Thursday, November 15, 2007


I finally fleshed it out. Well partly anyway. But still, more so than I've done in writing yet, with the possible exception of---

No, no, I think even in Mackie's backstory, which I mostly-wrote but never put online (to this day I can't work out how to end the thing, I don't like what it is right now), I skipped over this part and was even more vague than I was this time.

If interested, and can stand a few awkward sentences, pop on over to Amaranthus, the NaNoWriMo blog, and read the chapters for Azal. (This will be the posts from Nov. 11-15, in case the post titles get pushed down the 'previous posts' list.) Really, the backstory is hardly connected to the story told in the first half, but, hey, it had to happen somewhere. ;)

Warning: the first half of his chapter is kindasorta a sex scene. Not terribly graphic, but, y'know. He's a Phisto! Of course there was going to be sex.

I just realised this is the first time, outside of rp-chats with Megs, that I've written a Phisto sex scene. Very odd.

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Wednesday, November 7, 2007

note and illustration

While I was supposed to be writing, I stumbled across the ultimate doll-making site again. Dangerousdangerous.

Of course what did I do?

I made ridiculously over-the-top cute versions of my characters.

So take these with a grain of salt. XD

Meres and Luce

Mephisto and Nila


But I can claim some justification for these! It actually, oddly enough, helped me out a bit in terms of characterization. I hadn't realised quite how much I'd decided Nila was a little British schoolboy, but I guess he kinda is. But while these versions are obviously, uh, a bit over-simplified and modern, the gists are there. Everything about Veri is a bit washed-out, while everything around Mephisto is theatrically bold and dramatic.

(x-posted on the NaNo blog.)

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Thursday, November 1, 2007

Twice Entwined

Twice entwined
I sit again beside the weary fountain
Thoughts indistinct as its wavering motions
A muted splash, a slow-motion murmur
Celestial haze mingling in terrestrial fog
Rusted vines, brittle fingers slowly grasping
Attaching only to have the stone fall away
Every thieving hand so soon empty
The wine passes through my pale fingers
My flesh too fragile now to contain
Memory drifting in ever-widening ripples
And what Time carries away I cannot retain
I no longer know what draws me here
But twice entwined I cannot pull away
The vines clasp my wrists and leave nothing behind
Delicate flesh so soon dissipated
In air laden with the exhalations of those gone
My faltering breath is as theirs
What forgotten name holds me here?
The fountain's breath slow and heavy
The falling water has gathered dust
Motion slowed and motion stilled
Twice entwined and I am consumed
Consumed but not quite dissipated
My soul yet tethered to malleable flesh
I would turn away and have done
But the wine has fallen through my skin
And replaced the blood of my veins
The wine lies heavily and so
I remain beside the drunken fountain
Its speech indistinct as my own
Twice entwined by memories without name
Who are you that keeps me here?
Unnamed, you should hold no power
Embraced by vines glistening with water
Dusty water, its color long-gone
Motion repeated until the motive is lost
I am here again through reasons forgotten
Who are you that keeps me here?
Twice entwined, I cannot pull away
From that which I have forgotten

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Tuesday, October 30, 2007


New posts.. hopefully tomorrow, I have a few more stories pretty much done that I need to get out of my system so I can focus on NaNo. But, speaking of: the annual NaNoWriMo blog! If you want more Phistos, and don't mind sifting through my harried first-draft crap, dig in. Or, just keep an eye on my word count and scream at me to keep going. :)

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All-Hallows Summer

"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, and nothing can cure the senses but the soul."
       - Oscar Wilde

