The Seven Gates (Part Three)

The Seven Gates (Part Three)

(c) Akire Zyll Flickerclaw

Peter's mother wept for him every night after the keys returned. For a week she stayed in her house. On the eighth day, she bundled up in a shawl and went to see the village elders. The day afterwards, she was at the First Gate with the key in hand. James was crying now, as was his father.

But when she opened the door, she gasped. And the many people standing behind her crowded in around to see. James pushed through the crowd and what he saw was pure eternity. The Seven Gates were wide open. And, far on the other side, only a pinprick in the distance, was beautiful sunlight. "But...how?" the elders asked. "Why did the keys return if Peter succeeded?" No one else cared. Not even stopping for belongings, they trickled, then walked, then raced through the gates out into the beautiful land.

And there they saw that they had been deceived. Perhaps once it had been a land of misery and monsters, but now nature had run it's course, and the woods were lush and the river smooth, and the sky a brilliant blue. They did not even notice that when the last person exited the Gate, their village and all the walls vanished like smoke. They were too enthralled with the sights and scents and smells of which they had been deprived for so long.

For many days they just lay in the sunshine, eating berries and drinking cool river water, the little children stripping and swimming naked among the rocks. The adults, who had a little more dignity, kept their underclothes on. But just the same, they found that the more they bathed in the river and drank from it's water, the happier and stronger they were. An old and fragile woman named Mary swam in the water one day, and the next she was as sprightly as a newborn colt.

But they did find Peter's body eventually, and it was a moment of somberness among the joy. They buried him by the banks of the river, and where his body lay, a towering cherry tree grew, with great sweeping boughs perfect for children to climb upon. They inscribed a slab of stone, and laid it below the tree, and many a curious child would trace the letters with their fingers and try to figure out what it meant.

Here lies Peter, our savior, who led us out of the dark to the new land. May he rest in peace.

They named their first town after him. Petertown, as it came to be known, was the first of many, many towns. For now that humanity was brought back to the world, the birds sang and the trees rejoiced.

And though the first people have grown old and now rest in peace, their children and their children's children live on. They have explored the world and discovered many dangers and wonders. They have built many many beautiful cities. They have traveled the globe, but in the end, they always come home to a place where the mountains meet the plains and the sea. They come home to the branches of that cherry tree, where they eat the bright fruits among the boughs.

And if you listen closely, you can hear the sound of a young boy's laughter.

Timeless- Chapter 2

Really quick: Leo's family is a little strange. His mom(Mia) and dad(John) are artists, so they named their kids after famous artists: Leonardo da Vinci, Vincent Van Gogh, and Rembrandt van Rijn. His aunt and uncle- Tom and Molly- are both writers, thus their kids' names: William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and Virginia Woolf. His other aunt(Amelia) and uncle(Lou) are an actress and a film director, so they named their five children after famous actors/actresses: Judy Garland, Shirley Temple, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and James Dean.

Leo

   We--my mom, me, my little sister Vincetta, my little brother Rembrandt, and my dad--got to my grandma's house at around 9:30. It was kind of cool for late April, but what do you expect from Minnesota, home of erratic weather? Of course, I ignored the chill, even though I was wearing a t-shirt. I'd say it was about forty degrees, which is definitely t-shirt weather. In fact, thirty-five is t-shirt weather here, even if it did get a little cold.
   My grandma's house was a huge old Victorian-style place, complete with several chimney stacks and a mini tower. Its main color was robin's-egg blue with white trim and designs and a very random bright orange door. But that was my grandma for you: quirky and a little bit random, albeit really cool and very kind.
   Anyway, we went inside and straight to grandma's room, where my aunts, cousins, and uncles were already waiting for us. As soon as we entered the room, my cousins--Jane, Virginia, William, Charles, Shirley, and James--whisked away with Vince and Remy to my grandma's guest room, where she had always kept toys for the younger kids. I, on the other hand, stayed with my aunts and uncles and my three teenage cousins, Judy, Fred, and Ginger, to go through clothes and other things that had been Grandma's or Grandpa's(because Grandma kept all of Grandpa's old stuff).
   For a little while, we just stood there awkwardly, not sure where to start. A sudden smack startled me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to see my uncle Lou rubbing his hands together and looking not unlike a villain or a particularly sly protagonist. "Where shall we start?"
   Ginger beamed at her father while linking arms with Judy and I. "Judy, Fred, Leo, and I will start with the jewelry."
   I began to groan, but I cut off with a gasp of pain as Fred elbowed me in the ribs. "Shut up, Leo! That's the easiest, slowest job, plus it's in Gran's extra guest room. We'll be able to talk easily without certain people hearing," he whispered before grinning at his parents.
   All of the adults regarded us with suspicious looks, but after a while, they waved us away. Ginger whooped and danced down the hallway, blond curls bouncing and blue eyes sparkling. The way she danced, she looked just like Ginger Rogers, her namesake.
   Here we go, I thought.
   And walked into the room that was filled with my grandmother's life's work: namely, her very extensive jewelry collection.

Pain

(This is another poem :D Hope you like it, even if it's a little short...)

You can't have
Happiness
Without pain.

But you can have
Pain
Without Happiness.

Beginning of a book {Izori}

This is the start of a new book that I'm writing. I (most likely) won't share the whole thing on this blog, but I'd love it if I got some helpful critique on this section.

______ ______ ______

“I don’t know what to make of it, Dr. Hermes,” Mrs. Abbie said, clutching the phone in one hand and ironing a shirt with the other. “She has these dreams all her life, as Bill tells me, and they don’t show any signs of going away.”
“How often does she have them?” Dr. Hermes asked in her calm, collected voice.
“Almost every night.” Mrs. Abbie pinned the phone against her shoulder as she freed her hand to fold the shirt. “But they usually don’t scare her as bad as the one yesterday. Some she even enjoys, like the one about the garden and the fountain, but this one—you need to have seen what she looked like to begin to realize how terrifying it was. She was all white, and she was crying. Cleo’s fifteen years old, Doctor. Should a girl that age be like that after a nightmare?”
“What was it about? Did she tell you?”
“No. Not yet, that is. Cleo doesn’t usually talk about the nightmares until a couple days afterward. And then, I mostly hear it indirectly because she only tells them to Bill or to Alex.”
“Do you know if there have been any dreams in the past that have given her that much trauma?” In her office, Dr. Hermes drew a small, squiggly doodle on her sheet of paper. Anyone watching would have thought she was bored and inattentive. In reality she was as alert as a panther watching for prey.
“Well, I believe there were a few,” Mrs. Abbie frowned. “But I wasn’t there. I only married Bill a couple years ago. He would know better. But then again, those past nightmares might have been so disturbing simply because Cleo would have been young and easily frightened.”
“Hmmm. I have an opening in my schedule tomorrow from noon to one o’clock. If you’ll come into the office, I can see her then.”
“That’s great. I called you as soon as I could, but with sports and school and everything I didn’t get the opportunity ‘till now…”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Abbie. Just one more question: do you think that Cleo’s still being affected by her mother’s death? Or Bill’s re-marriage to you?”
“Well, any child—any person—would still be affected by the death of a parent. And I’m sure if Cleo could have chosen, she would have her mother back over me. But none of the dreams, good or bad, were about anything related to all this.”
Mrs. Abbie lowered her voice. “It’s very odd, but her dreams are all related to an ancient city. The architecture that she described to Bill and Alex, the language, the people, everything, is all from a very old culture. Old, like…older than ancient Greece.”
“Atlantis?” Dr. Hermes said with a smile.
“Exactly! Atlantis.”
“Hmmm…well, as I said, Mrs. Abbie, I’d like to see Cleo tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hermes. Have a nice day!”
Mrs. Abbie hung up the phone.

