From the Cluttered Archives of My Fairie-Centric Mind

He thinks her name is Aideen. To be honest, though, Dara’s less concerned about her name than he is about her life. Mortals weren’t meant to go through the Awakening Ceremony. Unless she had an uncommonly strong sire, the process, meant to bring fairie blood to full strength, could kill her. Human bodies weren’t able to contain that kind of power.

Aideen stands on the edge of a marble pool, dressed in a simple cotton shift. She shivers, her skinny arms wrapped around her as though keeping something contained. Most half-fairie progeny never learn that they are anything exceptional, but a few, like this girl, have too much magic running in their veins. They were either Awakened or they became insane.

He notices that in-between Aideen’s shivers her eyes are changing color, from a scared stormy grey to a cat’s-eye yellow. She’s much too far gone for one so young. That will only make the risk greater. Even now, the fairies meant to be conducting the Ceremony stand huddled together, unwilling to begin. They know that they might soon have a dead body on their hands.

Aideen collapses, unconscious, into the water. It’s possible she’s merely exhausted, but she doesn’t come back up, forcing the fairies’ hand. They scatter around the pool, arms raised, ceremonial robes and wings aglow. The water melts into roaring fire, ruby red and threatening orange. It cocoons the girl, twisting round her and raising her out of the pool. Her eyes are wide open; she makes no sound. The lines of her body grow blurry, and Aideen herself shifts in and out of focus. Finally, two forms glimmer through the flames, superimposed on each other. One is the Aideen from a few seconds ago, scared, small, and shaken. The other is a new Aideen, taller, stronger, and ultimately inhuman. She is only barely identifiable as the same girl. Her bone structure is more emphasized, her limbs are unnaturally long. Wings flicker in and out of existence, glowing with the heat of the flames. It isn’t long before this image begins to solidify, driving out the older, weaker form. With each new, magic-driven breath Aideen draws in, the flames around her die down and out, lowering the girl until she stands in an empty pool a completely different person. Her newly-born wings flick the remaining bits of molten fire off onto the marble where it sizzles away, and her eyes look out over the crowd. A swooping sensation of power accompanies the blank gaze, and for a second Dara fears that she has forgotten herself. The next instant, awareness floods her gaze, along with innocent exhaustion, and she tumbles unconscious into the arms of a waiting attendant. The court takes a collective sigh of relief, and life moves on with one added member of the Fair Folk.

The Unfortunate Marriage of a Brier Bush and a Dinner Jacket

a/n: Don't remember these kids? Read Beginnings.

Chester tore through the marsh, brambles snagging on every available snatch of fabric. He told his mother lace wasn't masculine enough for him. In fact, all this lace was downright dangerous. It was going to get him killed.
He glanced over his shoulder, gasping for breath. It was definitely still after him. A gigantic, slimy, vine-trailing, moaning, hideous beast. He had only been looking for Twitch. His throat snatched at what oxygen it could find in the air as he realized that the...swamp thing had been lurking just outside Twitch's hollow. Had the beast ensnared him, too? He attempted to put on an extra burst of speed, but only succeeded in nearly falling down a steep embankment and tearing off an entire sleeve of his dinner jacket. He winced. He would pay for that later, probably with a thrashing from his father.
The swamp monster was still after him. He could hear it crashing around just behind him. Chester put his hand to his side, trying to quell the pains issuing from the stitch growing there. He absolutely couldn't run any farther, and if he couldn't run, then he would have to fight.
He scrambled down the embankment, pressing himself into the mud. Above him, the swamp monster came to a lurching halt, vines dangling over the ledge. It snuffled about, trying to find Chester. Chester squeezed his eyes shut, reached for a vine (it was slimy, and cold, and foul-smelling) and pulled. With a mucusy roar, the entire monster came tumbling off the ledge into the sticky river mud. Chester gave a loud yell, and pitched himself onto the swamp monster, fully intending to destroy it before it could choke him to death. He sank a punch into what he judged to be roughly the middle of the beast, and was nearly blinded by a rush of sparks.
He tumbled backward, eyes narrowed from both the sparks and the revelation that came with them. He had seen sparks like these before. On an impulse, he grabbed the largest looking vine he saw and gave a hefty tug. All at once, the vines and swamp mud fell away, revealing a wheezing Twitch, his entire body tinted a dark forest green.
"Got you good!" he croaked triumphantly, laughter creeping into his voice. "I knew you'd scamper!"
Chester drew himself up to his full, not-inconsiderable height (he was ten-years-old, after all). "Gentlemen of note do not scamper," he said haughtily, "I was merely luring you away to an opportune location for an ambush."
"Shyah, of course." Twitch pointed at Chester's jacketless arm. "Was the sleeve supposed to be a directional marker?"
Chester snatched at the sleeve where it dangled on a brier bush and examined the frayed ends ruefully. "I suppose that's all it's good for now," he said.
"Oh, c'mon! Y'look dashing! Like those shipwrecked pirate thingamajiggers you're always going on about."
Chester looked a little more cheerful. "At least my skin isn't green," he said.
"Wot? What's wrong with green? Green is a very healthy color."
"How long are you going to be like that?"
Twitch shrugged. "I dunno. A week, maybe. Whydja ask? You too good to spend time with green people?"
A look of pure mischief spread across Chester's face. "I was just thinking that I know the best way to scare some of the maids at the House..."

