker was suddenly aware of himself. He felt a little spacy. He blinked and looked around the parkinglit. It was deserted. Had something happened? Sacker didn’t recall any trouble. He shook his head, trying to clear it deciding he must have spaced off. It wasn’t surprising, everything considered. It was, after all, getting hard to keep track of everything.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Adine said. “Quiet, we need to listed.”
Stone sat in the back seat of the spy’s car. Blue Mage and Adine sat in the front. Blue Mage was listening with Sacker’s right ear, and Adine his left.
They heared Sacker’s footsteps going down the hallway.
Eventually they heard the sound of a door opening.
“You’re late,” a voice said.
Blue Mage perked up.
“That’s Scalopus,” he mouthed. Adine nodded and they continued to listen. Sacker continued speaking.
“Yes, sorry about that. It seems to be one of those days. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Sure,” said Scalopus distastefully. “And lets do so as fast as possible.” There was clearly no love lost between the two men.
“So, what’s the buzz?” Sacker asked.
“We appear to be running into a lot of problems. Most of which are coming from your little private-eye, Miss Quinn,” he said with a sneer.
“I thought that Tyr had taken care of that.”
“She’s alive. One of my agents kept rescuing her. And it’s a good thing too. We need her alive. She has Ingraham’s object.”
“What? She looked my right in the eye and lied. I should have known.”
“No, she didn’t even know she had it,” Scalopus said. “It was in the mail.”
“We didn’t check her mail?” Sacker asked.
“We couldn’t get into the mailbox without causing a much larger scene than was necessary. Her doorman is very attentive. It would have turned attention on Charlotte Quinn herself, not just the case she was working on. She’s a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she’s good at her job. People who are good at their job are usually a lot of trouble.”
“Like I said, it’s a good thing that Tyr didn’t kill her. Ingraham’s object only works when it is freely given.”
“Well, Charlotte’s not likely to do that,” Sacker said. “Charlotte is an unearthly kind of stubborn.”
“We’ll find a way to convince her.” Scalopus sounded confident. “We can’t do away with Charlotte Quinn, but we can eliminate some other of our problems.”
“Like what?”
“More of a who.”“One of my agents has been giving me trouble.
Sargeant Sacker was suddenly aware of himself. He felt a little spacy. He blinked and looked around the parkinglit. It was deserted. Had something happened? Sacker didn’t recall any trouble. He shook his head, trying to clear it deciding he must have spaced off. It wasn’t surprising, everything considered. It was, after all, getting hard to keep track of everything.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Adine said. “Quiet, we need to listed.”
Stone sat in the back seat of the spy’s car. Blue Mage and Adine sat in the front. Blue Mage was listening with Sacker’s right ear, and Adine his left.
They heared Sacker’s footsteps going down the hallway.
Eventually they heard the sound of a door opening.
“You’re late,” a voice said.
Blue Mage perked up.
“That’s Scalopus,” he mouthed. Adine nodded and they continued to listen. Sacker continued speaking.
“Yes, sorry about that. It seems to be one of those days. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Sure,” said Scalopus distastefully. “And lets do so as fast as possible.” There was clearly no love lost between the two men.
“So, what’s the buzz?” Sacker asked.
“We appear to be running into a lot of problems. Most of which are coming from your little private-eye, Miss Quinn,” he said with a sneer.
“I thought that Tyr had taken care of that.”
“She’s alive. One of my agents kept rescuing her. And it’s a good thing too. We need her alive. She has Ingraham’s object.”
“What? She looked my right in the eye and lied. I should have known.”
“No, she didn’t even know she had it,” Scalopus said. “It was in the mail.”
“We didn’t check her mail?” Sacker asked.
“We couldn’t get into the mailbox without causing a much larger scene than was necessary. Her doorman is very attentive. It would have turned attention on Charlotte Quinn herself, not just the case she was working on. She’s a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she’s good at her job. People who are good at their job are usually a lot of trouble.”
“Like I said, it’s a good thing that Tyr didn’t kill her. Ingraham’s object only works when it is freely given.”
“Well, Charlotte’s not likely to do that,” Sacker said. “Charlotte is an unearthly kind of stubborn.”
“We’ll find a way to convince her.” Scalopus sounded confident. “We can’t do away with Charlotte Quinn, but we can eliminate some other of our problems.”
“Like what?”
“More of a who.”“One of my agents has been giving me trouble.
Water Flowing Through my Hands
I wrote this in church. I like to keep a notebook with me when I go places.
WATER FLOWING THROUGH MY HANDS
Water flowing through my hands
like sunlight through the rain
Quenching thirst of heart sore lands
and leaving fruit and gain.
If I could move the waterfalls
To spill their glory springing
I’d change the sound that too men calls
And bring the light to ringing.
I am no sure of who I am
At times throughout the day
But I know that through the lamb
My life won’t fade away.
I cannot make the flowing water,
I cannot beam the sun
But I know that I am a daughter
Of God the holy one.
I cannot move the mountains
But I can walk upon this land
And let my lips be fountains
And be the great Lord’s hand.
My God sent a redeemer
To save the light in me
And be you man or dreamer
The Lord can live in thee.
Let my lips, Lord, speak the word
Let sunlight fill my eyes
So all who know me will have heard
Men can live after he dies.
WATER FLOWING THROUGH MY HANDS
Water flowing through my hands
like sunlight through the rain
Quenching thirst of heart sore lands
and leaving fruit and gain.
If I could move the waterfalls
To spill their glory springing
I’d change the sound that too men calls
And bring the light to ringing.
I am no sure of who I am
At times throughout the day
But I know that through the lamb
My life won’t fade away.
I cannot make the flowing water,
I cannot beam the sun
But I know that I am a daughter
Of God the holy one.
I cannot move the mountains
But I can walk upon this land
And let my lips be fountains
And be the great Lord’s hand.
My God sent a redeemer
To save the light in me
And be you man or dreamer
The Lord can live in thee.
Let my lips, Lord, speak the word
Let sunlight fill my eyes
So all who know me will have heard
Men can live after he dies.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
CYOA
There are a few of us who really enjoy that 80's movie. So, I thought it would be fun trying to write a Labyrinth Choose your Own Adventure. It's actually really hard. A lot harder than I thought it would be. So, that's one of the things I've worked on this semester. Here's what I have so far.
The Labyrinth
Choose your own adventure
Your name is Sarah; you are an intelligent, imaginative young girl who has great potential. One day, you and your dog Merlin are at a near by park. You have been acting out scenes from your favorite book, the Labyrinth. You are wearing a princess dress and a garland of flowers in your hair. You do not notice the owl sitting near by, watching you.
“Give me the child,” you say, speaking to an imaginary goblin king. “Through dangers untold and hardships unmeasured, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the goblin city to take back the child that you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom is as great!”
There is a crash of thunder that momentarily distracts you. “For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom as great,” you say to yourself, trying to remember the next line. You can’t seem to remember it. Finally you give up and check your book.
“You have no power over me,” you say, feeling rather foolish for not remembering. While you are cursing your faulty memory, a clock chimes. You realize that it is seven o’clock and that you are late getting home. As it starts to rain, you run though the town with your dress hiked up, exposing the jeans you have underneath.
When you arrive home your step mother scolds you for being late. You are upset because she always makes you stay home and watch the baby. Feeling frustrated and unappreciated, you run to your room and try to forget your sorrows in the realm of fantasy. A tactic that doesn’t work for long because your father, who supposedly wanted to talk to you, tells you that they are leaving and never resolves the problem. As soon as they leave, the baby starts crying. You realize that someone has taken one of your teddy bears.
You rush into the baby’s room. Somebody has given your teddy bear to Toby, your baby brother. You grow extremely resentful to the child. So, you try making yourself feel better by telling him a story about a young girl whose step mother always makes her stay home with the baby. You explain that they king of the goblins has fallen in love with the girl, and at any time she could wish the child away. The goblin king will take the baby and keep him forever, and turn him into a goblin. Since the young girl knows that this is wrong, she suffers in silence.
“Finally, after a long day of housework, when she was hurt by the harsh words of her step mother and she could no longer stand it…”
The story isn’t helping. Toby, your baby brother, cries even louder.
“Stop it, stop it!” you say. “I’ll say the words. No. No, I mustn’t say…I wish…I wish. Oh goblin King, oh goblin king, where ever you may be, take this child of mine far away from me.”
You are slightly disappointed as you realize that this approach doesn’t work. You lie the screaming baby down and turn out the light.
As you are leaving the room you say “I wish…”
What do you do?
If you choose to finish the sentence “I wish you wouldn’t cry so much” turn to page (fill in number here)
If you choose to finish the sentence “I wish the goblins would come take you away. Right now.” Turn to page #
“I wish you wouldn’t cry so much,” you say and leave the room. You go into your bedroom and sulk. You never have the magical you’ve always wished for, you never come to realize the love you have for your brother and you are very unhappy until you graduate and move away to college. You didn’t even make it to the labyrinth. How sad. The End
“I wish the goblins would come take you away. Right now.” As you leave the room, you realize that Toby has stopped crying very suddenly. Feeling extremely alarmed you go back into the room. The light switch isn’t working. You approach Toby’s bed. When you get there you realize that he’s gone!
You were unaware that the goblins had actually been listening to your request. As you are standing in the dark room, surrounded by goblins, an owl flies to the window. Finally, it bursts through the window. In a burst of glitter the owl transforms into an oddly dressed man.
You know exactly who he is. “You’re him aren’t you? You’re the goblin king.”
The goblin king just smiles at you.
“Where is he?” you ask him.
“You know very well where he is,” Jareth, the goblin king responds.
“Please, let me have him back.” You plead.
“What’s said is said,” Jareth replies.
“But I didn’t mean it.” You protest.
“Didn’t you?” Jareth says knowingly.
You didn’t mean it…mostly.
Jareth tries to distract you from your worries about your baby brother by offering you a gift.
“Look Sarah,” he says, “I’ve brought you a present.” A clear orb appears in his hands and he rolls it over his fingertips.
“What is it?” you ask.
“It’s a crystal, nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams. But this is not an ordinary gift, for an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby. Do you want it?” He can see that you do. “Than forget about the baby.
What do you do?
If you decide to take the gift and forget about the baby, turn to page #
If you decide not to take the present and decide to pursue inquiries about your brother, turn to page #
“Will he be well taken care of?” you ask as you eye the crystal.
Jareth smiles and nods.
You hold out your hands to accept the gift. He places it into your hands. “Thank you,” you say. He is still smiling, but you can see the look of great disappointment in his eyes. Apparently you weren’t the girl he thought you were. You were no challenge at all.
He leaves and you go back to your room. You are totally fascinated by the crystal. You can’t seem to look away from it. All of those dreams! When your father and your step mother arrive home, you are still staring at the crystal. When they ask you what happened to the baby, you can give no satisfactory answer. You tell them a strange man took the child. You don’t know who he is, or where he went. But you can’t look away from the crystal.
They have you committed to a mental institution where you and your crystal spend the rest of your days. You are very hollow, but don’t seem to notice.
You didn’t even make it to the labyrinth, and proved to be a sort of awful person. Shame on you. No wonder they locked you up. The End.
You like the gift, but you will not be distracted!
“But I have to have my brother back!” you tell him, frustrated.
“Sarah,” he tells you, “don’t defy me.” The crystal in his hands turns to a snake. He throws it at you. You gasp as the writhing snake turns into a mess of scarves and then into a goblin. “You’re no match for me Sarah.”
“I have to have my brother back,” you say again. “Where is he?”
“He’s there?” says Jareth, pointing out the window. Instead of your neighbor hood you see the labyrinth.
“Is that the castle beyond the goblin city?” you ask. You are suddenly on a hill overlooking the labyrinth.
“Turn back Sarah,” he says very dramatically. “Turn back before it’s too late.”
What do you do?
If you decide that you want to turn back, turn to page #
If you decide to brave the labyrinth, turn to page #
“I can’t turn back,” you say, rather dismayed. You don’t think that you can actually finish the labyrinth. And you’re not really sure it’s worth the effort of trying.
“Such a pity,” he says.
“No, I mean really, I can’t turn back. You took me out of my house. I don’t know where I am.”
“You really want to turn back?” he asks, somewhat surprised.
“Yes, please,” you nod.
He sighs. “Now that really is a pity.” He waves his hand and Toby’s bedroom reappears.
You walk back into the room.
“Good bye Sarah,” he says, and your dream world disappears.
You go and find the phone and call the police, telling them that your baby brother is missing. You go downstairs and unlock the back door so you can say that you accidentally left it unlocked. You tell the police you fell asleep on your bed and when you went to check on the baby, he was gone.
No one ever finds out what really happens, but for the rest of your life you have to live with the guilt of giving up your baby brother. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. You deserve to feel awful. You could have had it all, and now you get nothing.
Then End.
“I can’t,” you say. “Don’t you see that I can’t?”
“What a pity,” he says with a shake of his head, though clearly he’s pleased.
“It doesn’t look that far.”
“It’s further than you think,” he says, coming very close to you. He then brushes past you and points to a very odd clock. “You have thirteen hours in which to solve the labyrinth before your baby brother becomes one of us forever.” And then he disappeared.
“The Labyrinth. Well, come on feet,” you say, and start your journey.
As you reach the outer perimeter of the Labyrinth you see a dwarf.
What do you do?
If you decide to ignore the Dwarf and try to get into the labyrinth by yourself, turn to page #
If you ask the dwarf for help turn to page #
You see the dwarf, but ignore him. He seems like an unpleasant fellow. He keeps spraying cute little fairy things. You wander away from him. As you continue to walk around the perimeter, you realize you don’t know how to get in. When you finally give up and try to find the dwarf again, he is gone. You just don’t know what to do. Finally in frustration you yell out:
“How do I get into this labyrinth?”
One of those little fairies that you had seen previously, lands on your nose and points to the outer wall, and suddenly it becomes a door. The fairy then kicks you and flies off. You had no idea that fairies were so mean!
You approach the door and as you get through you see two long walkways stretching off in either direction. The little fairy then lands on your head.
What do you do?
Do you wave it off?
Do you let is stay on your head?
You decide to ask the dwarf for help.
“Excuse me?” you say timidly.
The dwarf turns around startled. “Oh, it’s you,” he says and picks up a spray can. You realize that there are small fairies flying around the perimeter of the labyrinth. The dwarf sprays one and it falls to the ground.
“You monster!” you say as you pick the fairy up. It then proceeds to sink its teeth into you. “Ow!” you cry. “It bit me.”
“Well, sure. What did you expect fairies to do?” the dwarf asks.
“I thought fairies did nice things, like granting wishes.”
“Shows what you know,” the dwarf replies.
“You’re horrible!” you exclaim feeling hurt and embarrassed.
“No I ain’t,” the dwarf says. “I’m Hoggle. Who are you?”
“Sarah,” you reply defiantly.
“That’s what I thought,” says Hoggle the dwarf, turning away from you and resuming his work.
“Where’s the door to the labyrinth?”
“Fifty-seven!” Hoggle says as he takes down another fairy.
“I said: where is it?” you say, put out by his rudeness.
“Where is what?” Hoggle says as he squirts another fairy.
“The door! It’s pointless asking you anything.” You are feeling rather frustrated at this point. You only have thirteen hours. Less than that now. What a waste of time.
“Not if you ask the right questions,” Hoggle responds.
“How do I get into the labyrinth?” you ask.
“Ah,” says Hoggle, stopping in his tracks. “You gets in through there.” He points very dramatically and a door appears in the wall. You go through and look down both ways. The path seems to stretch on forever in both ways.
“Cozy, isn’t it?” says Hoggle, sneaking up behind you. “Now, would you go left or right.”
“They both look the same,” you say becoming rather concerned.
“Well, you’re not going to get far,” Hoggle scoffs.
“Which way would you go?” you ask, hoping he’ll be of some help.
“Me? I wouldn’t go either way.”
Annoyed with his rudeness and his unpleasant attitude you tell him off.
“If that’s all the help you’re going to be, you can just leave!”
“You know what your problem is,” Hoggle says, pointing a gnarled finger at you, “You take too many things for granted. Take this labyrinth for instance. Even if you get through, you’ll never get out again.”
“That’s your opinion,” you say with more confidence now that you’re actually inside.
“Well it’s a lot better than yours!”
“Thanks for nothing Hogwart,” you say, misremembering his name.
“Oh, it’s Hog-GLE and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He storms out of the labyrinth and the doors close behind him.
What do you do?