______ ______ ______

Tell me what you think!

The Seven Gates (Part Two)

The Seven Gates (Part Two)

(c) Akire Zyll Flickerclaw

It was clear and cold the day that Peter went through the First Gate. The inhabitants of the village had all gathered to see him off. Peter's family was there as well, close to the platform. His mother was sobbing silent tears. She had bundled up his coat for the last time that morning. Peter's father had seen this coming more than his wife, and with a silent sorrow he watched his young son fidget in front of the assembly. Peter's little brothers played in the snow, oblivious, except for the second eldest, James, who stood beside his mother and wondered why she was crying.

Peter was nervous but determined. He stood on a platform and watched his family. When they caught his eye, he gave a cheerful wave which sent his mother into another round of sobs. The elders droned on and on about a lot of nonsense, and then it was time for Peter to be given the keys to the Gates. The First Key was simple, and it was made of a silvery metal that had long since rusted. The other keys were tucked away in his pocket, each wrapped in soft creamy cloth, to be unwrapped when he reached each Gate.

It was time for Peter to go. He descended the steps, half in a dream, and made his way over to the First Gate. The lock was the same rusted silver as the key. He looked over his shoulder and saw the eyes of the entire village on him. He slowly put the key into the lock. The only sound in the village was the turning of the key and the creak of the doorknob. He opened the Gate and stepped through. It swung shut with a bang of finality behind him.

The ground was no different from the village which he had just left, but the difference was apparent. The next Gate was a few hundred yards away, and it was a swirling, ever changing pattern of blue. Peter walked up to it and put his hand to it. It was cold and wet. He pulled his hand out and set about unwrapping the next key. It was blue metal, and curled around the edges were pictures of fish and seaweed. Peter had some difficulty finding the Gate. At last he just stuck the key in randomly and turned it. A sliver of red light appeared in a rectangle, and the Gate swung forward.

Peter stepped across to the other side. He forgot to close the Gate behind him.

The next landscape was a burnt, scorched red, and the Gate made of billowing fire. The key was a blackened, sooty color. Peter singed his hand when he stuck this key into the inferno and crossed. He forgot to close the Gate again.

The next section was a dirty, earthy plain, and the Gate a tall hedge with a brown door in it. The key to this Gate was green and covered in ivy and small white flowers. The hedge door remained open.

The following was a stormy tundra, with winds that almost blew Peter off his feet. The key was as light as a feather, and he almost lost it when he tried to get it out. But in the end, the key fit into the gray sky and turned. The gray sky opened and did not close when Peter had passed through it.

The Sixth Gate, and the last before the impassable Gate, was all shiny metal and smooth floors. Peter crossed quickly, his reflections following him. The key was shiny as well, and very square and precise. The door swung open, and stayed there. And then he was at the Seventh Gate.

The floors were normal dirt, but here and there dark stains bloomed on the ground. But it was not the landscape, but the Gate that chilled Peter. Bones. Human bones and skeletons and skulls grinning at him. Stacked high on top of one another until they touched the sky. Peter swallowed, and he felt fear prick him. But he continued on to the Gate nonetheless, avoiding the dark stains on the ground.

He could find no trace of a door, and he had no key. He pushed and pulled at the skulls until his hands were raw and bleeding and he crumpled to the ground in despair. After a while he turned over and looked at the stars. He wondered if he would ever see his family again.

The answer to the Gate came to him while he was half-awake, and he sprang up. Gathering his coat around him, he crept up to the great wall and found a skull that was just at his eye level. Leaning forward, he kissed the skull on the forehead. The Gate cracked open to reveal blinding sunlight. He stepped through and gasped.

The world beyond the Gates was not a monster infested place at all. In front of him, a wide, grassy and flowery plain rolled into hills that stretched up to blue mountains topped with snow. To his right, a river burbled, and beyond that, a green wood stood tall and serene. To the left, the plain stretched out until it became a sparkling sea.

Peter looked at this sight, and laughed. Then he ran through the fields and down, down, down, until he dropped to the ground and stared at the blue sky. And his heart was so full of joy and love and childish wonder that it broke, and he died among the white flowers in a field full of grass and life, breathing in the blue sky.

And the keys returned to their box.

But that was not the end.

Timeless- Chapter 1

This story came to me while looking through some of my grandmother's old jewelry. It was a random inspiration--the best inspirations, in my opinion--and it was perfect. So, I had to type it out. Here it is, then. The story of a sixteen-year-old boy and a really cool old vintage watch with a few... quirks to it, to put it simply. :D

Leo

   I was sixteen years old when my grandmother died of lung cancer. The day after she passed away was the day I quit smoking cold turkey. A week later, the funeral was held; I didn't cry. Not once. I never cry.
   It was a week after the funeral when something happened to change my life, although I didn't know at the time that it would. Dawn was breaking in the eastern sky, and I was still asleep. Strange and unnerving dreams flitted through my brain. Suddenly, I heard a voice whispering through my mind:

   Find the watch. Wind the watch. Save her.

   I shot out of my dreams and into a sitting position, breathing heavily. That had been my grandma's voice, speaking in a raspy whisper. What did it mean? What watch? And save whom? My now-awake brain screamed questions louder and louder through my mind. What was going on? Why had my grandmother's voice been in my dream? What watch? Who--
   "Aaaah!" I bellowed, clamping my hands down over my ears. When my thoughts finally subsided to their normal stream of annoying complaints, I released my abused ears and let my head fall back onto my pillow. The instant my eyes closed, my grandmother's words echoed through my brain, faster and faster until they were a jumble of mixed-up syllables. Annoyed and thoroughly creeped out, I tucked my pillow over my face and around my ears and yelled at the top of my lungs, "STOP!"
   Silence. My mind emptied itself meekly, as if I had scared all the thoughts away.
   And then one last ghostly whisper reached my ears--or my mind; I wasn't sure which, at this point.

   Remember, Leo: you're not alone. She needs help, too. Find the watch. Wind the watch. Save her.

   My mind drifted off into fitful sleep.
   And then my alarm clock buzzed in my ear ten minutes later.
   "Leonardo da Vinci Kipring! Wake up!" my mom bellowed up the stairs.
   I tumbled out of bed, feeling a thousand years old, and got ready.
   Today was the day to go through all of my grandmother's things. Oh, joy.

The Void

(Another one of my poems! Enjoy :D)

Life is empty.

Like a canvas waiting  to be painted.

But before it can be decorated

With bright and cheerful colors

The artist dies,

Leaving behind

An empty canvas.

Life is empty.

Like a story waiting to be written.

But before it can be told

With colorful words and passion

The author dies,

Leaving behind

An unfinished idea.

Life is empty.

Like a gray and dreary day.

But before it can turn sunny

With golden beams of light

Rain clouds roll in,

Leaving behind

The hope of a glorious day.

Life is empty.

The Seven Gates (Part One)

The Seven Gates

(c) Akire Zyll Flickerclaw

{This is a fable/fairytale that I had a dream about. It will be in two or three parts. Some of the themes that it conveys are exploration, independence, innocence, and hope. Enjoy!}

A long time ago, in the shadows of a craggy mountain range, lived a village of people. They were a dull race: they wore drab clothes that blended in with the rock and their personalities were as grim as their faces. They did not speak much.