A Lesson Mislearned

Mikelaine can still remember the first thing his mother told him when he became old enough to leave the Sidhe.
If you see a Hunter, you run.
You don't try to fight him, or bring him in, or anything like that. You get as far away from him as fast as you can, and pray he hasn't Sensed you yet.
Mikelaine also remembers the first thing his mother gave him that day.
A tiny crystal, barely thicker than his thumb, that glistened even when there was no light present. It was strung on a delicate silver chain, and he was instructed to wear it whenever he went Outside.
It was their only mode of defense against the Hunters. Once broken, it would diffuse his Trace, make him indiscernible from the humans around him. If he was absolutely certain a Hunter was tracking him, he should break it, and then fly. Take on a bird glamour, anything. Just get away, and make sure no one saw him.
The most important rule for a fairie was not to lead a Hunter back to the Sidhe. Protecting it was of the highest priority.
So when Mikelaine returns from a trip Outside, and Senses the Wayward Charms around the Sidhe are mangled and destroyed, he doesn't even go to look. He knows his home is forever gone, because someone didn't listen to their mother the first time they were old enough to leave the Sidhe.
And now the Sidhe's gone.

No, I'm not dead, but thanks for the concern

Apparently I've abandoned my blog.

It's not for lack of material: I am writing, I just never get around to posting. '~' So this is a new ultimatum to mahself: post at least one thing every month, even if it's epic fail that I end up deleting later. And trust me, there will be epic fail.

By the way, what is everyone's opinion on fanfiction? Because, for better or for worse, a lot of what I write is of the fanfiction variety, but I'm hesitant to post any of it here in case you all hate it. Thoughts?

"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again." --Oscar Wilde

In which there is a thunderstorm and someone subsequently becomes frightened and confused

There's a flash, and the thunder rumbles, and Diana jumps. See, Di is terrified of thunderstorms, and has been as long as I've known her. It's probably because she has no way to defend herself against them. She grows red roses around her house to protect herself from vampires, and she sleeps with a silver spoon in her hand to drive away the werewolves, but there's nothing to counteract a nice big thunderstorm.
The thunder roars out again, closer this time, and Diana yelps and shoves a massive bright blue pillow embroidered with (what else?) red roses over her head. Honestly, though, where on Earth did she find that thing? It's almost as big as she is, and more than twice as wide. Forget pillow, I think it's a plumpy tent. Must. Resist. Urge. To Shred.
"The stupid giants are throwing rocks at each other like they do in Wonderland!" Di mumbles from under the plumpy tent thing, her voice shaky and nervous.
"The giants are from The Hobbit, dear," Di's mom says from where she sits with her book, close enough to keep an eye on her freaked-out daughter. In response, Di throws the plumpy tent off her head, wailing petulantly.
"See what this storm has done to my delicate mental faculties! I can't even keep my fantastical literature straight!"
"Delicate mental faculties is right," I mutter. It is a testament to the versatile nature of Diana's mom that she doesn't even bat an eye when a cat starts talking. That's one unflappable woman.
"Oh Ares," Di starts, "don't mock those of us who fear the thunder and the lightning. Just because you were born in the midst of a thunderstorm during a new moon and therefore aren't scared of storms."
"Of course I'm not scared of...wait, what?"
Di sighs, momentarily distracted from the storm. "Ares, black cats are only born during thunderstorms that occur during new moons. Everyone knows that."
Oh, really? This is news to me. Well, I don't actually remember being born (who does?), so I suppose it could be true. I don't really remember anything at all from my life before coming to live with Di's family. Maybe my entire kittenhood was spent in a thunderstorm. In the dark. Under a plumpy tent.
The thunderstorm's still going strong, and Di's pulled the plumpy pillow thing off her head and begun clutching it to her chest, her skinny legs sticking out on either side. I curl up on top of the tent-like stuffball, and Diana begins absentmindedly scratching me behind one ear. Crash! goes the thunder, and Di's fingers dig reflexively into my fur. Ow, okay, that one hurt. She seems slightly calmer now that I'm sitting her though, so I stay, painful as it may be.
What are friends for, after all?

