Harmonious_Echos

The first part of that poem seriously reminded me of the life of Emily Dickinson...the 'whole hidden away in a room because the outside world is a twisted perversion' thing. Cats? really? I always thoguth they'd prefer the whole "secret invasion" thing they have going now--secretly controlling the world by inserting themselves into our lives and demanding things of us which we give them because of their ghastly cuteness, or their powers of mind control...they're happy to let us think they are OUR pets as long as they know we humans are really their pets...I dunno that they'd ever care to take on the strife and struggle, as long as they had us to serve them. Also, great poem.

I'm really not implying that you NEED firsthand experience to write about cutting! (I just realised that my last post sounded almost like I was encouraging you to go slash yourself in order to write better!! Please don't!!) Just that it's not an easy topic by any means, and that a little research on the topic couldn't hurt. Try looking at it from other points of veiw, too; not all 'cutters' believe it's an addiction, and sometimes it's a condition easily remedied by resolving the underlying issue, meaning they were never truly addicted at all--they were only using a bad technique to relieve stress...great, now I sound like a counselor. It's true tho. Anyway, food for thought--does this girl want to quit? Does she like the pain, or is it emotional pain that drives her to cut? Is it a deadness of emotion that causes a need for some type of 'feeling' that causes the cutting? Or, is she smart enough that she's cutting not for the pain but to induce the bloodloss euphoria that follows? All questions that you could use to build her, and the young man as well. Good luck! Also thanks Sny for the compliment! lol!

Being a Historian of Avinarr is, I am told, somewhat akin to an earth 'Monk' or 'nun'. While our customs and traditions relate more to charts and the re-penning of ancient books, some of our deeper moral traditions run thusly, as is written in our Great Book; No historian shall betray the confidence of the King or his family. No Historian shall take a bribe. No Historian or Historian's Ward (meaning all the Historians, from Adopted to Grand Caretaker of Histories) shall pen an untruth. No Historian shall steal, lie, or commit acts of debauchery. (the last command is often overlooked during the New Year or other great festival occasions). All Historians are responsible for their own care, behavior, and motivation. A Historian may not marry; sexual relationships are permitted, but highly discouraged. (Also, since the women and men are housed separately and have little time for anything but work, most grow old in the pure fulfillment of an entirely un-sexual life). All Historians answer to the King and family first, then to the Grand Caretaker, then to themselves. A Historian shall not sit in council upon one another, or discuss another without their knowledge. A Historian shall practise cleanliness, chastitiy, prudence, and wisdom. (practising poverty is not a rule, but we are encouraged to practise simplicity and moderation). As such rules had applied to me since the day of my offical Adoption into the Order of Historians, breaking one would create a rift between myself and the other Historians, and if I were discovered, depending on my offence, I could be cast down to Librarian, or even to Adopted. Seldom had anyone committed an offence so great that they had to be excommunicated from the Order. I knew of a few Historians who chose to leave the Order voluntarily, in order to marry. Most of the young Historians have had breif relationships, which, under the patient dulling pathos of time, strict rules & hard work, have eventually lessened to the point of casual friendship, or died out completly. I was not one of those. For my part, I have always had a hard time pretending to fit in with the more socially adept crowd; the Library and its books have always thrilled me far more than the sight of a young man in partial undress. When the New Year rolls around I tend to hide in the least conspicuous part of the city, and if I am sought out there, I retire to my quarters on some excuse--usually heat-sickness or some other similarly convenient illness. In the year of my Lord Jeoffrey the second's regrettable illness and death, I had hid myself in the Covenant Room of the palace, with a large stack of Histories in need of repair, and tools to aid my work.

White clay can be used to make incredible statues which dry in the sun & create an eerie sense of long, long ago...mischeivious elven babes, playing in the warm clay & fashioning crude, childish representations of their parents, who are to beautiful to look upon with human eyes...

To tumble in the grass is lovely, provided you tumble with the right person...perhaps I should continue in the Red Pen... LOL. Of course, it can be just as lovely to tumble into an icy brook in midsummer, or into a bank of white clay mud (if you happen to be a pig)... White clay is especially nice.

*breaking character for a moment* Hrm. I dunno about the new IP version...I'm so not into technical stuff (it tends to eat my spleen for breakfast) but I'm sure whatever you can do will be interesting. Also I SO don't think the demigod of suicide squirrel squadrons is done for...there is always so much more to write! Just dunk your head in a huge bucket of ectoplasm and breathe in the smell of Muse's dust (that's actually her snot, but it works the same anyway). Or try re-reading your old stuff. That works too.

Sounds interesting. Keep going--you need to flesh out the young man quite a bit, or he'll become a narrator instead of the main character, and watch out for popular misconceptions; a topic like cutting is difficult to address without some sort of first hand experience.

thanks. it was the first poem I've been inspired to write in forever...years, really. nice to know I can still write 'em...

Freya, that's great--perfectly captures what so many young women today are desperately trying to say.

*Muse blinks rapidly* Synpuier, I am TOTALLY STEALING THAT for my next telemarketer/survey pollster!!!!

Connoisseur of Air I ride In the dark cool of morning, When lone pairs of headlights Stab the sweet virgin air Filling my nose, my face, as I pedal When the clock’s hand hits five, I ride In the thick heat of afternoon, Summer sun splashing, dripping Like riding through a warm oil painting Resisting its charms, I push deep Fly through the heavy, scent-sodden air I ride In the tired arms of the evening, The trees whisper of comfort As the heat fades away, The road’s dusty tang blusters, beckons, But I take my time, loving each breath As I ride.

Is there a deadline for posts?

Nonsense: the sense that there is nothing... unsense...