Their one great pride was in the seven high walls that surrounded the village. Their ancestors had built them to ward off monsters from the outside, and after many years, they still stood tall and proud. The wall closest to the village was made of wood, but the people had all but forgotten the six that lay beyond.

No one was allowed outside of the village. No one had tried to go in several hundred years, for the ancestors before them had kept keys to each Gate locked up secret and safe. Many had gotten past a few gates before despairing, and they could not come back, for if you passed the First Gate, you were dead to the people on the other side. And so they perished in the cold of the relentless nights.

Not many people chose this path. Only the desperate ones ventured beyond the First Gate. For it was a common saying that the evils outside the Gate were far worse than the hardship inside. For there was hardship. It was always winter in the mountains, and many a person had frozen to death or died because of starvation. But no monsters plagued the encampment besides such trifles, and so the gates were kept locked, and the people fairly content.

But not all the inhabitants of the village were happy with their lives. In the corner of the town, in the blacksmith's shop, lived a boy named Peter. Peter was the eldest of his siblings, all of whom were boys. And, being the eldest, it was expected to that he would carry on the blacksmith business after his father died. But Peter did not care for blacksmithing. The smoke from the furnaces made him cough and he was not strong enough to hold a horse in place while shoeing it.

Peter was not like other children. He liked to run and play, even though he was already twelve winters old and should settle down and work. But most of all, he liked to daydream. He would dream about everything, but mostly it would be a burning curiosity about what was beyond the seven walls. He had been told that monsters lived there, as every child had, but he was reluctant to believe without proof.

His father wanted Peter to become a blacksmith ever since he was born. His mother understood him more, and saw that he could never become a man suited to hard labor. He was a dreamer, a thinker, but there was no use for these people in the community. And since his mother loved him, as all mothers do, she despaired.

Peter's dreaming had not gone unnoticed by the village elders. The elders were the oldest, thought maybe not the wisest, in the village. They ensured that everything was working properly and everyone was doing their specific jobs correctly. Peter was the only exception to the clockwork of the village. The elders decided there must be something done about it. And so, early one morning, they summoned Peter to their hut.

Peter's mother bundled him up in layer upon layer of dark coats and scarves until his thin frame was covered in wool and leather. When he was ready to go, his mother knelt down beside him, looked him square and the eyes, and kissed him on both cheeks. Peter made his way across the village slowly, shuffling through the snow that fell thick and fast from the gray sky. Wooden carts pulled by horses trundled by him, their driver's hats pulled down over their faces. He passed a few people he knew, and gave them a cheery wave as best he could, but most of them only nodded in return.

By the time he reached the elder's hut, the snow had blocked almost everything out. Peter raised his hand and knocked on the wooden door three times. It creaked slowly open to reveal an old man with a wrinkly face and mess of wiry hair tucked under a brass cap. Peter opened his mouth to announce himself, but the old man held up his hand and beckoned him indoors. In the great room of the hut, a fire was burning in the hearth. Four other men sat around the fire, drinking soup from bowls. The man who had let him in sat down in a rocking chair next to the fire. All five of them studied him. Peter fidgeted nervously.

Finally, the man who had let Peter inside spoke. "Peter. It has come to our attention that you have not been performing your duties as of late. In fact," he coughed into the back of his hand. "I do not think you have done anything for the good of the village at all."

Peter just stared at them. "Well?" asked another elder, a tall, bony man who sat in a carved chair at the table. "What do you have to say for yourself? Why do you not go about your duties? The village will need a blacksmith when your father is gone."

Peter cleared his throat. "If you please, sir," he said in a small voice. "Couldn't one of my brothers take over the blacksmithing business instead of me?"

The elders grumbled and shook their heads. One of them, a very fat man who had been eagerly downing the soup, looked up and said in a reedy voice, "My boy, the village needs everyone to work. What would you do if you were not a blacksmith? Drive carts? Hunt? Become a butcher, or a baker, or a--"

"A candlestick maker!" Peter called out in delight. The elders stared at him. "I'm--I'm sorry," he said. "It was just such a good rhyme, and I couldn't help but say it aloud." The elders looked at each other slantways and shook their heads. Finally the first elder spoke. "Peter," he said in a kindly tone, beckoning the boy forwards towards the fire, "The village cannot allow a boy who is forever dreaming. We need a worker, a fighter, a man. Do you understand?" Peter nodded. "Now, if you continue to neglect your position in life, you might as well go through the First Gate and be lost to us forever. Do you see my point?"

Peter nodded, but his mind was racing. "Please, sir," he asked. "Has anyone made it to the outside of the Gates?" "No," the elder answered. "Never."

"How do you know?"

The elder leaned back in his chair. "Because the keys have always returned. A person who goes through the First Gate is equipped with six keys: each for the First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Gates. The Seventh Gate they must figure out for themselves, and that is the hardest one of all. If the keys return to their box, it means that the person has died."

Peter nodded. "Elders, sirs," he said. "How does one try the gates?"

"There is a public announcement, after which he or she proceeds through the First Gate."

"Can you make the announcement soon?" Peter asked. "I would like to try the Gates."

[Poem] The Courage

I'm taking a short break from my story, and I'm going to be writing some poems. Please comment! :)

I wish I

Had the courage

To stand up to you.

I wish I

Had the courage

To put the letter in your mailbox.

I wish I

Had the courage

To be with you forever.

No matter what happens,

I wish I

Had the courage

To say that I love you.

OK, I have to admit, that was pretty bad. What do you think? Please comment! (Note: this is not based on any of my feelings or experiences.)

Duplicity {Akire Zyll Flickerclaw}

(This is the prologue for a short novel that I am currently working on. Without giving too much away, it details the transformation of a captured soldier into an asset for her previous enemy. The soldier eventually becomes a part of the enemy's military, and meets her former team while out on an assignment. And the rest, as they say, is history. The picture above is the book cover.)

Fragile pieces of the conscious mind fly everywhere. Breaking apart, crashing into each other, colliding and merging and splitting apart in the white hot light of forgetting. Clinging to the white walls of the mind. Etched in the skull are the words that time cannot forget.

A calm sea and a soft rush of air. Waves tumbling on sand. Calm, cool collected.

Empty.

And then the city breaks in again. Corridors, hallways, doors into the light. A bedroom. A balcony. A room with-

Silence.

Static silence.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Gunfire. Dirt. Earth. Trees. The taste of blood. The smell of gunpowder.

Memories like a half-forgotten dream fly like broken winged doves, plummeting towards the sea of oblivion.

And there is peace.

But they crash through the walls of the sky, with their blood and flesh and sweat and uneasy realness. With their dark clothes and their words and their smiles that seem sinister and wonderful at the same time. With his hat that he always used to wear and her necklace and those boots that he always liked and the tablet that he carried with him everywhere. The sound of his voice and her laugh and the rare letting down of his guard to say something about himself.

The smell of his skin ringing like an alarm bell.

They hurt. Stinging like a thousand bullet wounds and a million sparks of lightning. Like a slap on a bruised face. Like spit and blood mixed together landing on the dead body of someone you love more than anything else imaginable.

So there is peace again. Wonderful blankness. Beautiful silence. Dazzling nothingness.

But they will be back.

She knows it. And they know it. And the one that watches her from the windows knows it too. They cannot keep her in shadows forever. They cannot suppress her light.