If you go right, turn to page #
If you go left, turn to page #
You decide the wave the fairy off of your head. It is apparently just a nuisance. It flies back out the entrance and the doors close behind it. Now you have to make a choice.
What do you do?
If you go left, turn to page #
If you go right, turn to page #
You let the fairy stay on your head. While trying to decide which way to go, the fairy pulls on your hair. After a moment, you realize that it’s not being nasty, but trying to tell you to go right.
What do you do?
Do you listen to the fairy and go right? If you do, turn to page #
If you ignore the fairy and go left turn to page #
You take a breath and decide to go right. After a time you start to get confused, and yet again, frustrated.
“What do they mean labyrinth. There aren’t any turns or anything. It just goes on and on. Or maybe it doesn’t,” you realize, remembering the words of Hoggle. “Maybe I’m just taking it for granted that it does.”
Feeling very inspired, you star running down the path. After a while you are so confused and frustrated, you slump against a nearby wall.
“’ello,” a small voice says.
You look around trying to find the source. Finally, you see a very tiny worm wearing a scarf.
“Did you just say hello?” you ask. It’s an awfully cute little thing.
“No, I said ‘ello, but that’s close enough.” It’s a very cheerful little thing.
“You’re a worm, aren’t you?
“That’s right. Come inside, meet the Mrs.”
“No thank you,” you say. “I’ve got to solve this labyrinth. You don’t know the way do you?”
“Who, me?” the worm asks. “No, I’m just a worm. Come inside, have a nice cup of tea.”
What do you do?
If you go inside for a nice cup of tea, turn to page #
If you insist that you must solve the labyrinth and continue to ask for help turn to page #
You take a breath and decide to go left. After a time you realize that there aren’t any turns or anything. It just goes on and on. Remembering the words of the dwarf Hoggle, you wonder if you’re just taking it for granted that it does. You start to run at a very quick pace. Still you see no turns or anything. While you are running, you trip on a glittering log. You try to catch yourself on the wall, but the wall isn’t really there, it’s an illusion! You fall onto the ground on the other side of the wall. You stand up and brush yourself off.
Finally, you can get somewhere.
What do you do?
If you go left turn to page #
If you go right turn to page #
You decide to take the advice of the fairy and you go right. You start your way down the glittering passageway. You start to get frustrated soon because there are no turns or anything. It just keeps going on and on! When the fairy realized that you are getting upset, he flies off of your head and disappears into one of the walls. Shocked you go over to the wall and try walking through it. You then realize that it is not a wall at all, but an illusion. The fairy it there waiting for you. It wants to go left.
What do you do?
If you go left, turn to page#
If you go right, turn to page #
You decide to ignore the fairy and go left instead. It seems very put out and yanks harder on your hair, trying to get you to go to the right.
“Ow!” you say. “Now, cut that out. You haven’t been very pleasant. Why should I listen to you?”
The fairy makes a pouting face, which you can’t see because it’s on top of your head, but it stays there, apparently willing to stick around for the ride. You start to get frustrated soon because there are no turns or anything. It just keeps going on and on! When the fairy realized that you are getting upset, he flies off of your head and disappears into one of the walls. Shocked you go over to the wall and try walking through it. You then realize that it is not a wall at all, but an illusion. The fairy it there waiting for you. You now have a choice to make; the fairy seems to have no preference.
What do you do?
If you go left, turn to page #
If you go right, turn to page #
Your nerves are very sore by now. A cup of tea might be nice.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” you tell the worm. You look at the wall a moment, very confused. “How do I get in?” you ask politely.
The worm laughs. “Oh, it’s easy enough. You see that little hole there?” he asks, indicating a little dimple in the wall.
“Yes,” you say.
“You go in through there.”
When you look at the worm dubiously, he laughs again. “Things aren’t always what they seem in this place. Try it, you’ll see what I mean. Just put your finger in that hole there. I’ll follow you.”
You aren’t very confident in this, but do so. You feel a whooshing sensation, and realize that you are inside a dark space, which must be inside that wall.
You see a darling little purple worm near a stove. You aren’t sure if you have become very small, or if the worms have become very big.
“’ello there,” says the purple worm upon seeing you. “You must be here to solve the labyrinth,” she says sweetly. “Poor dear. I imagine you’ll be needing a nice cup of tea. Go ahead and sit down.”
“Thank you,” you say, and take a seat.
“I’ve brought company dear,” says the husband worm, coming though the door.
“I can see that. So, what’s your story deary?” she asks, bringing you a cup of tea.
“How do you mean?” you ask.
“I mean, why are you wandering around the labyrinth? What’s your quest all about?”
You are rather hesitant to say, since you brought it upon yourself. “He has my baby brother,” you say, sipping the tea. It does make you feel better.
“Oh deer,” the little Mrs. Worm says. “I think you’ll be needing this then,” she says and moves over to a pendant that’s almost as big as she is. “Take this with you love,” she says, shoving the pendant towards you.
“It’s beautiful, but I can’t take that. It looks very valuable.”
“It is valuable,” says Mr. Worm. “That’s why you should take it. You never know when something like that is going to come in useful here.”
“Besides, a valuable object is only valuable so long as it will be helpful to a friend.”
You graciously accept their gift. “Thank you so very much,” you say gratefully.
They help you out the door. Once outside, you are back to your normal size. The pendant is now small enough to fit into your pocket. The worms go outside to see you off.
“I am still confused,” you say as you realize that you still don’t see any turns. “It just keeps going on, there aren’t any turns or anything.
“Of course there are!” Mr. Worm says. “There’s one just across there.”
“No there isn’t,” you protest.
“Of course there is,” Mrs. Worm says.
“Try walking through it, you’ll see what we mean.”
You doubt that there is actually an opening there, but take their advice. As you walk through what you thought was a solid wall, you realize it was just an illusion.
“Thank you,” you say, starting to the left. “That was incredibly helpful. Everything. Thank you so much.”
“Wait, don’t go that way!” Mr. Worm calls after you.
“Never go that way,” Mrs. Worm joins in.
“Oh,” you say.
What do you do?
If you take their advice and go to the right, turn to page #
If you ask why, turn to page #
You are excessively disappointed. “I’ve got to get through this labyrinth, but there aren’t any turns or openings or anything.”
“Of course there are!” the worm says, chuckling.
“Well, where are they?” you ask eagerly.
“Why, there’s one just across there.”
“No there isn’t,” you say, looking at the blank wall.
“Come on inside,” he invites you again.
“But there isn’t an opening.”
“Of course there is!” he says again. “Try walking through it, you’ll see what I mean.”
You doubt that there is actually an opening there, but take his advice. As you walk through what you thought was a solid wall, you realize it was just an illusion.
“Thank you,” you say, starting to the left. “That was incredibly helpful.”
“Wait a minute! Don’t go that way.”
“What was that?” you ask, coming back.
“I said, don’t go that way, never go that way.”
“Oh.” You respond.
What do you do?
If you take his advice and go to the right, turn to page #
If you ask why, turn to page #
The Labyrinth
Choose your own adventure
Your name is Sarah; you are an intelligent, imaginative young girl who has great potential. One day, you and your dog Merlin are at a near by park. You have been acting out scenes from your favorite book, the Labyrinth. You are wearing a princess dress and a garland of flowers in your hair. You do not notice the owl sitting near by, watching you.
“Give me the child,” you say, speaking to an imaginary goblin king. “Through dangers untold and hardships unmeasured, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the goblin city to take back the child that you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom is as great!”
There is a crash of thunder that momentarily distracts you. “For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom as great,” you say to yourself, trying to remember the next line. You can’t seem to remember it. Finally you give up and check your book.
“You have no power over me,” you say, feeling rather foolish for not remembering. While you are cursing your faulty memory, a clock chimes. You realize that it is seven o’clock and that you are late getting home. As it starts to rain, you run though the town with your dress hiked up, exposing the jeans you have underneath.
When you arrive home your step mother scolds you for being late. You are upset because she always makes you stay home and watch the baby. Feeling frustrated and unappreciated, you run to your room and try to forget your sorrows in the realm of fantasy. A tactic that doesn’t work for long because your father, who supposedly wanted to talk to you, tells you that they are leaving and never resolves the problem. As soon as they leave, the baby starts crying. You realize that someone has taken one of your teddy bears.
You rush into the baby’s room. Somebody has given your teddy bear to Toby, your baby brother. You grow extremely resentful to the child. So, you try making yourself feel better by telling him a story about a young girl whose step mother always makes her stay home with the baby. You explain that they king of the goblins has fallen in love with the girl, and at any time she could wish the child away. The goblin king will take the baby and keep him forever, and turn him into a goblin. Since the young girl knows that this is wrong, she suffers in silence.
“Finally, after a long day of housework, when she was hurt by the harsh words of her step mother and she could no longer stand it…”
The story isn’t helping. Toby, your baby brother, cries even louder.
“Stop it, stop it!” you say. “I’ll say the words. No. No, I mustn’t say…I wish…I wish. Oh goblin King, oh goblin king, where ever you may be, take this child of mine far away from me.”
You are slightly disappointed as you realize that this approach doesn’t work. You lie the screaming baby down and turn out the light.
As you are leaving the room you say “I wish…”
What do you do?
If you choose to finish the sentence “I wish you wouldn’t cry so much” turn to page (fill in number here)
If you choose to finish the sentence “I wish the goblins would come take you away. Right now.” Turn to page #
“I wish you wouldn’t cry so much,” you say and leave the room. You go into your bedroom and sulk. You never have the magical you’ve always wished for, you never come to realize the love you have for your brother and you are very unhappy until you graduate and move away to college. You didn’t even make it to the labyrinth. How sad. The End
“I wish the goblins would come take you away. Right now.” As you leave the room, you realize that Toby has stopped crying very suddenly. Feeling extremely alarmed you go back into the room. The light switch isn’t working. You approach Toby’s bed. When you get there you realize that he’s gone!
You were unaware that the goblins had actually been listening to your request. As you are standing in the dark room, surrounded by goblins, an owl flies to the window. Finally, it bursts through the window. In a burst of glitter the owl transforms into an oddly dressed man.
You know exactly who he is. “You’re him aren’t you? You’re the goblin king.”
The goblin king just smiles at you.
“Where is he?” you ask him.
“You know very well where he is,” Jareth, the goblin king responds.
“Please, let me have him back.” You plead.
“What’s said is said,” Jareth replies.
“But I didn’t mean it.” You protest.
“Didn’t you?” Jareth says knowingly.
You didn’t mean it…mostly.
Jareth tries to distract you from your worries about your baby brother by offering you a gift.
“Look Sarah,” he says, “I’ve brought you a present.” A clear orb appears in his hands and he rolls it over his fingertips.
“What is it?” you ask.
“It’s a crystal, nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams. But this is not an ordinary gift, for an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby. Do you want it?” He can see that you do. “Than forget about the baby.
What do you do?
If you decide to take the gift and forget about the baby, turn to page #
If you decide not to take the present and decide to pursue inquiries about your brother, turn to page #
“Will he be well taken care of?” you ask as you eye the crystal.
Jareth smiles and nods.
You hold out your hands to accept the gift. He places it into your hands. “Thank you,” you say. He is still smiling, but you can see the look of great disappointment in his eyes. Apparently you weren’t the girl he thought you were. You were no challenge at all.
He leaves and you go back to your room. You are totally fascinated by the crystal. You can’t seem to look away from it. All of those dreams! When your father and your step mother arrive home, you are still staring at the crystal. When they ask you what happened to the baby, you can give no satisfactory answer. You tell them a strange man took the child. You don’t know who he is, or where he went. But you can’t look away from the crystal.
They have you committed to a mental institution where you and your crystal spend the rest of your days. You are very hollow, but don’t seem to notice.
You didn’t even make it to the labyrinth, and proved to be a sort of awful person. Shame on you. No wonder they locked you up. The End.
You like the gift, but you will not be distracted!
“But I have to have my brother back!” you tell him, frustrated.
“Sarah,” he tells you, “don’t defy me.” The crystal in his hands turns to a snake. He throws it at you. You gasp as the writhing snake turns into a mess of scarves and then into a goblin. “You’re no match for me Sarah.”
“I have to have my brother back,” you say again. “Where is he?”
“He’s there?” says Jareth, pointing out the window. Instead of your neighbor hood you see the labyrinth.
“Is that the castle beyond the goblin city?” you ask. You are suddenly on a hill overlooking the labyrinth.
“Turn back Sarah,” he says very dramatically. “Turn back before it’s too late.”
What do you do?
If you decide that you want to turn back, turn to page #
If you decide to brave the labyrinth, turn to page #
“I can’t turn back,” you say, rather dismayed. You don’t think that you can actually finish the labyrinth. And you’re not really sure it’s worth the effort of trying.
“Such a pity,” he says.
“No, I mean really, I can’t turn back. You took me out of my house. I don’t know where I am.”
“You really want to turn back?” he asks, somewhat surprised.
“Yes, please,” you nod.
He sighs. “Now that really is a pity.” He waves his hand and Toby’s bedroom reappears.
You walk back into the room.
“Good bye Sarah,” he says, and your dream world disappears.
You go and find the phone and call the police, telling them that your baby brother is missing. You go downstairs and unlock the back door so you can say that you accidentally left it unlocked. You tell the police you fell asleep on your bed and when you went to check on the baby, he was gone.
No one ever finds out what really happens, but for the rest of your life you have to live with the guilt of giving up your baby brother. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. You deserve to feel awful. You could have had it all, and now you get nothing.
Then End.
“I can’t,” you say. “Don’t you see that I can’t?”
“What a pity,” he says with a shake of his head, though clearly he’s pleased.
“It doesn’t look that far.”
“It’s further than you think,” he says, coming very close to you. He then brushes past you and points to a very odd clock. “You have thirteen hours in which to solve the labyrinth before your baby brother becomes one of us forever.” And then he disappeared.
“The Labyrinth. Well, come on feet,” you say, and start your journey.
As you reach the outer perimeter of the Labyrinth you see a dwarf.
What do you do?
If you decide to ignore the Dwarf and try to get into the labyrinth by yourself, turn to page #
If you ask the dwarf for help turn to page #
You see the dwarf, but ignore him. He seems like an unpleasant fellow. He keeps spraying cute little fairy things. You wander away from him. As you continue to walk around the perimeter, you realize you don’t know how to get in. When you finally give up and try to find the dwarf again, he is gone. You just don’t know what to do. Finally in frustration you yell out:
“How do I get into this labyrinth?”
One of those little fairies that you had seen previously, lands on your nose and points to the outer wall, and suddenly it becomes a door. The fairy then kicks you and flies off. You had no idea that fairies were so mean!
You approach the door and as you get through you see two long walkways stretching off in either direction. The little fairy then lands on your head.
What do you do?
Do you wave it off?
Do you let is stay on your head?
You decide to ask the dwarf for help.
“Excuse me?” you say timidly.
The dwarf turns around startled. “Oh, it’s you,” he says and picks up a spray can. You realize that there are small fairies flying around the perimeter of the labyrinth. The dwarf sprays one and it falls to the ground.
“You monster!” you say as you pick the fairy up. It then proceeds to sink its teeth into you. “Ow!” you cry. “It bit me.”
“Well, sure. What did you expect fairies to do?” the dwarf asks.
“I thought fairies did nice things, like granting wishes.”
“Shows what you know,” the dwarf replies.
“You’re horrible!” you exclaim feeling hurt and embarrassed.
“No I ain’t,” the dwarf says. “I’m Hoggle. Who are you?”
“Sarah,” you reply defiantly.
“That’s what I thought,” says Hoggle the dwarf, turning away from you and resuming his work.
“Where’s the door to the labyrinth?”
“Fifty-seven!” Hoggle says as he takes down another fairy.
“I said: where is it?” you say, put out by his rudeness.
“Where is what?” Hoggle says as he squirts another fairy.
“The door! It’s pointless asking you anything.” You are feeling rather frustrated at this point. You only have thirteen hours. Less than that now. What a waste of time.
“Not if you ask the right questions,” Hoggle responds.
“How do I get into the labyrinth?” you ask.
“Ah,” says Hoggle, stopping in his tracks. “You gets in through there.” He points very dramatically and a door appears in the wall. You go through and look down both ways. The path seems to stretch on forever in both ways.
“Cozy, isn’t it?” says Hoggle, sneaking up behind you. “Now, would you go left or right.”
“They both look the same,” you say becoming rather concerned.
“Well, you’re not going to get far,” Hoggle scoffs.
