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.