But they will try.

Psyche {3}

(Is it okay if I use the name Stella? It's just so fitting for her...)

I am getting tired of getting knocked out all the time. Half of my time, it seems, is spent in unconsciousness.

This time, when I awoke, I was in a white room, clothed in a plain white dressing gown. A knock on the door, and a different scientist walks in, her features sharp and cruel. "Come," she says harshly, beckoning me to follow, which I do.

I couldn't help wondering if there was anyone else here besides me and the scientists. As we walked down the hall, there were row after row of empty rooms just like mine, with a window in the door.

As we hurried along, I glimpsed a face.

A pale, gaunt, tired face of a girl around my age, about 13. Her beautiful black hair was in a braid, slung over her shoulder and extending just past the aforementioned extremity. Her eyes were deep green and dark blue all at once, and her stare was piercing and desperate.

I stared at her, and she stared back at me expressionlessly. The scientist, noticing where I was looking, gave me a rough prod to the back with wickedly sharp fingernails. I hurried along, my lower back stinging.

There was someone else here.

Even stranger was that she looked somehow familiar.

~♣~

I never saw anything more of this strange girl, until (after many, many more excercises in which I had to use my mind to move things, leaving me too exhausted to think) I was placed in a waiting room, apparently to wait for something.

Just then, the door opened and in she came, long, willowy, and graceful.

I couldn't help noticing that her hands and feet were webbed, and there were strange slits in the side of her neck.

She sat down beside me in silence. I didn't know what to do. Since she wasn't saying anything, I guess I'd have to say something first.

"Hi," I said timidly.

No reply.

"Erm...kinda cold in here, don't you think?"

No reply.

I sighed, turning away. I was so bad at making friends.

"I agree." I turned, and she was looking at me. "Rather drab and white." I nodded. "My name's Holly, I think," I said. She turned to me, her features twitching. "You think?" she said. "Well," I said, abashed, "I only just found out a week or two ago...I don't remember anything."

"Me neither."

We sat in silence for a while.

"Name's Stella," she said suddenly, holding out a pale webbed hand for me to shake, a dare in her eyes for me to mention her abnormal fingers. Hesitantly, I shook it. It was cool and silky to the touch, and at the ends of the fingers were wickedly sharp claws that kinda hurt.

Stella glanced around. The white monotone of the walls was uninterruped. "Can I trust you?" she asked suddenly. I nodded. "Why?"

"You're a psyche, right?"

"What did you call me?"

"A psyche*. Someone who can move things with their mind and read other's minds too, maybe telepathy."

I turned this over in my head. "I don't trust this place," Stella said in a whisper. "They might have cameras rigged everywhere. This whole room  could be made of cameras. So try your psyche-telepathy thing and read my mind so I can read yours and I'll tell you my...thought."

I turned this over in my mind.

I had never tried telepathy or mental things beyond moving objects without laying a finger on them. I idly touched the longish fuzz on the back of my head. At least my hair was coming back.

Closing my eyes, I decided to concentrate. Let my senses range outward.

A white flame intruded on my vision and my eyes popped open. Nothing and nobody but Stella and chairs. I closed my eyes again and was more cautious this time, approaching the flame and prodding it with my mind.

HOLLY! CAN YOU HEAR ME!!! HOLLY?!

I gasped, my eyes popping open once more. The voice shouting had sounded like Stella's voice, and yet Stella was silent, her eyes closed, not making a peep...

This time, I was able to locate Stella's mental flame right away.

HO-

Please, be quiet, I can hear you just fine.

Oh, good. Well, you ever want to escape?

It took a while for me to respond to Stella's question. Turning it over and over in my mind, I wondered what life would be like outside, if there was an outside, and what this place was...

I guess...

Good, because I have a plan. And it involves you.

We went over the plan many, many times. We were separated, but I could still locate Stella's white mental flame, and we could talk whenever.

Only after some weeks did I realize that none of the scientists had any mental flame, no sign of life at all in their heads. Not like Stella, who had a blinding-bright white flame that bursted with energy and life. The scientists had nothing. Nothing at all.

Something was very wrong with that picture.

----------------------------------
* "Psyche" is slang in their world for "pyschic" or someone gifted in mental things, like Holly.

Beginning and End- Chapter 1

Okay, so my characters don't use the eloquent language of Shakespeare's time, but... I don't think it matters too much... Also, really quick: this happens about thirty years before the tragic tale of Romy & J-- because it does say "From ancient grudge..." etc, etc.

     Music echoed through the halls of the grand Capulet house, its nonexistent fingers reaching into every corner of the place. Under the harmonious strains, one could hear the murmur of a large crowd of people.

     From where she lay on the wall that surrounded the house, Genevieve could see the festivities through one of the many windows that looked into the hall. She watched the crowd of Montagues, Capulets, and other assorted families as they gossiped in groups, danced in pairs, or stood alone, wishing she had the courage to join them.

     But that was where he was.

     And she wasn’t particularly fond of him at the time.

     That was why she was sprawled along the thick wall, her silky, chocolate-brown curls and the edge of her dark, blue-violet gown both hanging over the side. It was his fault.

     Stupid Valentine, she thought to herself. He ruined this for me by being stupid, and careless, and… and thoughtless.

     Suddenly, Genevieve heard a rustle, and a head poked over the side of the wall, right next to her face.

     “Genna!” the person exclaimed, relieved. “I thought I’d never find you! Why aren’t you down there enjoying Petruchio’s party with the rest of the lovely Montague ladies?”

     She sighed at the black-haired teen as he climbed the rest of the way up the wall to sit beside her head. “Hello, William.”

     “You’re hiding, aren’t you?” he inquired knowingly, brushing back some of her hair to stare into her eyes.

     Genevieve looked away. “So what if I am? Nobody cares that I’m gone! Guin disappeared into the crowd as soon as we arrived, and my parents are the most scatterbrained people in the world, so they never notice when I leave. And it’s not as if Valentine cares anymore.”

     William lifted her head and slid along the wall, then laid her head in his lap. “My idiot brother may not care, but that doesn’t mean nobody else does. I know I do. I waited all afternoon to see you, and you didn’t show up.”

     “You waited for me?”

     “Eagerly. You’re my best friend, Genna. I like being around you.”

     She glanced at his face and realized he was blushing. With an astonished laugh, she said, “Will, you are bright red. What’s going on? Not the sensitive type?”

     He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the fact that my moronic brother has moved on to your cousin, Isabella.”

     “What?!” She nearly yelled in disbelief, knowing that he only brought it up to change the subject, but furious all the same. She sat up instantly and stared wide-eyed at William. “What if they get married? I’d be stuck with him as kin forever,” she groaned, her anger dissipating into despair. “That’d be just perfect.”

     William tugged at one of her chocolate curls. “Look on the bright side, Genna,” he teased. “You’d get me as a relative, too.”

     She laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Honestly, though. If I ever marry a Capulet, I’ll probably end up killing Valentine first. I would not be able to stand him as kin.”

     “Hmm…,” he mused, trying his best not to laugh, “I’m not so sure that would go over all that well with your husband-to-be.”

     She turned her head slowly to stare at him in mock disbelief. “You doubt my ability to cover my tracks? You, who have known me since I was six years old? That’s disappointing, William.”

     He chuckled. “No, I don’t doubt you.”

     “You’d better not! You are my trickster teacher, after all.”