“Which way would you go?” you ask, hoping he’ll be of some help.
“Me? I wouldn’t go either way.”
Annoyed with his rudeness and his unpleasant attitude you tell him off.
“If that’s all the help you’re going to be, you can just leave!”
“You know what your problem is,” Hoggle says, pointing a gnarled finger at you, “You take too many things for granted. Take this labyrinth for instance. Even if you get through, you’ll never get out again.”
“That’s your opinion,” you say with more confidence now that you’re actually inside.
“Well it’s a lot better than yours!”
“Thanks for nothing Hogwart,” you say, misremembering his name.
“Oh, it’s Hog-GLE and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He storms out of the labyrinth and the doors close behind him.
What do you do?
If you go right, turn to page #
If you go left, turn to page #
You decide the wave the fairy off of your head. It is apparently just a nuisance. It flies back out the entrance and the doors close behind it. Now you have to make a choice.
What do you do?
If you go left, turn to page #
If you go right, turn to page #
You let the fairy stay on your head. While trying to decide which way to go, the fairy pulls on your hair. After a moment, you realize that it’s not being nasty, but trying to tell you to go right.
What do you do?
Do you listen to the fairy and go right? If you do, turn to page #
If you ignore the fairy and go left turn to page #
You take a breath and decide to go right. After a time you start to get confused, and yet again, frustrated.
“What do they mean labyrinth. There aren’t any turns or anything. It just goes on and on. Or maybe it doesn’t,” you realize, remembering the words of Hoggle. “Maybe I’m just taking it for granted that it does.”
Feeling very inspired, you star running down the path. After a while you are so confused and frustrated, you slump against a nearby wall.
“’ello,” a small voice says.
You look around trying to find the source. Finally, you see a very tiny worm wearing a scarf.
“Did you just say hello?” you ask. It’s an awfully cute little thing.
“No, I said ‘ello, but that’s close enough.” It’s a very cheerful little thing.
“You’re a worm, aren’t you?
“That’s right. Come inside, meet the Mrs.”
“No thank you,” you say. “I’ve got to solve this labyrinth. You don’t know the way do you?”
“Who, me?” the worm asks. “No, I’m just a worm. Come inside, have a nice cup of tea.”
What do you do?
If you go inside for a nice cup of tea, turn to page #
If you insist that you must solve the labyrinth and continue to ask for help turn to page #
You take a breath and decide to go left. After a time you realize that there aren’t any turns or anything. It just goes on and on. Remembering the words of the dwarf Hoggle, you wonder if you’re just taking it for granted that it does. You start to run at a very quick pace. Still you see no turns or anything. While you are running, you trip on a glittering log. You try to catch yourself on the wall, but the wall isn’t really there, it’s an illusion! You fall onto the ground on the other side of the wall. You stand up and brush yourself off.
Finally, you can get somewhere.
What do you do?
If you go left turn to page #
If you go right turn to page #
You decide to take the advice of the fairy and you go right. You start your way down the glittering passageway. You start to get frustrated soon because there are no turns or anything. It just keeps going on and on! When the fairy realized that you are getting upset, he flies off of your head and disappears into one of the walls. Shocked you go over to the wall and try walking through it. You then realize that it is not a wall at all, but an illusion. The fairy it there waiting for you. It wants to go left.
What do you do?
If you go left, turn to page#
If you go right, turn to page #
You decide to ignore the fairy and go left instead. It seems very put out and yanks harder on your hair, trying to get you to go to the right.
“Ow!” you say. “Now, cut that out. You haven’t been very pleasant. Why should I listen to you?”
The fairy makes a pouting face, which you can’t see because it’s on top of your head, but it stays there, apparently willing to stick around for the ride. You start to get frustrated soon because there are no turns or anything. It just keeps going on and on! When the fairy realized that you are getting upset, he flies off of your head and disappears into one of the walls. Shocked you go over to the wall and try walking through it. You then realize that it is not a wall at all, but an illusion. The fairy it there waiting for you. You now have a choice to make; the fairy seems to have no preference.
What do you do?
If you go left, turn to page #
If you go right, turn to page #
Your nerves are very sore by now. A cup of tea might be nice.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” you tell the worm. You look at the wall a moment, very confused. “How do I get in?” you ask politely.
The worm laughs. “Oh, it’s easy enough. You see that little hole there?” he asks, indicating a little dimple in the wall.
“Yes,” you say.
“You go in through there.”
When you look at the worm dubiously, he laughs again. “Things aren’t always what they seem in this place. Try it, you’ll see what I mean. Just put your finger in that hole there. I’ll follow you.”
You aren’t very confident in this, but do so. You feel a whooshing sensation, and realize that you are inside a dark space, which must be inside that wall.
You see a darling little purple worm near a stove. You aren’t sure if you have become very small, or if the worms have become very big.
“’ello there,” says the purple worm upon seeing you. “You must be here to solve the labyrinth,” she says sweetly. “Poor dear. I imagine you’ll be needing a nice cup of tea. Go ahead and sit down.”
“Thank you,” you say, and take a seat.
“I’ve brought company dear,” says the husband worm, coming though the door.
“I can see that. So, what’s your story deary?” she asks, bringing you a cup of tea.
“How do you mean?” you ask.
“I mean, why are you wandering around the labyrinth? What’s your quest all about?”
You are rather hesitant to say, since you brought it upon yourself. “He has my baby brother,” you say, sipping the tea. It does make you feel better.
“Oh deer,” the little Mrs. Worm says. “I think you’ll be needing this then,” she says and moves over to a pendant that’s almost as big as she is. “Take this with you love,” she says, shoving the pendant towards you.
“It’s beautiful, but I can’t take that. It looks very valuable.”
“It is valuable,” says Mr. Worm. “That’s why you should take it. You never know when something like that is going to come in useful here.”
“Besides, a valuable object is only valuable so long as it will be helpful to a friend.”
You graciously accept their gift. “Thank you so very much,” you say gratefully.
They help you out the door. Once outside, you are back to your normal size. The pendant is now small enough to fit into your pocket. The worms go outside to see you off.
“I am still confused,” you say as you realize that you still don’t see any turns. “It just keeps going on, there aren’t any turns or anything.
“Of course there are!” Mr. Worm says. “There’s one just across there.”
“No there isn’t,” you protest.
“Of course there is,” Mrs. Worm says.
“Try walking through it, you’ll see what we mean.”
You doubt that there is actually an opening there, but take their advice. As you walk through what you thought was a solid wall, you realize it was just an illusion.
“Thank you,” you say, starting to the left. “That was incredibly helpful. Everything. Thank you so much.”
“Wait, don’t go that way!” Mr. Worm calls after you.
“Never go that way,” Mrs. Worm joins in.
“Oh,” you say.
What do you do?
If you take their advice and go to the right, turn to page #
If you ask why, turn to page #
You are excessively disappointed. “I’ve got to get through this labyrinth, but there aren’t any turns or openings or anything.”
“Of course there are!” the worm says, chuckling.
“Well, where are they?” you ask eagerly.
“Why, there’s one just across there.”
“No there isn’t,” you say, looking at the blank wall.
“Come on inside,” he invites you again.
“But there isn’t an opening.”
“Of course there is!” he says again. “Try walking through it, you’ll see what I mean.”
You doubt that there is actually an opening there, but take his advice. As you walk through what you thought was a solid wall, you realize it was just an illusion.
“Thank you,” you say, starting to the left. “That was incredibly helpful.”
“Wait a minute! Don’t go that way.”
“What was that?” you ask, coming back.
“I said, don’t go that way, never go that way.”
“Oh.” You respond.
What do you do?
If you take his advice and go to the right, turn to page #
If you ask why, turn to page #
Song of Life
Here is that poem I wrote for class. It was supposed to be an imitation of the form of another poem. I enjoyed writing it.
SONG OF LIFE
Breathless in time
I sit in deep thought
Taking in the world, the sky, the mountains
Feeling the joy, feeling life.
It whistles through the air,
A siren, singing,
Life calls
It’s music begs the wind to form
The wind moves through the trees
Holding the sun
Catching the whispers of us all
It sings life’s song
Teaching men the melody of ages
And then in the skewed expanse of existence
We learn the tune, singing with untrained voice
And we, striving so,
Make song.
Lending ourselves to the eternity of true happiness
Reaching for a moment that great height-
One moment in Heaven.
SONG OF LIFE
Breathless in time
I sit in deep thought
Taking in the world, the sky, the mountains
Feeling the joy, feeling life.
It whistles through the air,
A siren, singing,
Life calls
It’s music begs the wind to form
The wind moves through the trees
Holding the sun
Catching the whispers of us all
It sings life’s song
Teaching men the melody of ages
And then in the skewed expanse of existence
We learn the tune, singing with untrained voice
And we, striving so,
Make song.
Lending ourselves to the eternity of true happiness
Reaching for a moment that great height-
One moment in Heaven.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Vampires
So, it's time for another confession. I love vampire stories. Fun ones, not scary ones. Do you know why that is? Because I love cliché. Cliché and satire. So there is a lot of that running around in my brain. This is the beginning of one of those things. I think I'd also like to add a vampire who lives in Hollywood. That could be useful too. The idea just really cracks me up. I think a lot could be done with it.
Without furture ado...
There are three things that one must know about vampires. First, vampires feed on blood, just like we’ve always thought. Second, to become a vampire, the victim must taste the blood of the vampire as well as having their own blood drained. It’s pretty disgusting. The third thing that you must know is that every vampire has a choice about what kind of vampire they will be. Killing people is not a forgone conclusion, they do have a choice.
There are four renowned vampires left in the United States. Though there are a few others, there are only four that have any significance. One is Derek, the youngest of the four. He joined the alliance in the mid 1800’s here in the States. Finding the idea of killing innocents distasteful, he found a job as government executioner and assassin just around the turn of the century.
The second is Sabine. She joined the alliance just a few years earlier, but in England. She was what one might call insane. After her best friend was killed by a vampire, she became obsessed with the idea. Sabine discovered all that she could about the underworld of vampires. One night, she used herself as bait to lure a vampire to attack her, and as it was feeding, she cut it and tasted, to become a vampire herself. She went to America a few years later. She crosses the line between good and evil like most people walk in and out of a room. She tends to spend most of her time with bottom dwellers, so no one really cares for the loss.
The third of the alliance is possibly the most formidable. Edric is the classic vampire. Good looking, seductive, classy in an evil way, impeccable taste and dress, and not at all a good guy. He joined the alliance because it benefited him, not for any good to anyone else.
The fourth member of the alliance is Landry. He tries to settle down in one town or another every few years, changing his name, righting wrongs. A basic tortured soul trying to redeem himself through the service of others. Don’t let that slightly sarcastic description fool you though. We really like and respect this guy. Sure, he’s nice, but you don’t want to mess with him. That’s where that tortured soul thing comes in handy.
These four vampires joined together to form the alliance. Joined together is a bit of a stretch really. More they put their differences aside from time to time for their own protection. The alliance made up of these four vampires sort of regulates control. It is the job of the alliance to keep everyone in the United States in the dark about their existence. They use anything to make certain they are not exposed. Anything from government cover-ups, to disposing of the lesser vampires who break the rules.
The rules are really common sense. Do not expose yourself as a vampire. If you feed, make sure there are no witnesses. And most importantly: no new vampires.
As for not being able to go out into sunlight and not having reflections, that is total nonsense. A vampire can go into sunlight, but his powers are weekend. He has a harder time changing and exerting control over others. And of course vampires cast a reflection. Mirrors tell the truth, whether one likes what they see or not. The reflection of a vampire is startling, to say the least. When the average person looks in the mirror, they see themselves looking back at them. Same eyes, same hair, and if they look really closely, they can look into their own eyes and see who they are. Vampires, well, they tend to avoid mirrors. It’s hard for them to see who they really are.
Without furture ado...
There are three things that one must know about vampires. First, vampires feed on blood, just like we’ve always thought. Second, to become a vampire, the victim must taste the blood of the vampire as well as having their own blood drained. It’s pretty disgusting. The third thing that you must know is that every vampire has a choice about what kind of vampire they will be. Killing people is not a forgone conclusion, they do have a choice.
There are four renowned vampires left in the United States. Though there are a few others, there are only four that have any significance. One is Derek, the youngest of the four. He joined the alliance in the mid 1800’s here in the States. Finding the idea of killing innocents distasteful, he found a job as government executioner and assassin just around the turn of the century.
The second is Sabine. She joined the alliance just a few years earlier, but in England. She was what one might call insane. After her best friend was killed by a vampire, she became obsessed with the idea. Sabine discovered all that she could about the underworld of vampires. One night, she used herself as bait to lure a vampire to attack her, and as it was feeding, she cut it and tasted, to become a vampire herself. She went to America a few years later. She crosses the line between good and evil like most people walk in and out of a room. She tends to spend most of her time with bottom dwellers, so no one really cares for the loss.
The third of the alliance is possibly the most formidable. Edric is the classic vampire. Good looking, seductive, classy in an evil way, impeccable taste and dress, and not at all a good guy. He joined the alliance because it benefited him, not for any good to anyone else.
The fourth member of the alliance is Landry. He tries to settle down in one town or another every few years, changing his name, righting wrongs. A basic tortured soul trying to redeem himself through the service of others. Don’t let that slightly sarcastic description fool you though. We really like and respect this guy. Sure, he’s nice, but you don’t want to mess with him. That’s where that tortured soul thing comes in handy.
These four vampires joined together to form the alliance. Joined together is a bit of a stretch really. More they put their differences aside from time to time for their own protection. The alliance made up of these four vampires sort of regulates control. It is the job of the alliance to keep everyone in the United States in the dark about their existence. They use anything to make certain they are not exposed. Anything from government cover-ups, to disposing of the lesser vampires who break the rules.
The rules are really common sense. Do not expose yourself as a vampire. If you feed, make sure there are no witnesses. And most importantly: no new vampires.
As for not being able to go out into sunlight and not having reflections, that is total nonsense. A vampire can go into sunlight, but his powers are weekend. He has a harder time changing and exerting control over others. And of course vampires cast a reflection. Mirrors tell the truth, whether one likes what they see or not. The reflection of a vampire is startling, to say the least. When the average person looks in the mirror, they see themselves looking back at them. Same eyes, same hair, and if they look really closely, they can look into their own eyes and see who they are. Vampires, well, they tend to avoid mirrors. It’s hard for them to see who they really are.
The Effects of Time Change on an Unsuspecting Mind
For my last creative writing paper I was having a really hard time coming up with something to write. I origionally started this story but decided to scrap it because I think it would be better addapted as a screen play. Well, not so much the script itself so much as a movie with special effects.
We cannot live and not change. Everything that we do, every choice that we make changes who we are. Sometimes dramatically, sometimes not so much. But when we make a choice we cease being the person we were and become the person that we are. We are different, forever. That’s that.
But, what if one day someone decided who they were wasn’t good enough? What if one day that someone looked in the mirror and decided they didn’t like who they were? Or if that someone had done something so terrible to someone that they loved, or messed up their life so badly they didn’t think they could go on? So that someone went back.
That someone was me.
Right off, I’d like to say that time has enough paradoxes all on its own without people messing with it. Such as the paradox of: if we are supposed to spend two hours outside of class studying for every hour that we spend in class (let’s say you spend 6 hours in class, making a total of 18 hours dedicated to class work) when do you have time to have a job or make friends or sleep? All three which are things which are important to a college student’s survival.
Or why is it that an unpleasant experience takes forever, such as being submitted to an excessively boring professor, but a pleasant experience seems to pass away almost instantly? And how is it that we can have a moment that freezes in time? And how does it get away from us? There are a lot of these questions. And when it comes down to it, there never seems to be enough time where we need it.
Time doesn’t need our approval or blessing to exist. Whether we are here or not, it passes just the same. Time doesn’t live through us, we live through it. And we have no business messing with it.
What I wanted to do with this was have a girl who went back in time to fix a mistake. It would be a concept of time travel where one literally goes back into their former selves. So you couldn't accidentally run into yourself because you are yourself. This girl changes the mistake she made but because she remembers the prior timeline it creates a sort of paradox. Alternate timelines start to blend within the same reality. So, when someone makes a choice you can see them living the concequence of the choice that they made, and the choice that alternate them made. I thought it would be really neat to show the split. I also thought that it would be really neat if when someone wasn't satisfied with the choice they had made they might decide to jump alternate them and live their life instead. But, I think this is one of those things that needs to be seen.