Beginnings

Chester was bored.
So bored, in fact, that one day he did something explicitly forbidden.
He followed the will-'o-the-wisps through the bogs. Nevermind what his mother and the servants said about danger and death. He was the son of a lord of England: the supernatural couldn't touch him. It wouldn't dare.
Twitch was irate.
So irate, in fact, that he merely lay in the leafy shade of a fern when he woke up, and he stewed. He had been banished, and without even a proper trial. They didn't even have the decency to make him a proper changeling, for he hadn't been placed in a home with a family. He was well and truly stuck.
This was how Chester found Twitch, lying on his back with his feet in the air, blowing angry sparks like an old man blows smoke rings. This was how a partnership was born, one that would result in more than a few blown-up objects and lost parental hairs.
This was how a friendship between a human boy and a fairy outcast began.

Revolution

She didn't know why she was standing here.
Maybe it was because, at the end of it all, she just couldn't hack it. When it came down to it, she was incapable of doing what they asked if her.
Which was funny, because it was supposed to be easy.
Liars.
She had tried, really, to believe what they said, to think two different things simultaneously, but she couldn't. The moment she did, they started spinning around in her head, one trying to defeat the other. But of course, then the second thought would defeat the first, and the first the second, and they'd just go on in and endless cycle.
The pressure had been building in her head for days, making her want to scream.
No matter what she did, no matter what she thought, a thousand other thoughts told her she was wrong. She couldn't move without them assailing her, making every day an impossible torment.
She couldn't think two things at once.
Maybe she did know why she was standing here, after all.
The door itself was nondescript, it was what was beyond it that captured her attention. Sanctuary. People who thought as she did. People who wanted to think their own thoughts, and theirs alone.
Maybe this was the first step on the road to peace.
The pressure in her head was gone already.

A Christmas Update

So, two things I wish to talk about: 1) The Princess and the Frog, and 2) Nutcracker, by E.T.A. Hoffmann.

1) Like about twenty other people (you know who you are), I saw The Princess and the Frog last night. And it. Was love. To be completely honest, I don't think it cracked my top three gems (The Lion King, Beauty and the Beast, and Aladdin, in that order) but it was still the most amazing movie Disney has created since ever. It was funny, sweet, adorable, dramatic, etc, etc, etc, as well as having a truly terrifying villain. If you were on the fence about seeing this movie, be so no longer. It is well worth your money.

And Prince Naveen is really and truly my new favorite Disney Prince. Sorry, Aladdin.

2) Okay, so I think most of us know that The Nutcracker, as in the ballet, is based off a children's book, but how many of us have actually read it? I know I hadn't, but I adore the story of the ballet, and I decided to dig up the book at my library. It is completely enchanting, and downright eerie, at the exact same time. The story is very different from the ballet in parts, but it is really magical. If you can, get the version illustrated by Maurice Sendak. His seven-headed mouse king made me shudder.

And read it before Christmas, or it looses more than half of its appeal. ;-)

Happy Christmas to you all!

Garage

I bet he thought no one saw him.
He snuck into the garage at 12 midnight every night, pushing the door just high enough to roll under.
I suppose he slept in our van, because once I found a cigarette in the ashtray in the back seat.
Every morning at 6, just as the sky was beginning to lighten, he would creep back out, slowly letting the garage door shut behind him. Once he took 5 minutes to close it, when the neighbors' dog had started barking.
Once the door was shut he would jog down my driveway, his backpack bouncing up and down, but every night he would be back. He always came back.
I bet he thought that no one saw him.
But I did.

Am I the only one who cares???

So in case any of you weren't aware of this, Disney is making a new classically animated movie!!! Classically animated means hand-drawn in the vein of The Lion King or Aladdin. This makes me really excited, since I've been complaining for years about how Disney stopped making these (Enchanted doesn't count), and now they have a new one! And it looks really good!

http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi3719168537/ (This is the trailer that I saw when I went to see HP6. I basically wanted to watch it more than Harry Potter)

It comes out the week before my birthday, and I am soooo excited! No one in my family cares about it at all (in fact, my brother scorns it. *cries*)

By the way, Prince Naveen might just be my new favorite Disney Prince. I withhold judgment until after I see the movie.