*Muse thinks this plot sounds strangely like Agatha Christie's "Ten little Indians", but will attempt to participate anyway* A soft fog fills the room, and a sweet, musky smell. Eyes watering, I look aorund the dimly lit room. Scarlet covers drape heavily over everything, as if somone were planning to paint the ceilings with blood. Jet-black curtains on the walls hang to the carpeted floor, interspersed with intricate tapestries of hunting scenes. A chandelier overhead appears to be hung with blood-red crystals, giving the only light in the room. I rush to the single large window and struggle to open it, feeling a shock when it slides up heavily but easily to let in a blustering breeze--and then a wave of disappointment when I try to put my head out and discover the nearly-invisible but sturdy screen, and silver bars cris-crossing the window, cutting me off from the outside...

The green package on the table shudders, shuffles, then hops down & quietly follows the drunken Brute, balance-'walking' on its corners.

Muse pops through the oven wall & sticks a ghostly finger in the batter, yells "Ouch!" and then licks her finger, yells "Yuck!" and pops out again. Harmony wanders in to sniff appreciatively at a distance, & drop off a large, green prism-paper-wrapped box on the table before wandering out again.

Muse pops in to squeal, "Peredhil you are adorable!!!!!"

And random Cheeses stacked in a Victorian-era Springhouse

Bourne Identity!

Cool, althought I've never thought of the desert as 'winsome'--or a fading smile, either--but I suppose there can be other ways to interpret the word 'winsome'...anyway, nice job.

Muse whirls faster & faster into a tight ball of smoke & glasses, squeaking with excitement. A new Harmony steps suddenly from the air below the ball of smoke, her golden hair cut in a sylish new pixie cut & wearing, strangely, glasses (and an old-fashioned pink plaid pantsuit). She produces a notebook & pen, taps her ultra-glossy lips with her pen, smiles--also strange for Harmony--and says in a hiccupy voice, "How's this?" ~~~~~~~"Someone" AKA your character, observes strange happenings in an orphanage for girls (also of your choice), during which SOME of the things that happen are; 1. some of the girls in said orphanage are observed creating & acting out strange rituals of an unknown & sinister nature 2. these same girls undergo strange changes and experience unnatural/aka un-human 'things' 3. some of the girls can't or don't find a way to escape or deal with said 'things', and as a result come to a very sticky end--presumably caught by adults & punished, however the ACTUAL ending is also of your choice! 4. some of the girls DO find a way to cope or escape, and, according to the observer, live on unharmed, with the observer and themselves/themself as the only witness... The whirling ball dissolves with a chuckle, and Harmony/Muse smooths down her pantsuit, clicks her (bare) heels together and waltzes out--through the far wall of the room.

Muse floats in, sees Jechum floating also & stares, first shocked, then annoyed, & hisses "Copycat! Copycat!". Harmony sits vacant-eyed in a corner, mumbling to herself & twirling her hair which appears to be crumbling into a shower of gold dust.

Muse, breaking from her usual attutude of indifference, pops back into the forum to ask "Who would write the original story/plotline? Would we write from different characters or the same character with a different personality?" Harmony declines to comment.

The Avinarrinan calandar is made up of eight seasonal months, with the beginning of the new year during high summer, and traditionally celebrated at night. The New Year celebration consists of the systematic washing and treating with holy herbs each person attending the festival. This requires the full complement of Priests of Inarre, for the renewing baptising of the people. It is considered an extremely good omen if it rains (not to mention it makes the festivities much more comfortable temperature-wise). It is also customary for people to construct the sheerest, smallest, and most highly decorated clothing physically possible to wear during the event. This is partially to show (and hopefully carry over) the wealth of the family into the new year, but personally I think the main reason for such clothing is to have the least-possible bodily covering during the stifling heat in the packed streets. The most wealthy of the commonwealth pay the Priests ahead of time to get first placement in the lains of people. The King, Royal family and higher-ranking court members take the final position in the festival, meaning that they spend the heat of the day indoors, and emerge after dusk in the relative privacy and evening cool, to take their clensing ritual. The only thing the King does during this festival is to show up at sunrise to stand next to the High Priest of Inarre, read the ritual Blessing, and look good posing in Royal crown & cloth-of-gold undergarment. The Queen generally refuses to attend this ceremony, and children under the age of 16 are banned by law. A rash of births tend to occur two seasons after the New Year festival, just in time for the traditional Frost of Inarre celebration... However, the week before the festival is traditionally when the census records are updated. Thus the week the New Year is the busiest time for the Historians, who are among the few who do not attend festivities, taking their ritual in the cool evening, just after the Royal family. I have been one of those, since the age of 19.

* Snypiuer lifts his eyes from the paper he is scribbling on, and realizes with a sudden shock that he is not alone...Harmony is perching quietly on the top of the bookshelf, azure eyes glittering through her veil of long golden hair. Muse drifts in & out of the wall like nerd-shaped smoke, chuckling sneakily. Harmony stands and leaps down from the bookshelf. She coughs politely in an attempt to hide the hissing whispers that emanate from her throat whenever she opens her mouth, then focuses, and selects one voice to speak. Her eyes roll back in her head as a child's voice with a distinct british accent whispers "I think we should all write short stories with multiple-personality characters. Perhaps that could be fun?". Muse shakes her head in disgust, produces a red balloon and a 4-inch silver needle from somewhere, and exits the room with a bang, leaving behind a cloud of fartgas. Harmony's eyes flick back into place, and her mouth snaps shut on the tail end of the word 'fun', cutting off the voice with near-mechanical precision. She gags once as she stalks from the room, leaving a trail of glittering golden strands on the floor.