We cannot live and not change. Everything that we do, every choice that we make changes who we are. Sometimes dramatically, sometimes not so much. But when we make a choice we cease being the person we were and become the person that we are. We are different, forever. That’s that.
But, what if one day someone decided who they were wasn’t good enough? What if one day that someone looked in the mirror and decided they didn’t like who they were? Or if that someone had done something so terrible to someone that they loved, or messed up their life so badly they didn’t think they could go on? So that someone went back.
That someone was me.
Right off, I’d like to say that time has enough paradoxes all on its own without people messing with it. Such as the paradox of: if we are supposed to spend two hours outside of class studying for every hour that we spend in class (let’s say you spend 6 hours in class, making a total of 18 hours dedicated to class work) when do you have time to have a job or make friends or sleep? All three which are things which are important to a college student’s survival.
Or why is it that an unpleasant experience takes forever, such as being submitted to an excessively boring professor, but a pleasant experience seems to pass away almost instantly? And how is it that we can have a moment that freezes in time? And how does it get away from us? There are a lot of these questions. And when it comes down to it, there never seems to be enough time where we need it.
Time doesn’t need our approval or blessing to exist. Whether we are here or not, it passes just the same. Time doesn’t live through us, we live through it. And we have no business messing with it.
What I wanted to do with this was have a girl who went back in time to fix a mistake. It would be a concept of time travel where one literally goes back into their former selves. So you couldn't accidentally run into yourself because you are yourself. This girl changes the mistake she made but because she remembers the prior timeline it creates a sort of paradox. Alternate timelines start to blend within the same reality. So, when someone makes a choice you can see them living the concequence of the choice that they made, and the choice that alternate them made. I thought it would be really neat to show the split. I also thought that it would be really neat if when someone wasn't satisfied with the choice they had made they might decide to jump alternate them and live their life instead. But, I think this is one of those things that needs to be seen.
Room 103
This is the story of Room 103. That explanation follows. I was asked to write this for the Mr./Ms. Music club pageant that we had last week. I did not come up with the ledgend. It was acutally my music theory class who came up with it. I did however write this explanation.
To most of the music majors and music faculty it feels like we live here in the music building. We have class here, we eat here, and before you leave good old SUU, chances are you will have slept here. But, even as much time as we spend here, be grateful that you can leave any time you want, because there will come a time dear friends where your ability to freely walk out of those big glass doors will come to an end.
Some of you may be unaware of the fact that the music building, like other more well known buildings on campus, has a haunting history of its own, but one far more terrifying than that of Old Main. And that history, that astounding legacy, that fear inspiring, spine tingling fable is the legend of room 1-0-3!
Room 103 is on the lower floor of the music building. Strange, dare I say eerie, noises have been heard coming from it that no one can account for. No one, that is, but the people who know the true purpose behind the mysterious and dreadful room. A holding cell.
A holding cell for all of the music majors and music teachers who would try to leave the SUU music department. You may be asking yourselves at this very moment: “All of the music students and faculty? What about those who graduate?” I mean All Of Them. I’m sorry to tell you my friends that even you will enter room 103. For the music department here is much like roach motels, the Hotel California and a deep psychological break with reality; once you enter room 103, you can never leave.
Many fools have tried and failed. Of course those fools started out as music majors, so they were probably doomed anyway. Use the little freedom you have now wisely, because if you thought that the music department owned your soul now, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet. Wave good bye to the upper classmen, because their time is soon at hand and whatever you do NEVER open the door to room 103.
But don’t despair, for all hope is not yet lost. If you are brave, wise, cunning and a skillfull musician you may yet escape the horror of…ROOM 103!!!!
(Add maniacal laughter here.)
To most of the music majors and music faculty it feels like we live here in the music building. We have class here, we eat here, and before you leave good old SUU, chances are you will have slept here. But, even as much time as we spend here, be grateful that you can leave any time you want, because there will come a time dear friends where your ability to freely walk out of those big glass doors will come to an end.
Some of you may be unaware of the fact that the music building, like other more well known buildings on campus, has a haunting history of its own, but one far more terrifying than that of Old Main. And that history, that astounding legacy, that fear inspiring, spine tingling fable is the legend of room 1-0-3!
Room 103 is on the lower floor of the music building. Strange, dare I say eerie, noises have been heard coming from it that no one can account for. No one, that is, but the people who know the true purpose behind the mysterious and dreadful room. A holding cell.
A holding cell for all of the music majors and music teachers who would try to leave the SUU music department. You may be asking yourselves at this very moment: “All of the music students and faculty? What about those who graduate?” I mean All Of Them. I’m sorry to tell you my friends that even you will enter room 103. For the music department here is much like roach motels, the Hotel California and a deep psychological break with reality; once you enter room 103, you can never leave.
Many fools have tried and failed. Of course those fools started out as music majors, so they were probably doomed anyway. Use the little freedom you have now wisely, because if you thought that the music department owned your soul now, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet. Wave good bye to the upper classmen, because their time is soon at hand and whatever you do NEVER open the door to room 103.
But don’t despair, for all hope is not yet lost. If you are brave, wise, cunning and a skillfull musician you may yet escape the horror of…ROOM 103!!!!
(Add maniacal laughter here.)
A Conversation with the Author
So, confession. I have been working on a novel. That's what most of my writing has been this semester, actually, for a while. But I haven't felt comfortable putting it online, because it's not done yet. Almost though. Anyhow, you know how writing sometimes gets away from you and you suddenly write yourself a question that you don't know the answer to, but now it is completely essential that you answer said question? Well, that's what had happened. And my characters are very pushy. So, I thought I'd ask them. The characters are Charlotte who is a Private detective who gets wrapped up in a branch of espionage that deals with magic and magic objects. The person who got her wrapped up in it is a character by the name of Blue Mage. That's right, Blue Mage. It isn't a good name. He's really good at his job but, lacks confidence. Hence the code name he thinks is cool. Don't worry, he'll learn. Orion is a British spy who was supposed to be a minor character around simply as a cliche. But, he had other plans. And then there is my big bad guy. Who now I know his name, but my roommate was laghing at me as I was having this conversation with these characters. They have quite a life of thier own. lives of their own? Here is is.
“Something’s different,” Charlotte said, looking purposefully around the room. “Something in this painting is different than it is actually here in the room.”
“What’s that?” the spy asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” charlotte said, “something’s different, maybe we should wait for the writer to figure it out.”
“Oh no,” said the author, “you got yourself into this mess, you’re going to get yourself out!!!!!!!”
“That seems like overkill on the exclamation points Kimberly.”
“Don’t talk back to me Miss thang. We’ve gotten along rather swimmingly up until this point, please do not make me angry, I am having a hard enough time being back at school without your ‘tude!
“Maybe I’m over reacting, you aren’t really being that bad, but come freaking on. Throw me a freaking bone. Please. You’re the observant one in this story, remember. I am the clueless author, you just decided to be really, really pushy. You know what the Brit is the same way. Oh my gosh, have you talked to him. He has plans for you. Just you know, fair warning. By the by.
“Okay, so, here’s the plan. You’ll find something strange that is in the painting, but not in real life. It is something that the killer was supposed to leave behind, perhaps metaphorical. That can happen upon occasion. Now, you don’t know the significance of it, but the Brit does, he’s there, but you don’t know it. When he saves you in Spain, and takes you to England, it is the thing that confirms that the big bad guy is sort of who he thinks the big bad guy is. And he knows where to find him, because he is the head of a business. That’s why you are going to the Roman Baths and the opera etc.
“Sorry about the brief freak out. It’s stressful being back in school.”
“It’s all right. We understand. Good luck.”
“Thank You Charlotte”
“Not a problem.”
“Who are you talking to Charlotte?” asked the spy.
“The author, you know, the voice of the narrative.”
“Oh, hi. How are you?”
“A little tired, a little stressed, but don’t worry, I have your story under control… sort of. Anywho, if we all work together, I think that we can make it through.”
“Thanks for those inspiring words.”
“You bet. Oh, and by the way. Don’t wine.”
“What?”
“Oh, I think that you know what I mean.”
“She’s right, you do,” Charlotte told the spy.
“That’s enough, that’s enough, can we get back to the story now?”
“Gladly.”
“P.s. Orion, Cara thinks you’re hot.”
“You think I’m hot too, don’t you?” Asked Orion.
“Don’t make me reduce your role. You’ve had a hard enough time pushing your charming Brit ways in in the first place, you are already on my list, don’t think that I don’t what you are planning. Oh, I KNOW!”
“Alright, alright, I’ll back off…for now.”
“I’ve got some things to say to you Mr Big bad guy.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Who are you, what’s your plan and why don’t I even know your name?”
“Because you don’t need to know yet.”
“The heck I don’t! I’m the author, I’m the one sticking your story together.”
“Not very well then,, are you?”
“Excuse me?!”
“I’m just saying, you were supposed to finish this novel months ago. If you had, you’d already know who I am.”
“You’ve got some serious attitude. The Brit may drive me nuts, but at least I like him. Not a word Orion, I swear. I will give you side burns if I have to.”
“That’s an empty threat.”
“I said not a word, I’m talking to the big bad guy right now.”
“Right you are. Please continue, I want my suspicions confirmed.”
“You don’t want to tell me who he is, do you?”
“No. Sorry, but I think you’re doing a splendid job.”
“Why thank you.”
“Anything for you.”
“Kiss up.”
“But a sincere one. Excuse me.”
“You’re excused.”
“You know Miss Bennett, you are lucky that you are writing this story instead of staring in it. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Look, I’ve tried to make you are really fun villain, I like fun villains, but some of your comments are kind of low blows. Let me remind you mr big bad guy that in the end I will be the one who figures out how to take you down. Charlotte and I. And I can and will take you down, because that’s how its going to be. Let me break it to you hunnybun, unlike the Brit, you can’t worm your way into winning. You loose, and it will be good. Not a cop out, not a little tinny winny ending that doesn’t make sense, but you will go down and it will be fabulous. I’m not just talking big, I will take you down a peg or two, and if you don’t believe me, just try me. I am smart, clever, and I’ve seen enough episodes of MacGyver and survivor man to get me through anything. So, while your sitting there listening to your opera , keep this in mind. Not only do I know it, I can sing it. Never mess with a diva. I’m on the move, and now, I’m angry, your days of villainy are numbered, and in the words of Cara, ‘I’m going to bring on the hurt’.”
“Oh, I’m shaking.”
“Let’s talk again after you loose, until then, remember, if you want your story to be told you will open up, or I’ll get a new big bad guy. You are only in one or two scenes and I’m not afraid to rewrite.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me. Do you really want to find out? Remember the words of our good friend Shakespeare.”
“Hell hat not fury as a woman scorned?” said Orion.
“Very good.”
“You go girl.”
“Thank you Orion. By the way, you can’t pull that off.”
“I know.”
“Say something British.”
“Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“Charlotte, am I talented?”
“Of course you are. You thought me up. Thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure. Let’s finish up your story!”
“And Heaven willing there will be a sequel.”
“Amen.”
“Something’s different,” Charlotte said, looking purposefully around the room. “Something in this painting is different than it is actually here in the room.”
“What’s that?” the spy asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” charlotte said, “something’s different, maybe we should wait for the writer to figure it out.”
“Oh no,” said the author, “you got yourself into this mess, you’re going to get yourself out!!!!!!!”
“That seems like overkill on the exclamation points Kimberly.”
“Don’t talk back to me Miss thang. We’ve gotten along rather swimmingly up until this point, please do not make me angry, I am having a hard enough time being back at school without your ‘tude!
“Maybe I’m over reacting, you aren’t really being that bad, but come freaking on. Throw me a freaking bone. Please. You’re the observant one in this story, remember. I am the clueless author, you just decided to be really, really pushy. You know what the Brit is the same way. Oh my gosh, have you talked to him. He has plans for you. Just you know, fair warning. By the by.
“Okay, so, here’s the plan. You’ll find something strange that is in the painting, but not in real life. It is something that the killer was supposed to leave behind, perhaps metaphorical. That can happen upon occasion. Now, you don’t know the significance of it, but the Brit does, he’s there, but you don’t know it. When he saves you in Spain, and takes you to England, it is the thing that confirms that the big bad guy is sort of who he thinks the big bad guy is. And he knows where to find him, because he is the head of a business. That’s why you are going to the Roman Baths and the opera etc.
“Sorry about the brief freak out. It’s stressful being back in school.”
“It’s all right. We understand. Good luck.”
“Thank You Charlotte”
“Not a problem.”
“Who are you talking to Charlotte?” asked the spy.
“The author, you know, the voice of the narrative.”
“Oh, hi. How are you?”
“A little tired, a little stressed, but don’t worry, I have your story under control… sort of. Anywho, if we all work together, I think that we can make it through.”
“Thanks for those inspiring words.”
“You bet. Oh, and by the way. Don’t wine.”
“What?”
“Oh, I think that you know what I mean.”
“She’s right, you do,” Charlotte told the spy.
“That’s enough, that’s enough, can we get back to the story now?”
“Gladly.”
“P.s. Orion, Cara thinks you’re hot.”
“You think I’m hot too, don’t you?” Asked Orion.
“Don’t make me reduce your role. You’ve had a hard enough time pushing your charming Brit ways in in the first place, you are already on my list, don’t think that I don’t what you are planning. Oh, I KNOW!”
“Alright, alright, I’ll back off…for now.”
“I’ve got some things to say to you Mr Big bad guy.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Who are you, what’s your plan and why don’t I even know your name?”
“Because you don’t need to know yet.”
“The heck I don’t! I’m the author, I’m the one sticking your story together.”
“Not very well then,, are you?”
“Excuse me?!”
“I’m just saying, you were supposed to finish this novel months ago. If you had, you’d already know who I am.”
“You’ve got some serious attitude. The Brit may drive me nuts, but at least I like him. Not a word Orion, I swear. I will give you side burns if I have to.”
“That’s an empty threat.”
“I said not a word, I’m talking to the big bad guy right now.”
“Right you are. Please continue, I want my suspicions confirmed.”
“You don’t want to tell me who he is, do you?”
“No. Sorry, but I think you’re doing a splendid job.”
“Why thank you.”
“Anything for you.”
“Kiss up.”
“But a sincere one. Excuse me.”
“You’re excused.”
“You know Miss Bennett, you are lucky that you are writing this story instead of staring in it. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Look, I’ve tried to make you are really fun villain, I like fun villains, but some of your comments are kind of low blows. Let me remind you mr big bad guy that in the end I will be the one who figures out how to take you down. Charlotte and I. And I can and will take you down, because that’s how its going to be. Let me break it to you hunnybun, unlike the Brit, you can’t worm your way into winning. You loose, and it will be good. Not a cop out, not a little tinny winny ending that doesn’t make sense, but you will go down and it will be fabulous. I’m not just talking big, I will take you down a peg or two, and if you don’t believe me, just try me. I am smart, clever, and I’ve seen enough episodes of MacGyver and survivor man to get me through anything. So, while your sitting there listening to your opera , keep this in mind. Not only do I know it, I can sing it. Never mess with a diva. I’m on the move, and now, I’m angry, your days of villainy are numbered, and in the words of Cara, ‘I’m going to bring on the hurt’.”
“Oh, I’m shaking.”
“Let’s talk again after you loose, until then, remember, if you want your story to be told you will open up, or I’ll get a new big bad guy. You are only in one or two scenes and I’m not afraid to rewrite.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me. Do you really want to find out? Remember the words of our good friend Shakespeare.”
“Hell hat not fury as a woman scorned?” said Orion.
“Very good.”
“You go girl.”
“Thank you Orion. By the way, you can’t pull that off.”
“I know.”
“Say something British.”
“Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“Charlotte, am I talented?”
“Of course you are. You thought me up. Thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure. Let’s finish up your story!”
“And Heaven willing there will be a sequel.”
“Amen.”
The Pincess and the Pirate
Ok. So, I know I've been really behind on my blog, but I'm going to catch up. I've just been really busy and have never felt comfortable posting stuff on the internet like this. But, I think I will post some of the stuff I've been working on and thinking about. This is the introduction to a story I'm writing for my nieces. I think that my biggest problem is I'm not entirely sure where to take the story. My eldest neice Lindsay is the Princess and Kaitlyn, her younger sister, is the pirate. I've never really written a childen's story before so, I'm not sure how much is too much. I also have a third niece I want to incorperate into the story. I'm not sure what she should be. I'm thinking perhaps a pixi.