     “And I’ve taught you well. I mean, I am pretty amazing,” William stated, waggling his eyebrows at her.

     Genevieve grinned. “You’re modest, too.”

     There was a short pause in their conversation—during which both of them laughed at her remark—then she sighed in defeat. “Alright, I’m better now.”

     “Does this mean,” he began incredulously, “that you want to go in? To the party? With mine own brother there to torture you?”

     She bit her lip before answering with a nod.

     He slid over a little to allow her room to descend. “Well, then don’t let me stop you!”

     “Why would you stop me?” she inquired with a devious grin. “You’re coming along.” She began to climb down the wall on the vines that grew heavily along it.

     With a melodramatic sigh, he followed. “Alright, if I must…”

     “You must!” she called up to him.

     Another sigh reached her ears from above, and Genna tried her best not to laugh.

LuCA {Chapter Fifteen}

LuCA {Chapter Fifteen}

(c) Akire Zyll Flickerclaw

Mila sat in the mess hall, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate. It had been nearly a week since the crew of the Astrum (Kema's ship) had rescued her from the Amoveon probe team. Hawking had not been rescued. It was unknown if he had been killed, taken captive, escaped, or what. Mila lay awake thinking over it most nights, guilt prickling under her skin like an itchy rash.

Cadfael had bound up her arm with a special cloth that secreted small amounts of a healing substance. It limited her movement, but it was more flexible than a cast, and it was mending her arm faster than time could. She appreciated the gesture, but she didn't understand why they were trying to get her better so fast.

They had put her in a room with a girl called Lumen. Lumen was a little younger than Mila, but she wasn't much of a talker. She always dressed in the same outfit: a long robe with the hood pulled over her shaved head, which was decorated with swirling tattoos. The colors of the robe changed from day to day, but Mila had deduced that her getup and hairstyle (or lack thereof) were for religious or cultural purposes.

The only problem that Mila faced was that no one that she talked to told her anything. Cadfael had told her little after their first encounter, though he frequently checked up on her to make sure she was healing properly and suffering no lasting effects from the attacks. She had grown used to these visits, and sometimes even looked forward to them. He made her feel calmer. Maybe it was his accent, or just his personality. Mila didn't know.

She had tried talking to Kema, who always gave her the same response. "In due time, Mila," she said. "In due time." Mila had even tried to talk to Lumen, but when she asked questions, Lumen only looked at her and sometimes nodded. But Mila wasn't completely oblivious to the goings-on of the Astrum. She had learned that Kema was in charge of the entire ship. It wasn't that hard, as most people called her "Captain" or "Captain Streen". Cadfael was the chief medical officer, and Lumen....well, she had no idea what Lumen did on the ship. The rest of the crew members were either military, scientists, or a small unit of medical personnel that Cadfael had brought with him.

As Mila sat in the mess hall, she looked out of the windows of the ship and stared at the small globe that was Earth. She hadn't had any interaction with anyone in almost a day. When she passed the crew in the hallways, they glanced once or twice at her, but never spoke. The only people that she knew besides Kema, Cadfael, and Lumen were a female doctor named Leyla, and two technicians who worked on the bridge: Izzo and Amar.

But apparently everyone hadn't forgotten about her, because Cadfael slid into the seat across her. "Hot chocolate, hmm?" he asked, peering over into her cup. "I've never liked that stuff. It clogs up my throat. I'm more of a tea man." Mila started out of her revirie, then turned her head to face him. "Tea?"

"Yes, tea," he said. "The stuff that comes in bags that you put in hot water."

"I know what tea is," Mila said, punching his shoulder. She was suddenly reminded of Jakk, and she sobered quickly. What's he doing? Does her even know that I'm missing? I never told him goodbye. Not in person, anyway. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears for her friend. She brushed them away quickly.

"Mila? Mila?" Cadfael was calling her name. "Yeah, I'm here," she answered. He looked at her with concern. "Are you sure that you're okay?"

Under any other circumstances, Mila would have brushed away the question with a wave of the hand and a "Of course I'm fine." But now, sitting in a strange place among stranger people, with the possible death of her mentor and the guilt of abandoning her best friend weighing heavily on her, she put aside such normalcy and confessed. "No. I'm not."

Cadfael leaned back in his chair. "I thought so. I've seen enough cases of survivor's guilt to recognize the look in your eyes." He took the hot chocolate from her hands and stirred it with a spoon before taking a sip. "Now, do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

"I thought you didn't like hot chocolate," Mila accused. "I lied," Cadfael smiled as he took another gulp of the drink. "I'm a horrible liar, I'm afraid."

"Me too," Mila said. "I lie to everyone. Even myself sometimes."

Cadfael nodded. He started to say something, but apparently thought better of it, because he sat in silence and stared out of the windows. After a moment he spoke. "Everyone lies. Children lie about doing their chores. Adults lie about work. How many times has someone asked you 'How was work?' and you said, 'Fine,' even though it was horrible? And most people lie to themselves. They convince themselves that everything is okay, when it really isn't. I doubt there is a person in this entire universe that doesn't lie. Even Lumen."

"Lumen?" Mila asked. "What does she have to do with anything?"

Cadfael tapped his fingers on the table. "Part of Lumen's religion is that her soul must be pure. In order to do this, she is committed to not telling a lie."

"Wow," Mila said. "Tough life." Cadfael shrugged. "She's used to it, I guess," he said thoughtfully.

At that moment Cadfael's headset beeped. He smiled apologetically at Mila and touched a button on it. Kema's voice came over the radio loud enough for Mila here. "Cadfael, get to the bridge," she shouted. "You need to see this. Bring the girl too." Mila knew that 'the girl' was her. Her level of respect for their captain went down a notch. Cadfael rose from his seat, leaving the hot chocolate where it was. He reached over and grabbed Mila's hand. "The captain wants us to see something."

Before they took two more steps, both people knew what it was.

Kirin's Mission

Hi! I'm a new author here, and this will be my first post ever :) So basically, this is a story based off my two rp blogs, The Blood Numbers and Camp Shinigami. The Blood Numbers are a group of elite assassins, while Camp Shinigami is, well, a camp. Please enjoy!

(Note: Aniki means big brother in Japanese. Baka means idiot. A shinigami is a death god.)

Kirin knew that she shouldn't have accepted the mission the minute it was described to her. But what other choice did she have? With the war of the assassins ending just days ago, she was the only one of the Blood Numbers who was fit enough to go. In fact, she was one of the only Blood Number remaining. The other one was Number 4, Toshiro Shinobu, and he had pretty severe injuries. Kirin sat down in front of the Men's Barracks and sighed, her breath coming out in clouds when it touched the cold air. What's done is done, she thought. There's no turning back now. Besides, I couldn't let Number 4 go, could I? I hope he's OK in my absence.....

Without thinking, Kirin turned around and stepped into the cold barrack.

"Lieutenant Shinobu?" she called.

"C-Captain Masamoto!" came the weak reply. Kirin could spot two golden eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"I'm going on the mission," she told him softly. "You stay here and heal. And-" Kirin's eyes darkened for a moment, but then she looked up. "-if I don't come back in a week, you will be the new leader of the Blood Numbers."

The young lieutenant's eyes widened but he said nothing, knowing that she would tell him not to say anything if he did anyways. Instead, he just nodded slightly, wincing as the bandages rubbed against his wounds. Kirin turned around, her dark purple hair flying through the air. "Good-bye," she whispered as she jumped back out the door and out of sight.