       Though the calendar would name the season as autumn, the afternoon is one stolen from an earlier month, the fullness of the summer sun returned for a single day. A string quartet plays in midst of the rose garden, and the sweetly melancholy notes are carried with the warm heady scent through the rich air, lingering as the haze between overhanging branches. Yet despite the music, there is a silence to this day which will not be broken, as if it truly has been stolen from another time, and so refuses to bear the marks of any present presence upon it. I walk slowly among the emerald and gold, the colors just beginning to show the rust of season's end. A church bell sounds in the far distance - I force myself to focus on the musicians, so that I will not hear the inevitable proclamation of the hour. I do not wish to think of how idly I have spent this day. Of course there is no shame in letting hours pass as one delights in the beauties surrounding one, and certainly there are none who would chasten me! And yet... and yet I find that I have no recollection of any particularly lovely thing from the day. I have walked blindly beneath the sun, I have scarcely noticed the music or blossoms or warmth or fragrance. They have existed solely as background - but background to what? I find no lingering trails of thought in my mind, merely a dull sort of numbness, as one who is ill and has woken from one heavy, dreamless sleep, only to fall directly into another.
       Whyever does Man constantly search for endless life? If only he knew what dreadful ennui set in, he should stop such a ridiculous quest at once.
       The music bursts into a flurry of passionate notes, and my mood sours. Did I not specify that the music have no sudden changes? This is the last time I let any musicians be hired without first having explicit recommendation by Mephisto; every time I allow any others I am rewarded with absolutely flippant disregard for my instructions. Thus is the folly of man, thinking his decisions could hold more wisdom than ours. Such arrogance without merit, it is quite preposterous.
       The music resolves into smooth patterns, and I feel the tautness leave my muscles. I breath deeply, and again notice the fragrances around me. I close and open my eyes slowly, and again they are soothed by beauty. Overhead, dense vines of pale yellow jasmine drip graceful tendrils from a trellis elegantly wrought of some dark metal. The sky beyond is a clear, pure cerulean - a perfect foil for the blushing leaves. The gentlest of fairy-fire limning sun-faded green, studded with flecks of brilliant aquamarine. A solo violin flies upward in a birdsong of pure rapture, shedding drops of sunlight grown heavy and full with the lateness of the day and the season, pregnant with all the warmth of the year that has passed...
       A bird soars overhead, a dove, its outstretched wings radiant in the light. I watch it, and time slows in the intensity of my observation. Its wings beat in powerful strokes, each movement carrying with such ease through the high and rarefied air. The very space it has passed through seems brighter, the bird casting a negative shadow, bringing only light and never dark... no, a scrap of true shadow appears, yet not behind it but below it, dropping away from it, cast off and left behind. Yet even this loses its darkness, as it falls through the sun-saturated air, becoming brighter as it is purified by light and motion. And it lands on the ground before me: a feather of pure white, clear and unstained.
       I kneel, and a tear slips softly down my cheek as I take the feather carefully in my cupped hands. I hardly dare to touch it, fearing it will disappear, fearing more that I shall stain it by the slightest contact with my skin.
       But it remains in my hands, unsoiled and unstained, losing the luminosity of the sky but still pure...
       Until a breath from Heaven snatches this scrap of joy from my feeble grasp. I cry out in pain, reaching helplessly toward a thing I know I should never catch.
       I am frozen in the sudden intensity of emotion. Then before I have quite decided what to do, I call out:
       The briefest of moments, and one stands before me, his youthful cheeks flushed and loose tunic askew. But he stands at attention and smooths his clothing, quickly catching his breath so that his voice will flow gently. "Yes, Master?"
       "Bring a bottle of wine to--- to my rooms. Have two of the girls sent up, and have Amir meet me on the way."
       "Certainly, Master." He takes off at a run, a run filled with joy in the very motion, and I have not the heart to rebuke the boy for his lack of decorum. I slowly follow the fading afterimage of ivory and gold, my own pace weary and jaded. There is no joy left in this body prolonged by mere existence.
       But I will wrench some pleasure of this day.
       Amir meets me while I am still passing through the gardens, and a few brief words are all I need speak before he too turns from me, moving off to ready the remedies of Araby and the Orient. There is a room of the house dedicated to their use, and Amir is quite practiced in such ministrations. The distillations of poppy and cacti and other strange things carry such wondrous properties, once known only to the holiest of holy. (I wonder - is it thus fitting or ironic that they seem to suit us so well?) I shall have the curtains drawn and soak in the warmth of candles, for I grow weary of sunlight.
       I pass through the rose garden, and consider for a moment having the musicians moved indoors, where they may continue to--- but no. They have already disregarded my commands. I shall have them remain out here, to play to empty air, for they are deserving of nothing better.
       At last I reach the house, and pass into the comforting quiet of the main hall. The air is gentle and motionless, lightly fragranced with incense and flowers. I pause and take a long, slow breath, noting contentedly that the air does not startle my body with the myriad unexpected pollutions of the air out of doors. The light of the grand chandelier overhead is far more soothing than the harsh sunlight, and the gold moldings on the walls certainly more beautiful than dying leaves. What a lovely place I have created.
       At the entrance to my private rooms, I find two of the girls waiting for me, both clothed in diaphanous wraps of jewel-toned fabric, which reveal as much as they conceal. One holds a serving-tray with a bottle of one of my richer wines, and a delicate crystal glass.
       I open the door and wave for them to enter, my body growing eager in anticipation. I can smell the oils Amir is warming, and one of the girls is already offering a glass of wine to me, her eyes dark and inviting. The memory of the emptiness the garden brought me falls away, the dullness and ancient yearnings again pushed aside and forgotten. The sky is nothing but an empty expanse, why should I have longed for it? Things are far more pleasant here, in the dusky saturation of lamplight, where the drapery-laden walls gently enfold me.

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Previous Posts


This is where I'm posting all the random little stories and snippets and sketches I occasionally churn out. Generally, these will be things that have passed my personal rounds of editing - which means I'm confident enough with them to open them up to outside critique. So feedback is much appreciated, from anyone, on anything.

Only I do hope you haven't come here expecting intensely dramatic plots, because while I do tend to have some overly dramatic characters, plot is not my strong point. Nor, really, is having a point at all to my stories. I specialize in fleeting moments, in scenes, in atmosphere and emotion. (Though I would like to learn plot, so, feel free to make suggestions!)



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