Lindsay insisted that she was a butterfly and Kaitlyn was a lady bug since she was quite small. So, Fifaldora means butterfly in Anglo Saxon and La Catarina means Lady bug in Spanish. I don't think most people will know the Anglo Saxon word but, what are you going to do, right?
So, here it is.
There was once a beautiful young princess named Lindsay who lived in the land of Fifoldara. Princess Lindsay was intelligent, clever, and in all other ways brilliant. She loved singing, dancing, horseback riding and all of the things that an appropriate princes should do. Lindsay liked being a princess, and she was very good at it.
There once was another young and beautiful princess. Pirate Kaitlyn was a princess of the seven seas. Her kingdom was the sea and her throne, her ship La Catarina. Pirate Kaitlyn was bright, quick and in every other way inspired. Kaitlyn loved sailing her ship, having adventures and finding treasures. Kaitlyn did everything a proper pirate should do. Kaitlyn loved being a pirate, and she was very fine at it.
Now, it just so happens that the sea, Kaitlyn’s kingdom, touched the border of Princess Lindsay’s kingdom. Or, I guess you could say that Fifoldara bordered the sea. Either way, it was clear that the two princesses were about to meet.
I know that I want Lindsay and Kaitlyn to go on all sorts of adventures together, but I can't seem to think of a plausable reason that they would and how scary is too scary? They aren't very old. I would like this to be something special for them though where they have lots of adventures together.
Lindsay insisted that she was a butterfly and Kaitlyn was a lady bug since she was quite small. So, Fifaldora means butterfly in Anglo Saxon and La Catarina means Lady bug in Spanish. I don't think most people will know the Anglo Saxon word but, what are you going to do, right?
So, here it is.
There was once a beautiful young princess named Lindsay who lived in the land of Fifoldara. Princess Lindsay was intelligent, clever, and in all other ways brilliant. She loved singing, dancing, horseback riding and all of the things that an appropriate princes should do. Lindsay liked being a princess, and she was very good at it.
There once was another young and beautiful princess. Pirate Kaitlyn was a princess of the seven seas. Her kingdom was the sea and her throne, her ship La Catarina. Pirate Kaitlyn was bright, quick and in every other way inspired. Kaitlyn loved sailing her ship, having adventures and finding treasures. Kaitlyn did everything a proper pirate should do. Kaitlyn loved being a pirate, and she was very fine at it.
Now, it just so happens that the sea, Kaitlyn’s kingdom, touched the border of Princess Lindsay’s kingdom. Or, I guess you could say that Fifoldara bordered the sea. Either way, it was clear that the two princesses were about to meet.
I know that I want Lindsay and Kaitlyn to go on all sorts of adventures together, but I can't seem to think of a plausable reason that they would and how scary is too scary? They aren't very old. I would like this to be something special for them though where they have lots of adventures together.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Becoming rose
If you threw me out of a window, I would fall like a rock. I would not float gracefully down like a feather, my gossamer dress swirling around me as I fell safely into the arms of the hero below. In fact, I have never even owned a gossamer dress, and no hero would catch me. I’m not a fair maiden, I don’t have hair the color of ripened grain, I can’t embroider and I don’t sing like a song bird while I play the harp.
In fact, I’m short, stocky and my hair is approximately the color of mud. I don’t embroider, but I can darn socks. And when I sing it’s more of a deep, raspy sound that works very well for old folk songs, but I do not have what one would call “dulcet tones”. There’s not usually a happily ever after for people like me.
And do you know why that is? Because I am what we in the realm of fantasy call a normal person. The only time someone like me gets mentioned is in those big scenes where a king is making a royal announcement which is followed by “and the peasants rejoiced”.
I am the epitome of pedestrian. It’s not a bad life really. I don’t have riches, or beauty, or a house of my own, or a fairy godmother or, you know, true love or something. But I do have a constant supply of potatoes. Those can be hard to come by.
So, I’m sure that you’re wondering what this story is all about since we’ve already established that I am a thoroughly un-special individual. Really, it’s a funny story.
I have known from the time that I was quite young that I lived in a world that you who are reading this would call fictional. It’s a land filled with princesses and dragons, dashing knights and wizards, goblins, witches, enchanted princess, oracles, that sort of thing. I remember I found out I was, for all intents and purposes, fictional one day at one of those royal announcements when I was seven years old.
I was standing in the crowd with my father watching the fair princess Marigold bat her eyelashes at a striking young prince. He had apparently just rescued her from a dragon and they were about to be wed. At some point when there was a lull in all the rejoicing I turned to my father and asked why the prince had slain the dragon. I had just heard at the last royal announcement that dragons were noble, wise creatures who were good protectors.
My father looked into my plain seven year old eyes and said “because it makes a better story.”
“What do you mean papa?” I asked.
“Well, if the princess had just been visiting the dragon for tea time and the prince came to give her a ride home on his horse, it wouldn’t have been very entertaining. The history of our land is never consistent. It wouldn’t be much fun. It’s all about a good story.”
“Do you mean they lied about what happened papa?” I asked, gesturing to the prince and princess.
“Oh no, they didn’t lie. I’m sure that they were telling the truth.”
“Then who’s telling the story?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
“Oh,” said my father looking up at the sky, “them.”
I looked up at the sky too. I didn’t see a them anyplace up there.
“The clouds?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he responded. “The writers.”
“What’s a writer?” I asked.
“They’re the ones who decide what’s going on here in our kingdom. They decide everything that’s going to happen. They created everything here. Even you”
“You mean God?” I asked.
“No. They aren’t even close to God. They work for him though.”
At that point there was another bout of rejoicing and I didn’t have a chance to ask my father anymore about it.
I didn’t fully comprehend what he was talking about with the writers until a couple of weeks later. I had a friend named Thomas; most of us called him Topps. Topps was a few year older than me, but was always exceptionally kind. Suddenly Topps started acting funny. He started displaying magical abilities, he stopped hanging around the swarthy children like me, and the grown ups all started talking about how he was going to live some great destiny. Topps started acting like he was under someone else’s control. After a while I understood, it wasn’t Topps’ fault, it was the writers.
Topps later ended up saving a kingdom in some far off land and married a princess. He now goes by Sir Thomas and is on his way to the crown. No one calls him Topps.
Topps was your basic UHWHP, unknown hero with hidden potential. There are lots of those around here. As well as your UWHWHG’s, unwilling heroes with hearts of gold, PID’s, princesses in disguise, and your EEH’s, evilly enchanted heroes. Believe me, they aren’t as uncommon as you would think. Believe me, I should know.
I happen to work for a secret organization known as The Quill Guard. The Quill Guard is an elite group of us fictional normal people who keep all of the characters people write in line. There are many sections of the guard. I work in the magical kingdom sector. We are the ones who prevent villains from winning, heroes from backing out of their quests and princesses from getting fat and pimply. We are unseen, unheard and unnoticed. We are the background fillers, the rejoicing peasants, the people at market. We get in, do our job, and get out. And most importantly we keep the fact that we are fictional a secret. People don’t want to know and people shouldn’t know. Because as soon as you realize that you aren’t real, reality ceases to matter and you can do anything. More than one story has been hijacked by a character realizing he’s a figment of the imagination. It’s a very real situation.
I got pulled into the guard quite literally and quite on accident. I was 18. I had been fetching some milk from market when I was pulled into a black carriage. They had seen me walking and believed that I was an evil empress in disguise who had just discovered the presence of her writer. She had run away to find accomplices who would help her stage a coup.
It took some convincing before they realized I wasn’t an evil empress; that in fact I wasn’t anyone at all. But, I did have a good head on my shoulders. So, they decided to keep me on and instead of being a no one, I became a member of The Quill Guard.
As I said, the guard works in secret. It fills plot holes, helps heroes and stops renegade characters all without being noticed by the main characters of the story or the audience who is reading and especially without being noticed by the writer.
You see, when a writer creates a world or a kingdom they create all of the people who live in it. They don’t pay attention to the peripheral characters, they are just filler. One day a famous writer by the name of Geoffrey Chaucer noticed all of these filler people walking around, living their lives. He thought this was a mite strange, so he decided to ask one of the extras what was going on. He chose a miller. Chaucer met the miller, the miller met Chaucer. The miller couldn’t very well go back to being a regular nobody now that he’d met a writer, so he and Chaucer came up with the Quill Guard. It would be a place for those ordinary folks like the miller to go and an organization that would help young writers develop their craft. Again, all in secret.
However, there are accidents. And an accident is what took me from being an anonymous member of the guard to being a girl named Rose.
I had been working a case in a kingdom called Venedil. The story was full of plot holes and two dimensional characters and a whole other myriad of problems. The writer was young and inexperienced and a lot of things needed fixing. It was your basic plot. A UHWHP was on a quest to save a princess who had been captured by a clever dragon. I had been working my tail end off trying to make sure that side kicks showed up, magical objects were given and advice was administered.
I had been doing rather well, but I was starting to get noticed. The two dimensional hero of the tale started to notice that I showed up every time something important happened or, especially, right before trouble started.
Our dashing hero, Conrad had been a stable boy at the palace when one night he saw the beautiful Princess Cicely trying to run away from the palace. Using his good looks and his considerable charm he was able to discover that Cicely had been running away because her father was going to marry her off to the miserable Lord Marcel. Within moments they swore their eternal, undying love for each other. But, before Conrad could help her escape the members of the royal guard took her back to the palace.
On the day of the wedding, instead of taking his bride-to-be to the alter, he offered her to the evil dragon Magnus who could only be defeated through the use of a magical lantern that could only be found in the far off mountains of Crecia by the pure of heart.
I had gotten him a charming side kick by the name of Darian, found him a wise mentor who was marked for the grave named Cadmus and provided him with a magical sword. Everything had been going swimmingly. Lord Marcel had found out that Conrad was planning to overthrow the evil dragon Magnus; Cadmus had given Conrad crucial pieces of information which included a map to the lost lantern. It was time for Cadmus to kick the bucket. I was subtly leading Lord Marcel and his villainous group of miscreants to Conrad’s hideout when Conrad saw me and recognized me from previous incidences.
I was in trouble. Conrad grabbed me and put me up against a wall, his sword blade to my throat.
“Who are you?” Conrad cried.
I was speechless. Not only because I had been caught, but because he asked my name. I had never needed a name before. I had never really been in a story before, and there I was, being confronted by a main character. I was in the spot light. I was in trouble.
“Who are you?” he again demanded.
I looked around in desperation. I had to say something. I saw a girl out on the street selling flowers.
“Rose,” I cried. “My name is Rose.”
“You aren’t one of Lord Marcel’s people, why are you helping them. Why don’t you want me to save the Princess?”
I was flabbergasted. Put on the spot like that, I just blurted.
“I’m just trying to help along the story.”
“What does that mean?” Conrad asked.
“It means that I was just supposed to help everyone get from point A to point B. I was just supposed to help the story along, but I’m a part of it now.”
Something very strange happens when the writer becomes aware of you. Suddenly everything you say becomes significant and all of your features become more attractive. I was still short, but less stocky. My hair became the color of chestnuts and my complexion became olive instead of swarthy. I still wasn’t a gossamer gown wearing feather weight, but I was much easier on the eyes. It was a terrifying experience.
Conrad jumped back when he noticed the change.
“What just happened?” he asked.
I sighed and shook my head. I was very frustrated.
“I’m part of the story. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I’m very confused,” Conrad said..
“Well, I’m going to have to explain it to you now,” I said. “Come on. We need to get out of here before Lord Marcel comes. He’s bringing a villainous group of miscreants this way.”
“What?”
“Come on, move it,” I said, pulling him with me. Now that I was part of the story I knew that I was constantly in danger of being noticed. I did not want to be noticed by Lord Marcel.
I was now in a very awkward position.
Because I wasn’t supposed to be in the story I had to explain to the author and the characters who I was and why I was there because, frankly, there was nothing else for me to do.
“Look,” I told Conrad, Darian and Cadmus, “you are fictional characters being written in a story by what is called a writer. The writer is who decided to make you all the way you are. That’s also why your princess has been kidnapped by a dragon by the way, because of the writer. We are all characters living in a fictional universe created by the thoughts of someone else. The writer of your story was struggling so I came in to help the story run more smoothly. The story was supposed to play out in a classic manner. Boy meets girl, boy saves girl, boy marries girl. I may have been exposed to the plot, but that’s what this story is going to do, alright. No deviating from the plan alright?”
The characters stared at me with open mouths.
“Alright,” I said. “What we need to do now is go questing to find that magical lantern.”
They continued to stare at me. Then I was fortunate enough to be helped by having the support of the author.
“Yes,” cried Cadmus, “we must complete our quest.”
I think Cadmus was just surprised at his own dialogue, but, being the wizened figure of the story did his best not to show it.
We had to face many trials together. They story became new and original. The clichés it had started to fall victim to were moving aside as the characters came to terms with their position in life. Darian settled within himself that he was the comic relief of the story and not the hero while we traveled through the White Fields of Camaran. Cadmus who did not die, had to admit that he didn’t know as mush as he thought he did when we crossed the bridge of Sacamar. He started to develop a sense of humor. Most characters in his position don’t live that long. And Conrad started to realize that he didn’t know very much about the princess to whom he had sworn his undying love.
And I, for the first time was part of a story. I had a name and character. I wasn’t a peasant rejoicing, I was an important figure. I discovered I could juggle in a very bizarre incident with griffin eggs. I sang folk songs and told jokes I’d never heard before. I was Rose. For a little while I felt real. And soon, greatly against my will I started to become the love interest of the story. And worse than that, I was interested in love.
It started simply at first. Conrad and I would bicker, I usually won. I would darn his socks after they started to ware on our long journey, a friendly gesture. Then we would have deep discussions about what it was to be a character and coming to terms with it. I tried to offer as much comfort as I could. Had I not been so young when I made the discovery, I would have been very put out. I saw members of The Quill Guard moving in the shadows, but I could do nothing to help them and they could do nothing to help me. I was stuck as Rose, and I loved it.
I didn’t realize how much that meant to me until we had actually retrieved the lantern and were on our way to save the princess from the evil dragon Magnus. It suddenly occurred to me that they story was drawing to a close and I was going to loose Conrad and even more frightening, loose myself. I no longer wanted to be anonymous, a member of the guard. I wanted to stay Rose. She’s spunky and comfortable with herself.
I knew that I had developed feelings for Conrad, and I thought he had developed them for me, but I just didn’t see how he was going to save the princess and still end up with me. I thought about staging a coup, making the story my very own. After all, if I thought about it, I could do anything, but I knew that wasn’t fair to the characters that had been created for this story. I was just along for the ride. The last night before the climax of the tale I spent as much time being Rose as possible. I told my best jokes, darned everyone’s socks, juggled eggs (this time they were chicken eggs) and sang the very best songs I knew.
The next day dawned far too early. I woke up prepared to leave behind my life as Rose.
We climbed towards the dragon’s lair as secretly as we possibly could. The only way to defeat the dragon was to capture some of its fire in the lantern and aim its light directly at the dragon’s heart. Don’t ask me how it works, I didn’t get it either.
Magnus was sleeping when we entered the cave. His hoard was strewn about and in a prominent position was a golden cage wherein say Princess Cicely who was singing in dulcet tones a mournful ballad. Of course she was. As soon as she saw us she stopped singing.
Conrad made a move towards her, his sword in one hand, lantern in the other.
And then the dragon woke up.
Magnus gave a mighty swish of his tale and we were all flattened. Conrad made a fast recovery. He was on his feet again and running for the dragon. Magnus shot a burst of flame at him, but Conrad was able to catch it in his lantern. Before he could direct its light however he was met with another flick of Magnus’s tail and rendered unconscious.
I ran over to his side.
“Conrad, get up,” I pleaded. “You need to finish the story.” He remained unconscious. I was terribly confused. I could not understand why the story was turning out this way. It shouldn’t be like that. That’s not the way this story was supposed to go.
And then I realized: this story hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to go since I got there. Everything had changed. I picked up the lantern.
“Darian,” I called. I tossed the lantern to him. “Here’s your chance to be the hero,” I said.
Without missing a beat Darian aimed the lantern at Magnus’s heart. A beam of light shot out and seemed to penetrate his thick skin. Within seconds Magnus was defeated.
Darian looked in shock at what he had just done. I smiled at him.
“I was wrong. It looks like you weren’t the comic relief. You were the hero all along.”
Conrad groaned from his position on the floor. “Rose?” he called.
“I’m here,” I said, taking his hand.
Conrad looked around and saw the deceased dragon.
“Who did that?” he asked.
“Darian did,” I said.