Snow began to fall as the young assassin embarked on the mission that would change her life forever.

*4 Days Later*

Kirin stepped through the gates of the old mansion. It didn’t look like much. In fact, it didn’t look like anyone lived in it at all. As she shadow-stepped through the front yard, she wondered if she would have to perform the kill at all. She silently broke through the door and stepped inside. No, blood would still be shed. Her acute ears could hear the shuffling of feet upstairs. Kirin quickly leaped onto the balcony of a hallway and looked around. A red carpet lined the hallway. Only the light to one door was open, so Kirin decided that that was the room where her target was hidden. She crept up to the door and slowly but silently opened it. She held her katana in front of her as she leaped right in front of her target. “Don’t move.”

The young man’s eyes widened as he felt the cold steel grazing his neck.

“D-don’t kill me,” he said calmly, his voice contradicting his face.

Kirin’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up. Aniki.”

The man’s face was calm once again, his dark eyes narrowing themselves as well. “K-Kirin?”

The assassin’s voice was as cold as the winter air. “Shut up. I’m here to kill you. So shut up.”

The man closed his eyes. “Well, do it then.”

It only took a second for Kirin to slide the sword away from his neck and slicing him in half from the waist, then backing up so that blood would not spatter onto her. She watched as the two halves of the man fell, then hit the floor soundlessly. When it was over, she padded up to the half of the body that consisted of his upper body and head. “Aniki,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you stop me?” Tears forced themselves and poured out of her dark purple eyes, racing down her face. “Why? WHY?” The girl’s voice had become shrill and full of despair. “BAKA! BAKA! BAKA!” The girl lowered her head, her dark hair covering her face. She raised her sword, ready to plunge it into herself. “I’m going to join you,” she whispered, looking at the ceiling, body shaking with sobs. “Right now!” She started to move the sword closer to her, they were almost there, when two firm hands grasped her hands, stopping them from making the killing blow.

A dark haired boy stood in front of her, black eyes piercing in to her sad eyes. “Stop,” he said. “Don’t do it. Come with me. There are more important things in life than killing.” Kirin glared at this newcomer.

“Who are you?” her voice wavered slightly.

“I am another you,” he replied. “But I’m also known as Kage. You know what it means, right? Shadow. I am the shinigami of shadows. Join me, and we can make a new organization.”

Kirin didn’t know why, but she felt as if she had to listen to this boy, this other her. So she stood up and took his hand. They leaped out of the window and into the night, leaving behind the mansion, the body and the katana that she had treasured for so many years, but would no longer need. On that night, Kirin Masamoto was reborn, leaving Toshiro Shinobu all alone…

Psyche {2}

When I next awoke, I was alone in a room with no doors, surrounded by cold stone walls. The only things in the room were a bed, a desk, and a big mirror. It struck me that I had no idea what my head looked like, besides occational glimpses in the pool. My feet bare, I padded over to stand in front of the mirror.

One glimpse and I was already horrified.

My head was completely bald, an angry red lump near the back of my head was clearly visible. I was hidious. The only remotely pleasing thing about my head was my face: delicate, elfish, refined, and pointed, with wide green eyes, a small nose, and rather full lips.

I glanced around the room, looking. There was no evidence of a camera (or food or drink). I sighed, shaking my head. If I was supposed to get out of here, I had no idea how.

But wait.

I remembered how I had gotten past the door so easily that time, who knows how long ago. Was this another test? Was I supposed to shatter the walls with naught but my mind?

I sat, cross-legged, in the middle of the room, shutting my eyes and concentrating.

There. A loose brick. Right there in the middle. I had a feeling that this was the one I was supposed to push, but there was another. Not as loose, more strongly cemented, but loose nonetheless.

A flaw in the brickwork.

Was it supposed to be there?

No.

I wasn't supposed to, so naturally, I did.

The brick flew out, hitting the opposite wall and shattering with a clatter.

Alarm bells began to sound, and the room flashed red.

I heard a click, and felt the same cold fire and white light spread through my body and across my vision.

Will this never end?

~♣~

This time, I was in a cold, expressionless metal cube, small and solid and absolutely reflective. I didn't like the cold, lifeless metal. It was so cold it felt like it was sucking the life out of me. "Holly." The voice came from everywhere; it was that of the female scientist. She sounded so dissapointed, so hurt, and I immediately felt guilty. I'd've preferred it if she was yelling. Anything but this dissapointment.

"Why?"

The question is simple, and yet it provokes an endless response. "I-I was curious," I manage weakly, knowing it won't be enough, knowing that I will be punished no matter what I say. The silence is expressionless, though somehow I know the woman is shaking her head. "No, Holly," she says gently. "You musn't do things like that. You are putting countless years of research and tests on the line. Remember, you chose this." I did? When? How? Why? Questions erupt like a volcano within me. "For this, you must be punished. You must learn."

Uh-oh.

"You will be retrieved in 5 minutes."

That doesn't sound so bad.

Little did I know...

It started as a faint buzz, barely detectable. It grew, gradually, slowly, slowly, until I couldn't stand it anymore. Screams echoed off the chamber walls, and I had no idea whose they were, and I couldn't care less. My brain was buzzing, it was on fire, I was burning, burning, it was growing worse and worse, I felt like my head was going to explode, and I was not fainting, why was I not fainting?

There was a burst of color and it was all over.

LuCA {Chapter Fourteen}

LuCA {Chapter Fourteen}

(c) Akire Zyll Flickerclaw

It was all white and gray. And fuzzy. Mila blinked. It hurt to blink. She tried to move her right hand. It burned with fiery pain and she quickly relaxed.

She wondered if this was heaven, if she had died. If there was a heaven. She didn't know. There was no evidence, but still...There were accounts of people disappearing and reappearing years later. Men and women and children miraculously cured of deadly diseases overnight. People waking up from a coma after many years and yelling numbers that turned out to be battle co-ordinates for ships thousands of miles away at sea.

But this was no time to be worrying about the metaphysical. This was a time to be worrying about where she was, and who was keeping her here. Had she been captured by the Amoveons or what? And then, she remembered with a sudden sickening punch to the gut. Hawking. Was he here? Had he survived? By traveling with her, had she unknowingly lead him to his doom?

The room was starting to come into focus. The walls were a dark gray color, and the floor was--well, she couldn't see the floor. She was lying on an immaculately white hospital bed. Her right arm was in a sling, and she was propped up against pillows that felt slightly scratchy. She turned her head to look around. There was a monitor to her left, beeping quietly and evenly, and displaying what she recognized as her heart rate. The other four lines on the screen she did not recognize.

There was the sound of a door opening behind her. She craned her neck to see who had entered the room, but there was no need. Two people, a man and a woman, stood in front of her. The woman wore leather on leather and her dark hair was cropped close to her head. The man was dressed more conservely, in a dark blue uniform with a strange emblem on the right shoulder and a white stripe around the cuffs of the sleeves.

"She's awake?" the woman asked, her voice cutting across Mila's brain like sharp interference on a radio. "Hello?" The woman waved her hand in front of Mila's face. "Can you hear me?"

"Let her alone," the man said, brushing the woman's arm away. "The poor thing's gone through enough already without you yelling at her." His voice was softer, but it had an odd cadence to it, almost akin to a faint echo. His accent was also hard to place. It sounded decidedly Scottish, but older, somehow. As if this man had been speaking with this accent before the country of Scotland was even an idea.