And this has been a completely pointless, non-writing-focused post from yours truly. ;-)

Because it's Halloween and I wanted to write something for it...

I hate Halloween. I mean, it's bad enough being a black cat during the rest of the year, but Halloween just sucks. I've had people try to kick me, for heaven's sake! And then there's all the screams, and people yelling, "BLACK CAT!!!" like it's a big deal or something. It's not my fault I was born with black fur. It's genetics, people! Look it up!

The worst people, though, are the ones who try to keep me, or worse, pet me. No thank you. I already have one human to take care of, and believe you me, she's enough of a handful as it is.

"I hate Halloween," I grumble to my human, Diana. Of course, she's not listening. She never is.

"That's nice," she says absently. See? I told you. "Hey," she asks, fingering a stick of over-processed sugar, "do you think Mrs. Gremble poisoned my Kit-Kat bar?"

"No," I sulk, "She thinks you're an angel."

"Exactly! She's hiding something. Something dark and threatening. I don't think I'll eat this Kit-Kat." She throws it across the room where it joins an ever-growing pile of falsely accused candy.

"Now take Mr. Loka," she continues, examining a chocolate bar, "Why does he leave his house every night at precisely 7 o'clock?"

"Your mother told you. He works the night shift."

"The night shift is all a lie," she states wisely, biting off a chunk of chocolate. "Anyone who says they work 'the night shift' is actually a vampire."

"Oh really," I say sourly, "remind me to stay away from 24/7 grocery stores."

Di looks up, her head cocked. "Hey," she says innocently, "are you in a bad mood?"

"No," I drawl, "I'm positively ecstatic. How can I be upset on my favorite holiday?"

"If it's an apology you're looking for, then I'm sorry you couldn't ride on my shoulder."

"And why not?" I demand, "I did last year."

"Last year," Di says patiently, (patiently! As if this is a rational explanation!) "I was the Wicked Witch of the West. A black cat fit. Cinderella does not keep black cats." She flicks an imaginary speck of dust from her immaculate Disney Princess dress. I might just be forced to shred that dress. While she's wearing it.

"So now even you're prejudiced against black cats."

"Am not! Cinderella is. Take it up with her."

"Oh sure. I'll just catch the next train to fairy-tale-land, shall I?"

She gives me a long-suffering sigh. "Ares, you are a talking cat. You were probably born in fairy-tale-land." Here we go again...

"Diana, come to bed!" A voice floats from upstairs.

"Oh, mother," Di calls back, "I couldn't possibly sleep with all this sugar rushing through me."

"Then the grindlelaggers will get you!"

Di gasps. "The grindlelaggers! I forgot! They'll come and steal my toes if I don't go to bed on time! Come, Ares," she grabs me unceremoniously in one hand and seizes her pillowcase of candy with the other, "we to bed."

See what I mean? Humans. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Some are better than others, though. They give you a home, and a safe place from all the other humans who think you're a walking curse.

Home. It's a nice word. It's a nice place too, even if it's full of Cinderellas who won't let you ride on their shoulders.

Waiting

He no longer needs the white-hot iron pole to remind him.
Come 3 o'clock, his jaws open obediently, a gush of fire shooting over his mouth, caressing tongue, teeth, lips.
He knows that the fire he breathes heats the water that keeps the entire hall warm; how, he doesn't care.
He knows that the noises he hears above him during the day are those of children playing. Children taste good, he remembers that much.
He knows that there is no way to escape the chains they have draped over, around, and through him.
He knows this, but he doesn't really believe it.
One of these days, the chains will break, and he will destroy this cramped prison he's been locked in. He'll destroy the whole village, fry them, blast them, burn them, crunch them between his teeth until only dust remains. He'll kill them all.
Until that day, though, he'll wait: dry wings rustling against the roof of his prison, overgrown nails clacking on the floor. Those nails will rend their fair share of flesh in time. Until then, though, he'll wait.
It's 3 o'clock.

It's Shiny and New!

So, I have finally acquired a blog for myself. I can't promise that it will be updated regularly, or that I won't loose interest in about two days. We'll see.

Basically, I want this to be primarily a writer's blog, but it will have glorified journal entries. They are inevitable, enjoyable, and quite frankly I want to have them. I promise they won't be of the "hey guys i just 8 a sanwitch!!!" variety. Unless, of course, it was a really good sandwich.

So...yeah. Oh, and if anyone wants me to write something, I really enjoy getting requests. Pleeze and thnxks.