Conrad gave a week smile. “I thought you said I was the hero.”
I shrugged. “I guess I was wrong.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to marry Princess Cicely?”
“Not if you don’t want to. You can do whatever you want.”
“Great,” he said, squeezing my hand. “That sounds great.”
“But, what about princess Cicely?” Darian asked.
I looked over at princess Cicely who was still standing in her cage. She was staring at Darian.
“You’re the real hero, remember. I think that one is up to you.”
Darian smiled and rushed over to the caged princess.
“How about it?” he asked her.
Princess Cicely’s face brightened.
“To you I would pledge my undying love.”
Darian let her out of the cage and they embraced.
“Well, now, what do I do?” asked Cadmus who should have died long ago.
“Anything you want.”
“Oh,” said Cadmus.
Because this is that sort of story, in spite of m y interference everyone lived “happily ever after.”
Darian married the princess and is on his way to becoming king.
Cadmus left the kingdom of Venedil and became a teacher.
Conrad and I got married. I still darn his socks and Conrad is fortunately very fond of potatoes.
And I am still Rose. Not a Gossamer clad maiden, just Rose. I’m a normal person with normal talents and features, but it’s amazing how grateful I am to be ordinary, to be anyone at all. Ordinary people do great things in the real world every day. We may not be princesses but, really, no one is un-special.
The writer of our little tale actually did improve and is currently a best selling novelist. She works very closely with The Quill Guard. We all really did live Happily Ever After.
And the Peasants rejoiced.
In fact, I’m short, stocky and my hair is approximately the color of mud. I don’t embroider, but I can darn socks. And when I sing it’s more of a deep, raspy sound that works very well for old folk songs, but I do not have what one would call “dulcet tones”. There’s not usually a happily ever after for people like me.
And do you know why that is? Because I am what we in the realm of fantasy call a normal person. The only time someone like me gets mentioned is in those big scenes where a king is making a royal announcement which is followed by “and the peasants rejoiced”.
I am the epitome of pedestrian. It’s not a bad life really. I don’t have riches, or beauty, or a house of my own, or a fairy godmother or, you know, true love or something. But I do have a constant supply of potatoes. Those can be hard to come by.
So, I’m sure that you’re wondering what this story is all about since we’ve already established that I am a thoroughly un-special individual. Really, it’s a funny story.
I have known from the time that I was quite young that I lived in a world that you who are reading this would call fictional. It’s a land filled with princesses and dragons, dashing knights and wizards, goblins, witches, enchanted princess, oracles, that sort of thing. I remember I found out I was, for all intents and purposes, fictional one day at one of those royal announcements when I was seven years old.
I was standing in the crowd with my father watching the fair princess Marigold bat her eyelashes at a striking young prince. He had apparently just rescued her from a dragon and they were about to be wed. At some point when there was a lull in all the rejoicing I turned to my father and asked why the prince had slain the dragon. I had just heard at the last royal announcement that dragons were noble, wise creatures who were good protectors.
My father looked into my plain seven year old eyes and said “because it makes a better story.”
“What do you mean papa?” I asked.
“Well, if the princess had just been visiting the dragon for tea time and the prince came to give her a ride home on his horse, it wouldn’t have been very entertaining. The history of our land is never consistent. It wouldn’t be much fun. It’s all about a good story.”
“Do you mean they lied about what happened papa?” I asked, gesturing to the prince and princess.
“Oh no, they didn’t lie. I’m sure that they were telling the truth.”
“Then who’s telling the story?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
“Oh,” said my father looking up at the sky, “them.”
I looked up at the sky too. I didn’t see a them anyplace up there.
“The clouds?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he responded. “The writers.”
“What’s a writer?” I asked.
“They’re the ones who decide what’s going on here in our kingdom. They decide everything that’s going to happen. They created everything here. Even you”
“You mean God?” I asked.
“No. They aren’t even close to God. They work for him though.”
At that point there was another bout of rejoicing and I didn’t have a chance to ask my father anymore about it.
I didn’t fully comprehend what he was talking about with the writers until a couple of weeks later. I had a friend named Thomas; most of us called him Topps. Topps was a few year older than me, but was always exceptionally kind. Suddenly Topps started acting funny. He started displaying magical abilities, he stopped hanging around the swarthy children like me, and the grown ups all started talking about how he was going to live some great destiny. Topps started acting like he was under someone else’s control. After a while I understood, it wasn’t Topps’ fault, it was the writers.
Topps later ended up saving a kingdom in some far off land and married a princess. He now goes by Sir Thomas and is on his way to the crown. No one calls him Topps.
Topps was your basic UHWHP, unknown hero with hidden potential. There are lots of those around here. As well as your UWHWHG’s, unwilling heroes with hearts of gold, PID’s, princesses in disguise, and your EEH’s, evilly enchanted heroes. Believe me, they aren’t as uncommon as you would think. Believe me, I should know.
I happen to work for a secret organization known as The Quill Guard. The Quill Guard is an elite group of us fictional normal people who keep all of the characters people write in line. There are many sections of the guard. I work in the magical kingdom sector. We are the ones who prevent villains from winning, heroes from backing out of their quests and princesses from getting fat and pimply. We are unseen, unheard and unnoticed. We are the background fillers, the rejoicing peasants, the people at market. We get in, do our job, and get out. And most importantly we keep the fact that we are fictional a secret. People don’t want to know and people shouldn’t know. Because as soon as you realize that you aren’t real, reality ceases to matter and you can do anything. More than one story has been hijacked by a character realizing he’s a figment of the imagination. It’s a very real situation.
I got pulled into the guard quite literally and quite on accident. I was 18. I had been fetching some milk from market when I was pulled into a black carriage. They had seen me walking and believed that I was an evil empress in disguise who had just discovered the presence of her writer. She had run away to find accomplices who would help her stage a coup.
It took some convincing before they realized I wasn’t an evil empress; that in fact I wasn’t anyone at all. But, I did have a good head on my shoulders. So, they decided to keep me on and instead of being a no one, I became a member of The Quill Guard.
As I said, the guard works in secret. It fills plot holes, helps heroes and stops renegade characters all without being noticed by the main characters of the story or the audience who is reading and especially without being noticed by the writer.
You see, when a writer creates a world or a kingdom they create all of the people who live in it. They don’t pay attention to the peripheral characters, they are just filler. One day a famous writer by the name of Geoffrey Chaucer noticed all of these filler people walking around, living their lives. He thought this was a mite strange, so he decided to ask one of the extras what was going on. He chose a miller. Chaucer met the miller, the miller met Chaucer. The miller couldn’t very well go back to being a regular nobody now that he’d met a writer, so he and Chaucer came up with the Quill Guard. It would be a place for those ordinary folks like the miller to go and an organization that would help young writers develop their craft. Again, all in secret.
However, there are accidents. And an accident is what took me from being an anonymous member of the guard to being a girl named Rose.
I had been working a case in a kingdom called Venedil. The story was full of plot holes and two dimensional characters and a whole other myriad of problems. The writer was young and inexperienced and a lot of things needed fixing. It was your basic plot. A UHWHP was on a quest to save a princess who had been captured by a clever dragon. I had been working my tail end off trying to make sure that side kicks showed up, magical objects were given and advice was administered.
I had been doing rather well, but I was starting to get noticed. The two dimensional hero of the tale started to notice that I showed up every time something important happened or, especially, right before trouble started.
Our dashing hero, Conrad had been a stable boy at the palace when one night he saw the beautiful Princess Cicely trying to run away from the palace. Using his good looks and his considerable charm he was able to discover that Cicely had been running away because her father was going to marry her off to the miserable Lord Marcel. Within moments they swore their eternal, undying love for each other. But, before Conrad could help her escape the members of the royal guard took her back to the palace.
On the day of the wedding, instead of taking his bride-to-be to the alter, he offered her to the evil dragon Magnus who could only be defeated through the use of a magical lantern that could only be found in the far off mountains of Crecia by the pure of heart.
I had gotten him a charming side kick by the name of Darian, found him a wise mentor who was marked for the grave named Cadmus and provided him with a magical sword. Everything had been going swimmingly. Lord Marcel had found out that Conrad was planning to overthrow the evil dragon Magnus; Cadmus had given Conrad crucial pieces of information which included a map to the lost lantern. It was time for Cadmus to kick the bucket. I was subtly leading Lord Marcel and his villainous group of miscreants to Conrad’s hideout when Conrad saw me and recognized me from previous incidences.
I was in trouble. Conrad grabbed me and put me up against a wall, his sword blade to my throat.
“Who are you?” Conrad cried.
I was speechless. Not only because I had been caught, but because he asked my name. I had never needed a name before. I had never really been in a story before, and there I was, being confronted by a main character. I was in the spot light. I was in trouble.
“Who are you?” he again demanded.
I looked around in desperation. I had to say something. I saw a girl out on the street selling flowers.
“Rose,” I cried. “My name is Rose.”
“You aren’t one of Lord Marcel’s people, why are you helping them. Why don’t you want me to save the Princess?”
I was flabbergasted. Put on the spot like that, I just blurted.
“I’m just trying to help along the story.”
“What does that mean?” Conrad asked.
“It means that I was just supposed to help everyone get from point A to point B. I was just supposed to help the story along, but I’m a part of it now.”
Something very strange happens when the writer becomes aware of you. Suddenly everything you say becomes significant and all of your features become more attractive. I was still short, but less stocky. My hair became the color of chestnuts and my complexion became olive instead of swarthy. I still wasn’t a gossamer gown wearing feather weight, but I was much easier on the eyes. It was a terrifying experience.
Conrad jumped back when he noticed the change.
“What just happened?” he asked.
I sighed and shook my head. I was very frustrated.
“I’m part of the story. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I’m very confused,” Conrad said..
“Well, I’m going to have to explain it to you now,” I said. “Come on. We need to get out of here before Lord Marcel comes. He’s bringing a villainous group of miscreants this way.”
“What?”
“Come on, move it,” I said, pulling him with me. Now that I was part of the story I knew that I was constantly in danger of being noticed. I did not want to be noticed by Lord Marcel.
I was now in a very awkward position.
Because I wasn’t supposed to be in the story I had to explain to the author and the characters who I was and why I was there because, frankly, there was nothing else for me to do.
“Look,” I told Conrad, Darian and Cadmus, “you are fictional characters being written in a story by what is called a writer. The writer is who decided to make you all the way you are. That’s also why your princess has been kidnapped by a dragon by the way, because of the writer. We are all characters living in a fictional universe created by the thoughts of someone else. The writer of your story was struggling so I came in to help the story run more smoothly. The story was supposed to play out in a classic manner. Boy meets girl, boy saves girl, boy marries girl. I may have been exposed to the plot, but that’s what this story is going to do, alright. No deviating from the plan alright?”
The characters stared at me with open mouths.
“Alright,” I said. “What we need to do now is go questing to find that magical lantern.”
They continued to stare at me. Then I was fortunate enough to be helped by having the support of the author.
“Yes,” cried Cadmus, “we must complete our quest.”
I think Cadmus was just surprised at his own dialogue, but, being the wizened figure of the story did his best not to show it.
We had to face many trials together. They story became new and original. The clichés it had started to fall victim to were moving aside as the characters came to terms with their position in life. Darian settled within himself that he was the comic relief of the story and not the hero while we traveled through the White Fields of Camaran. Cadmus who did not die, had to admit that he didn’t know as mush as he thought he did when we crossed the bridge of Sacamar. He started to develop a sense of humor. Most characters in his position don’t live that long. And Conrad started to realize that he didn’t know very much about the princess to whom he had sworn his undying love.
And I, for the first time was part of a story. I had a name and character. I wasn’t a peasant rejoicing, I was an important figure. I discovered I could juggle in a very bizarre incident with griffin eggs. I sang folk songs and told jokes I’d never heard before. I was Rose. For a little while I felt real. And soon, greatly against my will I started to become the love interest of the story. And worse than that, I was interested in love.
It started simply at first. Conrad and I would bicker, I usually won. I would darn his socks after they started to ware on our long journey, a friendly gesture. Then we would have deep discussions about what it was to be a character and coming to terms with it. I tried to offer as much comfort as I could. Had I not been so young when I made the discovery, I would have been very put out. I saw members of The Quill Guard moving in the shadows, but I could do nothing to help them and they could do nothing to help me. I was stuck as Rose, and I loved it.
I didn’t realize how much that meant to me until we had actually retrieved the lantern and were on our way to save the princess from the evil dragon Magnus. It suddenly occurred to me that they story was drawing to a close and I was going to loose Conrad and even more frightening, loose myself. I no longer wanted to be anonymous, a member of the guard. I wanted to stay Rose. She’s spunky and comfortable with herself.
I knew that I had developed feelings for Conrad, and I thought he had developed them for me, but I just didn’t see how he was going to save the princess and still end up with me. I thought about staging a coup, making the story my very own. After all, if I thought about it, I could do anything, but I knew that wasn’t fair to the characters that had been created for this story. I was just along for the ride. The last night before the climax of the tale I spent as much time being Rose as possible. I told my best jokes, darned everyone’s socks, juggled eggs (this time they were chicken eggs) and sang the very best songs I knew.
The next day dawned far too early. I woke up prepared to leave behind my life as Rose.
We climbed towards the dragon’s lair as secretly as we possibly could. The only way to defeat the dragon was to capture some of its fire in the lantern and aim its light directly at the dragon’s heart. Don’t ask me how it works, I didn’t get it either.
Magnus was sleeping when we entered the cave. His hoard was strewn about and in a prominent position was a golden cage wherein say Princess Cicely who was singing in dulcet tones a mournful ballad. Of course she was. As soon as she saw us she stopped singing.
Conrad made a move towards her, his sword in one hand, lantern in the other.
And then the dragon woke up.
Magnus gave a mighty swish of his tale and we were all flattened. Conrad made a fast recovery. He was on his feet again and running for the dragon. Magnus shot a burst of flame at him, but Conrad was able to catch it in his lantern. Before he could direct its light however he was met with another flick of Magnus’s tail and rendered unconscious.
I ran over to his side.
“Conrad, get up,” I pleaded. “You need to finish the story.” He remained unconscious. I was terribly confused. I could not understand why the story was turning out this way. It shouldn’t be like that. That’s not the way this story was supposed to go.
And then I realized: this story hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to go since I got there. Everything had changed. I picked up the lantern.
“Darian,” I called. I tossed the lantern to him. “Here’s your chance to be the hero,” I said.
Without missing a beat Darian aimed the lantern at Magnus’s heart. A beam of light shot out and seemed to penetrate his thick skin. Within seconds Magnus was defeated.
Darian looked in shock at what he had just done. I smiled at him.
“I was wrong. It looks like you weren’t the comic relief. You were the hero all along.”
Conrad groaned from his position on the floor. “Rose?” he called.
“I’m here,” I said, taking his hand.
Conrad looked around and saw the deceased dragon.
“Who did that?” he asked.
“Darian did,” I said.
Conrad gave a week smile. “I thought you said I was the hero.”
I shrugged. “I guess I was wrong.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to marry Princess Cicely?”
“Not if you don’t want to. You can do whatever you want.”
“Great,” he said, squeezing my hand. “That sounds great.”
“But, what about princess Cicely?” Darian asked.
I looked over at princess Cicely who was still standing in her cage. She was staring at Darian.
“You’re the real hero, remember. I think that one is up to you.”
Darian smiled and rushed over to the caged princess.
“How about it?” he asked her.
Princess Cicely’s face brightened.
“To you I would pledge my undying love.”
Darian let her out of the cage and they embraced.
“Well, now, what do I do?” asked Cadmus who should have died long ago.
“Anything you want.”
“Oh,” said Cadmus.
Because this is that sort of story, in spite of m y interference everyone lived “happily ever after.”
Darian married the princess and is on his way to becoming king.
Cadmus left the kingdom of Venedil and became a teacher.
Conrad and I got married. I still darn his socks and Conrad is fortunately very fond of potatoes.
And I am still Rose. Not a Gossamer clad maiden, just Rose. I’m a normal person with normal talents and features, but it’s amazing how grateful I am to be ordinary, to be anyone at all. Ordinary people do great things in the real world every day. We may not be princesses but, really, no one is un-special.
The writer of our little tale actually did improve and is currently a best selling novelist. She works very closely with The Quill Guard. We all really did live Happily Ever After.
And the Peasants rejoiced.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
A Brief History of Music
I had a breif history of music that I had posted on the publis blog just because I thought it would be fun, but I just gotto write the script for the music club's presentation at Freezer's theater. Slightly revised. Here is is.