Mila swallowed and opened her mouth. "Who are you?" she croaked hoarsely. "Where am I? Where's Hawking? Is this heaven?"

The man smiled in an oh-isn't-she-so-cute way, and the woman laughed. "Far from it, my dear," she said. "To answer your first question, I am Kema Streen. I have a military rank as well, but I won't bother you with that right now. This is Cadfael Owyn, our equivalent of what you would call a doctor."

While Mila was trying to wrap her mind around what Kema had said, Cadfael was busy studying items on the monitor. Heart rate's good. Same with the brain waves and blood pressure." He looked down at Mila. She noticed that he had very bright blue eyes. "How does your arm feel, love?"

"Uh, bad?"

"That's good." He smiled. "It means I won't have to cut it off."

"Yay," she said weakly, then sank back into her pillows. She turned her head to face Kema. "You still haven't answered all my questions." Kema waved her hand. "In due time," she said dismissively. "Cadfael, I'm going to go check on our progress. I trust that you can handle this little patient for a few minutes?"

He looked briefly up from checking the tubes that were attached to Mila's arms. "Yes. Yes, of course." Kema turned and left. Mila heard the opening and closing of a door. She now studied Cadfael. He was now pulling out a needle from a bag on the table. Mila flinched. She didn't like needles. He started to fill it up with a blue substance.

Mila tried to make conversation. "So, if Kema won't tell me anything, than will you?" Cadfael turned to face her. "I'm not sure if I'm entirely qualified for that, but I'll do as much as I can." He smiled again, and Mila relaxed slightly. "Well, for starters, who are you people?"

Cadfael put down the needle onto the table and wiped his hand across his forehead. "Have heard of the Llachar?" he asked.

"Have I heard of the Llachar?" Mila asked indignantly. "Yeah I've heard of the Llachar! They're the reason I'm in this mess in the first place!" With a sudden realization, she added, "You're not Llachan, are you?"

"No, we're not," Cadfael said. "And the next time you go off on a psychotic rant, please try to not to do it while you're trying to get better." Mila rolled her eyes, but said nothing. "We're not Llachan," he continued, "but we are very close descendants. When the Llachar came to this galaxy, they split off into many groups. Our people were what they called the Third Colony: on a planet called Chordus."

"Then why are you here? I mean, why aren't you living on the planet? How did you get here?"

"We're here because of you, Mila," Cadfael answered. "We picked up the signal that the Amoveon device transmitted a few weeks ago. Our government deemed it necessary to go and collect you before the Amoveons got to you first. So, they rounded up the best and brightest, and we came."

"In what?"

"In a spaceship, what else?"

"A spaceship? Isn't that impossible?"

"Well, considering you're on one now, I wouldn't call it impossible. Unlikely is probably a better word."

"Fine. Unlikely. Wait, I'm on a what?!"

(Yes, I do have a Scottish doctor...because what science fiction story isn't complete without one?)

Everything Possible {Sally}

everything possible

© Sally 2011

the artist at work

sits and paints lovely things.

paints flowers and bluebirds,

and mountains and rocks,

everything possible in paint.

the author at work,

typing word after word,

creating a story, a novel, a book,

filled with wonderful things,

everything possible in words.

the doctor at work

healing each person,

diagnosing colds and flus,

prescribing pain killers and such,

everything possible in medicine. 

the scientist at work,

discovering new, wild things,

a cure, a new species, new DNA,

a new planet with living things perhaps?

everything possible in science.

the musician at work,

playing beautiful song,

each note so perfect, so true,

each phrase perfectly melodious,

everything possible in music.

the student in school,

immersed in their studies,

wondering what the future may hold.

an artist, author, maybe a doctor?

a scientist, musician, or something else?

everything possible with hard work. 

The Toy Soldier {Izori}

THE TOY SOLDIER
(c) Izori

Four years ago I was a young toy soldier,
Battling for freedom with my friends.
The general was still a young boy
And he led us across the sands.
Our battleground, a sandbox,
Its sides a vibrant blue
Our battles were victorious
And we were all so new.

Generals grow up and wars end,
The sandbox sides are faded,
And we, those brave toy soldiers,
By the sand of time are buried.
So I dream of those long-gone days,
Those old battles and adventures,
When I was a young toy soldier
And we were led by our general.

My paint is faded, my feet are buried
In the dampening sand.
But the sky is still so blue,
Like the sandbox back then.
My friends around me scattered,
Where our general laid us last.
But every boy grows up and leaves
When war-time is over.
And when he comes to look for us,
We'll still be his toy soldiers.

Fireflies: Discussion

This post is for any questions you might have about Fireflies.

But first, a little recap.

This series tells the story of Lyra, a young girl who wanders off into the forest one night looking for a firefly. Hence, the title. She climbs a tree in an attempt to grab one, but falls and is knocked unconscious. She is saved by a mysterious bald man wearing a dark suit, a tie, and a fedora. When she wakes up, he points a gun at her. She asks him if she is going to die, he says no, and then shoots her. The "bullet" from the gun knocks her unconscious again. In the morning, she wakes up at the edge of the forest with no trace of the man. She runs back to her house to find that her father has been killed in a car accident while out looking for her.

Twenty-four years later, Lyra visits the graves of her father and her mother (who has recently died of a stroke) on their anniversary. She lays purple tulips on her mother's grave, but pulls out a jar with a firefly in it and releases it for her father. Overwhelmed by sadness, she drives to the edge of a bridge and attempts to commit suicide, but is pulled back by someone who she does not see, but recognizes his voice as being the man who saved her when she was a little girl. When she turns around, there is no one there.

Lying in her bed in her apartment, Lyra thinks over her suicide attempt and what the man said to her. "You are important. You are not going to die." Lyra eventually voices these words aloud to the ceiling, and the story ends.

Underneath, post any questions or comments that you have. Some ones that were commonly asked about this story when I showed it to my friends were:

-Who is that guy? (I've partially answered that on the preview and underneath 5:5)

-What is Lyra's full name? (Lyra Ann Beckett)

-How old is Lyra? (7 at the beginning, 31 by the end)

-Why did she try to commit suicide? (Because she was depressed and believed that she had nothing left to live for.)

I will also answer questions about the show this is based off of, Fringe, though it might take a long explanation, and more of Lyra's background (i.e., how did her parents meet, what does she look like, what is her job, etc. )

Psyche {1}

Shadows played at the edge of my vision as my eyes slowly opened. Voices were murmuring excitedly, and I became aware of  limbs: two arms, two legs, a torso, a head, a neck. Slowly, stiffly, I sat up. The voices rose to undisguised happiness. Experimenting, I twitched a finger, popped my neck. My eyes were only half open, and I shut them against the absolutely bliding light. Red was behind my eyelids, and somehow I knew it was the light. I took a deep breath, and opened my eyes.

Dazzling brilliance, white hot fire, was what I first registered when my eyes opened. Gradually, they cooled to reveal several scientists in long white coats, looking at me expectantly. I shifted, feeling uncomfortable under their gaze. What did they want of me? Did they expect me to jump in the air and fly, perhaps? Or maybe to talk?

I decided to try the latter first.

"Hello," I said in a voice that was not a voice, but a dry, cracked wheeze. The scientists all smiled approvingly. "Get water," a female said. "Get water, Holly."

Holly. Holl-y. Is that my name? I wondered. I felt so confused. I couldn't remember anything before I woke up.

Slowly, stiffly, I moved to get off the table, my limbs trembling with the effort. The female who had spoken earlier gently pushed me back into a sitting position and shook her index finger, a smile on her pretty face. "Summon it, Holly," she said. Summon it? I was confused and puzzled. The scientists all watched me with baited breath.

It seemed like I was an experiment of some sort.

Summon water. I closed my eyes. Summon water. Concentrating so hard. So hard...so hard...

I became aware of a strange power, a humming buzz, inside my head. Water! I cried. Water! Suddenly, I could feel it: It was like I was there.

There was a glass of water three doors down, behind a locked door.

Inside the door now: push that gear a little, and it swung open. The water: with an invisible hand I reached and grabbed it, whisking it back to the laboratory to quench my parched throat.

I didn't dare open my eyes until the water was safely in my lap. My body never moved from here at all.

As I drank, I heard claps and cheers, and cries of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" They were teasing me, of course, but the cool, delicious liquid felt so good going down I didn't care. When was the last time I had a drink of any sort? I can't remember.

For the next few days they had me running, jumping, swimming, climbing. It was exhausting, but I was getting stronger. On that, and a steady diet of gray mush that tasted just as it sounds.

I was back on top the the table, and the female scientist was holding a needle filled with a clear liquid. "This will only hurt a bit," she promised, stabbing the needle into my skin.

There was a blast of cold fire and a brilliant white light that slowly faded to black.

The Second Trumpet ~ Refusal

Kasta needs a trumpet, and the only one Mrs Ochono is offering is the one that Kasta wants the least. Will taking this trumpet lead to relapse of last year? Or will this time the outcome be better?

Chapter 2: Refusal

Kasta walked into the auditorium to find Mrs Ochono bickering with Abby, a seventh grade trombonist. A small smile twitched at the edges of her lips, Abby was forever pestering the band director about one thing or another. Her friend Yovanna stood nearby waiting for the argument to end. As Kasta drew closer she could very clearly here Mrs Ochono say adamantly “I will TELL you and put an announcement in for when jazz band practices are going to be! This just so happens to be the first day of school and you're already bothering me about things like jazz band. I should have guessed.”

She glanced around the room. “Oh hello Kasta, I do hope you're not here to ask me about jazz band too.”

“Nothing of the sort. I do have a question for you though.”

“I surmised as much.” Mrs Ochono scooped up an armful of music and began to walk out of the room and beckoned for Kasta to follow.

Up in the band room, Kasta hovered by the pink shelves holding many instruments and stacks of music while her band director sat herself down at her desk. “So...” She began. “Long story short, I need a school trumpet. Mr Nefferbottom said to me last week at the last marching band practice that he simply cannot tolerate having a cornet player in his marching band and that if I didn't want to be kicked out of the band I had to have a trumpet by the next practice, which happens to be tonight.”

Mrs Ochono was silent for a moment, before turning around and speaking. “Of course there's a trumpet you can use, it's on the shelf right behind you.”

Kasta turned around and a rock of dread plummeted into her stomach as she recognized the large black case and the identification tag she herself had lettered the previous year, that bore the words “This trumpet belongs to Mansfield Middle School, of S. Portland, ME, and is played by Kasta Shepsheir”. Kasta looked at the ground and shook her head. “No.” She whispered. “Please, no.”

“Kasta, remember last year?” She looked up to see an expression of shock on Kasta's face, a look that plainly said 'You dare to bring up last year?'. “No, no, I shouldn't have, last year was terrible for you.”

Kasta's mind was a whirlwind, since the summer fiasco, she had done her best to block last year out of her memory, but those simple words uttered by Mrs Ochono made her memories flood over her again. That first day in October when Mrs Ochono acted so strangely, the discovery of the trumpets, the school dance, in the parking lot watching the plane her family was on explode in the night sky, Carl leaving her, having to live with Erica, the state jazz festival having to play the trumpet, the prophecies, Sara's doubts about the D.C. trip, Erica smashing the cornet against the table, Kasta running, that day at the White House, the terror in Iraq when nothing went right... “Please.” Kasta murmured “Please no.”

“Kasta, I would if I could, I'm sorry. But Kristy's using the other old trumpet because hers is beyond repair at the moment, and there are a bunch of sixth graders who are going to need instruments as well. I really can't promise you anything but that trumpet. Besides, you sound wonderful on it, and I can feel something, a mystery, another one, brewing. I can't help but think that the story of this trumpet isn't finished because of what happened over the summer. I feel, deep down, that there's so much more than just this and we just touched the tip of the iceberg last year. Please Kasta. Take the trumpet, you're the only one.”

Kasta had not moved at all during Mrs Ochono's monologue. Quietly, she said “It's over. It's finished.” There was nothing more to the story, she wanted nothing more to do with the instrument in the black case sitting on the shelf behind her, looking as benign as a loaf of bread. Reluctantly though, she reached behind her back and picked it up as one might pick up a bomb.

“Good.” Mrs Ochono said with a nod, and Kasta took that as her cue to exit the room.

She was almost walking out of the building when she suddenly remembered the other thing she had forgotten to ask her band director. Kasta dashed back up the stairs and stood in the doorway of the band room once again. “Oh, and Mrs Ochono? I'm, uh, going to need a trombone as well.”

Surprised Mrs Ochono turned around very fast in her seat to stare quizzically at her student. “A trombone? Whatever for?”

“To play.” Kasta answered simply.

“You know Kasta, I thought you were just a cornet player.”

“Yeah, at one time, I thought I was too.” And with a saddened expression on her face, Kasta turned on her heel, and walked out of the room for the second time.

Beginning and End- Prologue

               My first post! I hope you like it!

I wrote this story last year. This is it--unrevised, unchanged from the original. I wrote it for English class, after we read Romeo and Juliet. We were assigned a project: make something, anything, that has to do with Romy & J. Draw a picture, make a newspaper, make a sculpture, etc., etc.... I, obviously, chose to write a  story. Enjoy!

The woman was aged, her small, round face covered in tiny wrinkles. At the corners of her eyes, crow’s feet were etched into her pale, papery skin. She was average height, thin, and so frail in appearance that you’d think she’d break at the slightest touch. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten for days. 

Draped on her slight, undernourished frame was ragged, colourless clothing, and her grey hair was unkempt and frizzy.

People that had previously ignored her, including myself, congregated as her harsh but oddly soothing voice rang out through the street. “Gather around, my dears, for a story, a story. Is everyone here wot wants to be? Yes? Good, good, then I’ll get started.” 

Excitement rippled through the gathered crowd. 

The woman smiled, her face cracking in a hundred places like old leather. Then she began, her raspy voice now smooth and entrancing. “A many years ago, long before any of you lot was even born yet, a feud between two prominent families in Verona began. The feud was long-standing, and after much time had passed, both houses forgot how it was started. Only one person remembered the occurrence that started it all, one who had been a teen when it had begun.

“This girl became a woman and had a child, and she passed the story to her. The child grew and had her own children, and the story continued through her line. Eventually, the tale reached me, and I choose to pass it to you. I only hope you will continue the story.

“And so, my children, the tale of the Capulets and Montagues and the beginning of a bitter feud. Let us now… begin!”

The woman turned once, and when she faced us again, she was no longer an old woman, but a beautiful young teenager, her previous age only betrayed through the wisdom and understanding that could only be seen in her soft, dark brown eyes. We gasped in awe as she began to spin her tale.