Narrator: FIRST: there was rhythm.
From the beginning of time (meaning somewhere between the creation and the whole apple incident) there has been a beat.
(Cave man comes out. Strikes up a beat.)
The pulsation echoed through valleys and bounced off of mountainsides; frightening dinosaurs and small birds.
Narrator: It wasn’t long after the invention of beat that melody came along. Melody was
used to great effect by the Greeks. The oldest transcribed piece of music in existence is the Seikilos Epitaph. Found near turkey, it was an epitaph written on the headstone of some dead Greek guy.
(Person in Greek dress. Seikliose Epitaph plays.)
Narrator: Melody didn’t change much. For many years melody was dominated by the
Christian churches. Monks were especially fond of it.
(Monks come out and start chanting)
Narrator: Then, one day, some genius said: What if we were to sing two different notes
at the same time?
Narrator: And Harmony was born. The church now had the market cornered in both
melody and harmony. But, lasciviousness was starting to creep in.
(A group of non monks enter)
A battle between the holy motets and the worldly madrigals was taking place.
(Monks and laymen go back and forth singing their songs)
You can guess which one started to win.
(A monk starts singing a madrigal.)
Narrator: About 1400 AD the Renaissance occurred. You know, the age of
Enlightenment. The most significant change during the renaissance was probably harmony. Up to that point the idea of consonance was in fourth and fifths.
In the Renaissance thirds became what was considered consonant.
Narrator: In about 1600 the baroque era come into music. This brought about the birth
of oratorios, cantatas, and toccatas. One of the most famous being Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.
(Toccata plays)
Narrator: The baroque also brought about the birth of opera.
(group cringes, one member may faint)
Narrator: (giving them a nasty look) Purcells’ Dido and Aeneas.
In this scene, Dido has given up all hope because her lover Aeneas has left her. So, like any self respecting diva, she decides to commit suicide. As she stabs herself, she sings about her grief.
(Dido takes a really, really, really long time to die.)
She takes a long time to die.
Did I say a long time? I meant a really long time.
A really, really long time to die.
Die!
Narrator: After Baroque there was the classical era, starting in roughly 1730. The
Classical period, besides operas, was known for modulation, complex harmony and symphonies. This is Mozart’s famous “Queen of the Night Aria” from The Magic Flute.
You may recognize this little tune from the classical period by Mozart.
(Twinkle, Twinkle little star)
Narrator: Or this one, by Beethoven.
(Play Beethoven)
Narrator: After the Classical period came the Romantic era where all of the songs were
about unrequited love and death, played as prettily as possible.
Narrator: What you just heard was a classic French art song from the Romantic period, followed by a clip from the symphony fantastique in which a man is sentenced to death after killing his lover. That bump, bump was the sound of his head rolling away after it was chopped off. Thank you Berlios. We ended with The Right of Spring by Stravinsky. The modern era consists of music from the 1900’s until now. You know what that's like. This has been a brief history of music. Thank you.
Narrator: FIRST: there was rhythm.
From the beginning of time (meaning somewhere between the creation and the whole apple incident) there has been a beat.
(Cave man comes out. Strikes up a beat.)
The pulsation echoed through valleys and bounced off of mountainsides; frightening dinosaurs and small birds.
Narrator: It wasn’t long after the invention of beat that melody came along. Melody was
used to great effect by the Greeks. The oldest transcribed piece of music in existence is the Seikilos Epitaph. Found near turkey, it was an epitaph written on the headstone of some dead Greek guy.
(Person in Greek dress. Seikliose Epitaph plays.)
Narrator: Melody didn’t change much. For many years melody was dominated by the
Christian churches. Monks were especially fond of it.
(Monks come out and start chanting)
Narrator: Then, one day, some genius said: What if we were to sing two different notes
at the same time?
Narrator: And Harmony was born. The church now had the market cornered in both
melody and harmony. But, lasciviousness was starting to creep in.
(A group of non monks enter)
A battle between the holy motets and the worldly madrigals was taking place.
(Monks and laymen go back and forth singing their songs)
You can guess which one started to win.
(A monk starts singing a madrigal.)
Narrator: About 1400 AD the Renaissance occurred. You know, the age of
Enlightenment. The most significant change during the renaissance was probably harmony. Up to that point the idea of consonance was in fourth and fifths.
In the Renaissance thirds became what was considered consonant.
Narrator: In about 1600 the baroque era come into music. This brought about the birth
of oratorios, cantatas, and toccatas. One of the most famous being Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.
(Toccata plays)
Narrator: The baroque also brought about the birth of opera.
(group cringes, one member may faint)
Narrator: (giving them a nasty look) Purcells’ Dido and Aeneas.
In this scene, Dido has given up all hope because her lover Aeneas has left her. So, like any self respecting diva, she decides to commit suicide. As she stabs herself, she sings about her grief.
(Dido takes a really, really, really long time to die.)
She takes a long time to die.
Did I say a long time? I meant a really long time.
A really, really long time to die.
Die!
Narrator: After Baroque there was the classical era, starting in roughly 1730. The
Classical period, besides operas, was known for modulation, complex harmony and symphonies. This is Mozart’s famous “Queen of the Night Aria” from The Magic Flute.
You may recognize this little tune from the classical period by Mozart.
(Twinkle, Twinkle little star)
Narrator: Or this one, by Beethoven.
(Play Beethoven)
Narrator: After the Classical period came the Romantic era where all of the songs were
about unrequited love and death, played as prettily as possible.
Narrator: What you just heard was a classic French art song from the Romantic period, followed by a clip from the symphony fantastique in which a man is sentenced to death after killing his lover. That bump, bump was the sound of his head rolling away after it was chopped off. Thank you Berlios. We ended with The Right of Spring by Stravinsky. The modern era consists of music from the 1900’s until now. You know what that's like. This has been a brief history of music. Thank you.
De Bourgh's
So, this one time I was wathing Pride and Prejudice with my roommate Cara. I think it was the new one that we were watching at the time, not the fantastic BBC version. Suddenly I looked at the girl playing Anne De Bourgh and said something along the lines of "I don't think she's really sickly. I'll bet she owns a night club." And De Bourgh's was born. At first I was thinking it would be a story about her running a night club, but now I'm thinking it could be sort of like a Canteburry tales. A cross roads for fictional characters to meet and interact, with bits and peices of Annes running a night club in between. Anywhoodle, here is the introduction to it I just finished writing. One of the regulars at the club will be the King of Siam who faked his own death. It's all very exciting.
De Bourgh’s
De Bourgh’s originally belonged to Anne’s father. Being rich, his estates naturally passed to her, even though she was a daughter in a time when estates were generally entailed away from the female line. Most of her fortune was not yet available to her, because her mother, Lady Catherine, was still quite alive and kicking, much like the pretentious mule that she was.
However, unbeknownst to Lady Catherine, her husband had other fortunes which he was obliged to tell her nothing about whatsoever. Lord and Lady De Bourgh were united in an arranged marriage at a very young age. And even though she was quite beautiful, it was not long before Lord De Bourgh realized that Lady Catherine was far too pompous and arrogant to be brought into his confidences. Although Lady Catherine was no respecter of etiquette in regards to herself, any lack of propriety seen on the part of any other party was not stood for.
This asset to which Lady Catherine was unaware was the place where Lord De Bourgh would get away after a long day of stressful business and an even more stressful wife. It was his, so to speak, night club: De Bourgh’s. Living as respected English gentleman by day and renowned partier and club owner by night was a satisfying, though lonesome way to spend his existence.
And then Anne was born. When she was still very young, he realized that Anne was naturally different than her mother. She had a sense of humor that kept her heart light and a Machiavellian streak which taught her to avoid showing that humorous streak to her mother. When Anne was seven Lord De Bourgh started taking Anne to his night club. He hired a trust worthy governess, Mrs. Jenkinson who would keep an eye on little Anne without letting the mother know.
Staying home all day with an aggravating mother and staying up all night with a night club full of people started to ware on the young girl after a while. She began to develop a somewhat sickly constitution. Her mother called her delicate. Anne was really just exhausted, but she used her mother’s impression of her to get out of things, such as piano lessons.
“I’m sorry mother,” she would say, lying on her bed hand over her forehead, “I just don’t think that I’m up to it.” Her pale face and the bags under her eyes convinced her mother that she was the most delicate of flowers and her health would not allow her to exert herself in that way. So, Lady Catherine would leave her alone. And that night at the club Anne would spin down a piano stool and bust out some rag time. And Mrs. Jenkinson was known to don a feather boa and do the Charleston.
Now, you may be thinking that the Lady Catherine and Anne De Bourgh lived in the regency era, rag time wasn’t invented yet. What you may not know about De Bourgh’s is that it is a night club where many of the most prominent characters in the world of film and fiction spend their time. That being the case, ragtime is always in vogue and everyone loves the Charleston.
When Lord De Bourgh died, Anne took over the club and turned it into one of the most successful ventures of fictional Regency England. And everyone you could imagine, especially those characters within public domain, loved to get down at De Bourgh’s.
De Bourgh’s
De Bourgh’s originally belonged to Anne’s father. Being rich, his estates naturally passed to her, even though she was a daughter in a time when estates were generally entailed away from the female line. Most of her fortune was not yet available to her, because her mother, Lady Catherine, was still quite alive and kicking, much like the pretentious mule that she was.
However, unbeknownst to Lady Catherine, her husband had other fortunes which he was obliged to tell her nothing about whatsoever. Lord and Lady De Bourgh were united in an arranged marriage at a very young age. And even though she was quite beautiful, it was not long before Lord De Bourgh realized that Lady Catherine was far too pompous and arrogant to be brought into his confidences. Although Lady Catherine was no respecter of etiquette in regards to herself, any lack of propriety seen on the part of any other party was not stood for.
This asset to which Lady Catherine was unaware was the place where Lord De Bourgh would get away after a long day of stressful business and an even more stressful wife. It was his, so to speak, night club: De Bourgh’s. Living as respected English gentleman by day and renowned partier and club owner by night was a satisfying, though lonesome way to spend his existence.
And then Anne was born. When she was still very young, he realized that Anne was naturally different than her mother. She had a sense of humor that kept her heart light and a Machiavellian streak which taught her to avoid showing that humorous streak to her mother. When Anne was seven Lord De Bourgh started taking Anne to his night club. He hired a trust worthy governess, Mrs. Jenkinson who would keep an eye on little Anne without letting the mother know.
Staying home all day with an aggravating mother and staying up all night with a night club full of people started to ware on the young girl after a while. She began to develop a somewhat sickly constitution. Her mother called her delicate. Anne was really just exhausted, but she used her mother’s impression of her to get out of things, such as piano lessons.
“I’m sorry mother,” she would say, lying on her bed hand over her forehead, “I just don’t think that I’m up to it.” Her pale face and the bags under her eyes convinced her mother that she was the most delicate of flowers and her health would not allow her to exert herself in that way. So, Lady Catherine would leave her alone. And that night at the club Anne would spin down a piano stool and bust out some rag time. And Mrs. Jenkinson was known to don a feather boa and do the Charleston.
Now, you may be thinking that the Lady Catherine and Anne De Bourgh lived in the regency era, rag time wasn’t invented yet. What you may not know about De Bourgh’s is that it is a night club where many of the most prominent characters in the world of film and fiction spend their time. That being the case, ragtime is always in vogue and everyone loves the Charleston.
When Lord De Bourgh died, Anne took over the club and turned it into one of the most successful ventures of fictional Regency England. And everyone you could imagine, especially those characters within public domain, loved to get down at De Bourgh’s.
Welcome to the family
My family has always been really close. I don’t just mean my immediate family, brothers and sisters, but my cousins. At least on my mom’s side we were. I guess it’s because of my grandparents who were probably two of the best people I have ever had the honor of knowing. We all lived in nearby states, so we were together as often as possible.
While sitting with my aunts and my cousins I adopted a theory that I have now held for a long time. I love to talk, but when you are in a room with about a dozen women who are all taking part in the same conversation, more that once was I obliged to just listen. It goes against my nature, but the women with more experience were faster than me. So as I sat and observed I began to realize that every conversation always hit the same three topics: marriage, death, and babies. It was without fail. Younger crowds will often add a fourth subject, which is dreams, but that one varies.
I was recently sitting in a restaurant with some of my cousins and my sister and my brother’s fiancé. My sister is moving to Texas and it was a sort of good bye dinner. It was also a good chance to introduce my brother’s fiancé to the ways of the family. We had to wait for a table, and before we were really seated we had already reached those three topics. I mentioned this to my cousin and she said “no, it’s just women.”
That made me stop and think for a minute. There’s no question that men and women think differently. From the dawn of time, all the way back into the Garden of Eden. Adam was thinking “Nice tree, but don’t eat the apples.” And Eve said, “I think I want to have kids.” And that my friends, is why the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree to this very day.
For instance, Pride and Prejudice. Now, I’m not saying all women feel this way, or all men feel that way about it. Just in my experience, this is what I’ve seen. A woman will watch or read Pride and Prejudice and see a powerful love story full of social adventure and endless nuances. A man will scoff at the huge side burns and wonder what the big deal about Pemberly is. Women will say Elizabeth is the prettiest, men will choose Jane.
I like having conversations with men. There seems to be less pressure in some ways. First of all, when you are with a guy, you don’t have to talk about guys. You don’t have to talk about marriage, feminine needs, fashion or diets. Not that I don’t enjoy talking about any of those things, but it’s nice to have a break for a while.
That’s why it’s good to find a good balance of friends. When I talk to my girlfriends we also talk about books, movies, music, musicals, television shows, mythology and even stray into more philosophical topics, like the influence of female archetypes throughout history.
People seem to want to make this big war between men and women. What they’re doing isn’t liberation for either side. It’s falling victim to the same fallacy civilizations have been falling prey to for years: fighting what you don’t understand.
Men and women are different. They speak differently, have different interests, they are even better at different things. Women talk about marriage death and babies. And men, well, I know they talk about sports. I know there are other things to, but I’m no expert.
I guess my point goes back to my grandparents. My grandpa was an extraordinary man, and my grandmother was an amazing woman. They worked together and loved each other. They had five children, twenty three grandchildren, and are on their way to their tenth great grandchild. We all know each other, laugh with each other. The cousins all get along, the boys and the girls. The family knows everything, there are no secrets. We aren’t exactly to the point of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but we aren’t far from it. And it’s wonderful.
And all of us know it’s because of our extraordinary heritage. There was such a love and respect created in their marriage that’s influenced all of us for the better and for the rest of our lives. We all have our differences, but I think that if we could try to understand each other, to respect and to love each other and of course work together, we’d find what we’ve really been fighting for and talking about is peace. Our differences make us stronger if we can learn to see past them.
Welcome to the family.
While sitting with my aunts and my cousins I adopted a theory that I have now held for a long time. I love to talk, but when you are in a room with about a dozen women who are all taking part in the same conversation, more that once was I obliged to just listen. It goes against my nature, but the women with more experience were faster than me. So as I sat and observed I began to realize that every conversation always hit the same three topics: marriage, death, and babies. It was without fail. Younger crowds will often add a fourth subject, which is dreams, but that one varies.
I was recently sitting in a restaurant with some of my cousins and my sister and my brother’s fiancé. My sister is moving to Texas and it was a sort of good bye dinner. It was also a good chance to introduce my brother’s fiancé to the ways of the family. We had to wait for a table, and before we were really seated we had already reached those three topics. I mentioned this to my cousin and she said “no, it’s just women.”
That made me stop and think for a minute. There’s no question that men and women think differently. From the dawn of time, all the way back into the Garden of Eden. Adam was thinking “Nice tree, but don’t eat the apples.” And Eve said, “I think I want to have kids.” And that my friends, is why the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree to this very day.
For instance, Pride and Prejudice. Now, I’m not saying all women feel this way, or all men feel that way about it. Just in my experience, this is what I’ve seen. A woman will watch or read Pride and Prejudice and see a powerful love story full of social adventure and endless nuances. A man will scoff at the huge side burns and wonder what the big deal about Pemberly is. Women will say Elizabeth is the prettiest, men will choose Jane.
I like having conversations with men. There seems to be less pressure in some ways. First of all, when you are with a guy, you don’t have to talk about guys. You don’t have to talk about marriage, feminine needs, fashion or diets. Not that I don’t enjoy talking about any of those things, but it’s nice to have a break for a while.
That’s why it’s good to find a good balance of friends. When I talk to my girlfriends we also talk about books, movies, music, musicals, television shows, mythology and even stray into more philosophical topics, like the influence of female archetypes throughout history.
People seem to want to make this big war between men and women. What they’re doing isn’t liberation for either side. It’s falling victim to the same fallacy civilizations have been falling prey to for years: fighting what you don’t understand.
Men and women are different. They speak differently, have different interests, they are even better at different things. Women talk about marriage death and babies. And men, well, I know they talk about sports. I know there are other things to, but I’m no expert.
I guess my point goes back to my grandparents. My grandpa was an extraordinary man, and my grandmother was an amazing woman. They worked together and loved each other. They had five children, twenty three grandchildren, and are on their way to their tenth great grandchild. We all know each other, laugh with each other. The cousins all get along, the boys and the girls. The family knows everything, there are no secrets. We aren’t exactly to the point of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but we aren’t far from it. And it’s wonderful.
And all of us know it’s because of our extraordinary heritage. There was such a love and respect created in their marriage that’s influenced all of us for the better and for the rest of our lives. We all have our differences, but I think that if we could try to understand each other, to respect and to love each other and of course work together, we’d find what we’ve really been fighting for and talking about is peace. Our differences make us stronger if we can learn to see past them.
Welcome to the family.
Silly Sonnett
To create a masterpiece, spreading joy
Taking objects and make them change its form
Pretending to be artful or just coy
Chocolate helps those who are lost and forlorn
What joy can a cookie bring to the sad?
How can we lift a hungry, tortured soul?
Replace with goodness all that once was bad
The way to this is a stomach that’s full.
To create and to give a piece of love
Is something that we oft just cannot do
But if one would give hope like from above.
I would say do it with a yummy stew.
For when once gives a meal or a dessert
We help ease pain and serve to conquer hurt.
Taking objects and make them change its form
Pretending to be artful or just coy
Chocolate helps those who are lost and forlorn
What joy can a cookie bring to the sad?
How can we lift a hungry, tortured soul?
Replace with goodness all that once was bad
The way to this is a stomach that’s full.
To create and to give a piece of love
Is something that we oft just cannot do
But if one would give hope like from above.
I would say do it with a yummy stew.
For when once gives a meal or a dessert
We help ease pain and serve to conquer hurt.
A love poem
You want a love poem?
Well, here it is.
I love music, but I’m cheating on it
In a torrent love affair with the written word.
I’m cheating on writing, ever straying towards history.
My passions wander in all directions.
I have a love story of the most exciting kind.
An involved love triangle, being pulled on all sides.
What love do I follow? Where does my heart lead?
Can you see it? The turmoil? The angst?
That’s what every good love story needs.
A decision to be made. Someone gets left behind.
And what do we call this epic drama
that comes from my wild dealings in love?
This, my friend is what we call:
Choosing your master’s degree.
Well, here it is.
I love music, but I’m cheating on it
In a torrent love affair with the written word.
I’m cheating on writing, ever straying towards history.
My passions wander in all directions.
I have a love story of the most exciting kind.
An involved love triangle, being pulled on all sides.
What love do I follow? Where does my heart lead?
Can you see it? The turmoil? The angst?
That’s what every good love story needs.
A decision to be made. Someone gets left behind.
And what do we call this epic drama
that comes from my wild dealings in love?
This, my friend is what we call:
Choosing your master’s degree.
Annabella, a not so Cinderella Story
I had this dream once that inspired a story about what would happen if Cinderella went to a ball and didn't fall in love with the prince. Instead of it being Conderella, I decided to make it a girl named Annabella who had a wizard for a godfather, rather than a fairy godmother. This is the scene where she realizes that the prince is in love with her, but she is just not feeling it.
The major domo smiled at me as I walked through the doors. “May I announce you Madam?” he asked kindly.
“What? Oh, uh. Annabella.” I said a little dazed. I looked around the ballroom and it was beautiful. Candles and flowers were everywhere, a light fragrance floated through the air, mingling with the gentle sound of the music. It was the most beautiful place I had ever been in.
The Major Domo pounded his staff on the floor, “Annabella,” he announced in a loud clear voice.
Have you ever had the eyes of a thousand people trained directly on you? The moment my name was announced and all the guests turned the look, the room stopped. It is a very intimidating feeling knowing an entire kingdom is watching you. A murmur ran through the crowd as I descended the staircase. I felt completely vulnerable and very self-conscious. Why was everyone staring at me? Did I look funny, or did the crowd just do this to everyone that walked into the room? Finally I reached the bottom of the stairs and the major domo again pounded his staff. The trance of the room was broken and everyone went back to their business. I still kept getting strange looks and felt the whispers of people around the room as I walked by.
Suddenly I was forcibly spun around. Prudence was before me, her eyes ablaze with anger, her teeth clenched in fury. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
I smiled at her pleasantly. “I’m attending the ball,” I said as sweetly as I could and feeling very satisfied with myself.
She looked as if she was about to slap me. She moved to towards me then abruptly her face turned white.
“Excuse me madam,” I heard someone say. I turned to find myself face to face with the prince. “May I have this dance?” he asked me.
I must say that I was startled when I first looked into those clear blue eyes. I curtsied in the appropriate way of acceptance. As he lead me onto the dance floor I looked behind me to see Prudence still standing in shock.
Here, I am afraid, is where the similarity to the story of Cinderella almost entirely disappears. For although the minute the prince laid eyes on me, he fell in love, I did not. He was very sweet, and an excellent dancer. The first dance finished we kept dancing. In fact, we didn’t stop dancing for another half a dozen songs. And only then because I said I was thirsty. He seemed to be missing something behind those incredibly clear blue eyes.
“Wait here,” he told me eagerly. “I will get you something to drink.” Maybe it should have occurred to me that he would have people to do that for him. Why was he paying me so much attention, and why wouldn’t he stop staring at me? I didn’t have time to think about it though.
“Annabella,” I heard a cold voice say.
Uh-oh, busted! I thought. I put on as carefree of a face as I could as I turned to meet Gwendolyn. “Hello,” I said simply.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. The calm in her voice was most unsettling.
“I’m dancing.” It was all I could think to say. I saw Prudence and Roseland rushing over.
“See mother,” Prudence said out of breath, “she’s here and keeping to prince all to herself. She should be home cleaning the basement. The little vixen.”
“Yes,” said Roseland, “the vixen.”
I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, anger swelling just as fast with just as much heat. Vixen? Just who did they think they were? After all, they were the ones that were throwing themselves at Connor. What right did they have? “The basement is taken care of,” I said as calmly as I could. “And since you never forbade me to go to the ball, I came.”
“Where did you get your dress?” Prudence demanded.
“I’ll bet she stole it!” Roseland piped in.
“Were did you get the dress?” Gwendolyn asked me.
“My Godfather gave it to me,” I said defiantly. “He wanted me to go to the ball.” Suddenly Gwendolyn began to smile. I looked over at Prudence and Roseland. They were smiling too. What the-?
“Annabella.”
Oh no. The prince was back. I put my smile back on and turned to greet him. He wasn’t alone.
“Annabella,” he said, “May I present to you my mother and father. Mother, father, this is Annabella.”
“Your majesties,” I said bowing. Why was the prince introducing me to his parents? Something was up.
“Is this your family?” the prince asked looking behind me.
“Oh, yes,” I said. I couldn’t very well ignore them, and maybe introducing them to royalty would spare me some of their scolding. “May I present my step-mother, Gwendolyn and my step-sister, Prudence. Also, Prudence’s friend, Roseland.” They each bowed in turn.
“Your majesties, Prince Casper,” said Gwendolyn extending her hand. “Thank you so much for inviting us into your home.” She was the epitome of grace.
“Yes,” said Prince Casper ignoring her outstretched hand, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And before another word was said, he whisked me away and we were dancing again. He was like a little puppy, eager to please and not understanding when you didn’t want attention. We just kept dancing. Soon, we danced ourselves into the garden. I hadn’t even gotten my drink. “You are so beautiful,” he told me.
I don’t think that I had ever been called beautiful before. Not by anyone besides my father anyway. It was nice to hear. And then we stopped dancing. He took my hand and led me deeper into the garden. A little warning sound went off in my head screaming DANGER, DANGER! GO BACK NOW! But it was too late. I found myself in a beautiful grotto, and still the prince kept staring at me. I looked around at the flowers, trying not to notice.
“It is beautiful here,” I said, trying to banish the discomfort. “The flowers are gorgeous.”
“Do you think so?” said the prince excitedly. It sparked something in him that I had not seen up until that point. That thing that was missing behind his eyes suddenly appeared. “This is my section of the garden,” he said. “I grow these plants myself.” So that was it, this was his passion.
“They are some of the most beautiful I have ever seen,” I said, and I meant it.
Then he gave me a look that struck fear in my heart. The look that couples get when standing in the moonlight. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” That is when it hit me, hard and fast; romantic setting in a garden, dancing all night, meeting the king and queen. Was he in love with me?
“I love you.” He said.
Uh-oh, I thought, I’m in big trouble now!
“I’ve already talked to my parents. We’ll start planning for the wedding immediately.”
WEDDING! What was I supposed to do with that? I had known this man for about an hour. And although he was sweet, I certainly didn’t love him, much less want to marry him. I tried to leave subtly thinking if I could make it out of the grotto I could make a run for it, but disaster struck! As I tried to get away I stumbled and he caught me in his arms. Apparently he took this as an invitation because after he caught me he drew me up and kissed me. BAD, BAD, VERY BAD! I was stunned, to say the least. “I have to go now,” I said, and ran away as fast as I could.
What else was I supposed to do? I could feel Prince Casper behind me.
“Wait,” he called to me.
“No time,” I said, “I have to go.” I dashed through the ballroom, again causing murmurs and whispers to go through the room. I was going pretty fast, but he was gaining on me. Not fast enough! I thought. I kicked off my shoes and kept on running.
“Wait,” The bewildered prince called again, “You forgot your shoes!”
I ran outside and looked around. Why hadn’t Godfather Marlin given me transportation to get home! I could here a crowd of people rushing after me. I darted into the nearby woods and waited for them to pass me by.
The major domo smiled at me as I walked through the doors. “May I announce you Madam?” he asked kindly.
“What? Oh, uh. Annabella.” I said a little dazed. I looked around the ballroom and it was beautiful. Candles and flowers were everywhere, a light fragrance floated through the air, mingling with the gentle sound of the music. It was the most beautiful place I had ever been in.
The Major Domo pounded his staff on the floor, “Annabella,” he announced in a loud clear voice.
Have you ever had the eyes of a thousand people trained directly on you? The moment my name was announced and all the guests turned the look, the room stopped. It is a very intimidating feeling knowing an entire kingdom is watching you. A murmur ran through the crowd as I descended the staircase. I felt completely vulnerable and very self-conscious. Why was everyone staring at me? Did I look funny, or did the crowd just do this to everyone that walked into the room? Finally I reached the bottom of the stairs and the major domo again pounded his staff. The trance of the room was broken and everyone went back to their business. I still kept getting strange looks and felt the whispers of people around the room as I walked by.
Suddenly I was forcibly spun around. Prudence was before me, her eyes ablaze with anger, her teeth clenched in fury. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
I smiled at her pleasantly. “I’m attending the ball,” I said as sweetly as I could and feeling very satisfied with myself.
She looked as if she was about to slap me. She moved to towards me then abruptly her face turned white.
“Excuse me madam,” I heard someone say. I turned to find myself face to face with the prince. “May I have this dance?” he asked me.
I must say that I was startled when I first looked into those clear blue eyes. I curtsied in the appropriate way of acceptance. As he lead me onto the dance floor I looked behind me to see Prudence still standing in shock.
Here, I am afraid, is where the similarity to the story of Cinderella almost entirely disappears. For although the minute the prince laid eyes on me, he fell in love, I did not. He was very sweet, and an excellent dancer. The first dance finished we kept dancing. In fact, we didn’t stop dancing for another half a dozen songs. And only then because I said I was thirsty. He seemed to be missing something behind those incredibly clear blue eyes.
“Wait here,” he told me eagerly. “I will get you something to drink.” Maybe it should have occurred to me that he would have people to do that for him. Why was he paying me so much attention, and why wouldn’t he stop staring at me? I didn’t have time to think about it though.
“Annabella,” I heard a cold voice say.
Uh-oh, busted! I thought. I put on as carefree of a face as I could as I turned to meet Gwendolyn. “Hello,” I said simply.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. The calm in her voice was most unsettling.
“I’m dancing.” It was all I could think to say. I saw Prudence and Roseland rushing over.
“See mother,” Prudence said out of breath, “she’s here and keeping to prince all to herself. She should be home cleaning the basement. The little vixen.”
“Yes,” said Roseland, “the vixen.”
I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, anger swelling just as fast with just as much heat. Vixen? Just who did they think they were? After all, they were the ones that were throwing themselves at Connor. What right did they have? “The basement is taken care of,” I said as calmly as I could. “And since you never forbade me to go to the ball, I came.”
“Where did you get your dress?” Prudence demanded.
“I’ll bet she stole it!” Roseland piped in.
“Were did you get the dress?” Gwendolyn asked me.
“My Godfather gave it to me,” I said defiantly. “He wanted me to go to the ball.” Suddenly Gwendolyn began to smile. I looked over at Prudence and Roseland. They were smiling too. What the-?
“Annabella.”
Oh no. The prince was back. I put my smile back on and turned to greet him. He wasn’t alone.
“Annabella,” he said, “May I present to you my mother and father. Mother, father, this is Annabella.”
“Your majesties,” I said bowing. Why was the prince introducing me to his parents? Something was up.
“Is this your family?” the prince asked looking behind me.
“Oh, yes,” I said. I couldn’t very well ignore them, and maybe introducing them to royalty would spare me some of their scolding. “May I present my step-mother, Gwendolyn and my step-sister, Prudence. Also, Prudence’s friend, Roseland.” They each bowed in turn.
“Your majesties, Prince Casper,” said Gwendolyn extending her hand. “Thank you so much for inviting us into your home.” She was the epitome of grace.
“Yes,” said Prince Casper ignoring her outstretched hand, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And before another word was said, he whisked me away and we were dancing again. He was like a little puppy, eager to please and not understanding when you didn’t want attention. We just kept dancing. Soon, we danced ourselves into the garden. I hadn’t even gotten my drink. “You are so beautiful,” he told me.
I don’t think that I had ever been called beautiful before. Not by anyone besides my father anyway. It was nice to hear. And then we stopped dancing. He took my hand and led me deeper into the garden. A little warning sound went off in my head screaming DANGER, DANGER! GO BACK NOW! But it was too late. I found myself in a beautiful grotto, and still the prince kept staring at me. I looked around at the flowers, trying not to notice.
“It is beautiful here,” I said, trying to banish the discomfort. “The flowers are gorgeous.”
“Do you think so?” said the prince excitedly. It sparked something in him that I had not seen up until that point. That thing that was missing behind his eyes suddenly appeared. “This is my section of the garden,” he said. “I grow these plants myself.” So that was it, this was his passion.
“They are some of the most beautiful I have ever seen,” I said, and I meant it.
Then he gave me a look that struck fear in my heart. The look that couples get when standing in the moonlight. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” That is when it hit me, hard and fast; romantic setting in a garden, dancing all night, meeting the king and queen. Was he in love with me?
“I love you.” He said.
Uh-oh, I thought, I’m in big trouble now!
“I’ve already talked to my parents. We’ll start planning for the wedding immediately.”
WEDDING! What was I supposed to do with that? I had known this man for about an hour. And although he was sweet, I certainly didn’t love him, much less want to marry him. I tried to leave subtly thinking if I could make it out of the grotto I could make a run for it, but disaster struck! As I tried to get away I stumbled and he caught me in his arms. Apparently he took this as an invitation because after he caught me he drew me up and kissed me. BAD, BAD, VERY BAD! I was stunned, to say the least. “I have to go now,” I said, and ran away as fast as I could.
What else was I supposed to do? I could feel Prince Casper behind me.
“Wait,” he called to me.
“No time,” I said, “I have to go.” I dashed through the ballroom, again causing murmurs and whispers to go through the room. I was going pretty fast, but he was gaining on me. Not fast enough! I thought. I kicked off my shoes and kept on running.
“Wait,” The bewildered prince called again, “You forgot your shoes!”
I ran outside and looked around. Why hadn’t Godfather Marlin given me transportation to get home! I could here a crowd of people rushing after me. I darted into the nearby woods and waited for them to pass me by.
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