Illianna Wolfsong

Very nice Appy. If you don't mind me grabbing excepts, there were several phrases that painted particularly captivating images: I enjoy your imagery and the lyrical tongue with which you create it. -Illi

To see someone, you must look into their soul. Great. Advice is a hollow drug, Cheap and worth only as much as you pay for it. He has no soul. I've looked. To feel for someone you must know their heart. I'm sure Confucius said something similar. Sorry, let me be the cynic. I can't know something that isn't there. She tells me that he loves me. I've heard it, but it meant nothing. He says he loves me... Between the knife-slice comments he makes. So if I am to listen to everything I've mentioned Does that mean I also have to take in Other comments? I am a disappointment. I am worthless. I am his biggest mistake. I look inside myself and see my own dichotomy. I am warm. I love. I care. I am cold. I despise. I resent. Am I merely human? Am I confused? Tell me something scholars, philosophers, optimists... What is it within a man's "heart" (or rather what resides where his heart should be) That makes him incapable of loving his own daughter?

The story behind the story... Last night, Z was in a mild panic over a password he had used on two sites and couldn't figure out. He was kind enough to share with me the details of his delima, and being the sweet friend that I am, I was kind enough to ... well, to offer my view of things. -Illi

This is a poem that has been passed down in my family orally. I have never been able to find it in print and have no idea who originally penned it... it is however a delightful light-hearted poem that is whimsical for adults and wonderful for small children. My pa held me up to the moo cow moo So close I could almost touch And I fed him a couple o' times or two And I wasn't a scaredy-cat... much. Now the moo cow moo's got a tale like a rope And it's raveled down where it grows And it's just like feelin' a piece o' soap All over the end of the moo cow's nose. Now his feet ain't nuthin' but fingernails And his momma don't keep 'em cut And he gives folks milk in water pails If you don't keep his handles shut. Now you or I pull them handles And the moo cow moo says it hurts But o'r hired man, he sits close by And he squirts, and he squirts, and he squirts. ------------------ If anyone has ever heard this before or has any idea of the author, please post as such. =) Thank you. -Illi

Good morning Lord Zadown said the computer in a cheerful voice. Would you care to log in now? Z shook his head briefly trying to unfog it from sleep. He stared blankly then just as his eyes began to burn he blinked. It's a trick. My roomie has been messing with my puter, I'm sure of it. But Z's mind wasn't making him feel any more comfortable. Z crept to the computer, reached for last night's water on the desk and was struck with fear. There was no keyboard. Uhhhhh... he croaked aloud slightly startling himself with the sound of his own creation. Please speak clearly, Lord Zadown. chirped the computer gleefully. The water tasted real enough. Looking at the surface of it, Z was struck with the realization that perhaps he should dust at least once every few months. A few minutes and a fresh glass of water later, Z returned to his rump-sprung computer chair still feeling quite confused and out of place. I'll play along. he thought. I'd like to log in please. said Z in what he had attempted to make sound like a confident, normal voice. He failed miserably. Despite the obvious questioning tone in Z's voice, the computer seemed to accept this as a command rather than an inquiry. Password please. Thoughts, roiling like storm clouds above a vast desert, rushed through Z's head. Password. Okay, that should be simple enough. I don't use many. Zipping through his standard list of passwords, four to be exact, he found that each met with the same exact intonation from his computer as his initial request had. Password please. He tried adding single numeric digits to the end of each password. Password please. An hour passed. He tried frantically to remember some obscure password he was sure he'd snatched from his brain not long ago. Nothing would come to him. This isn't real. I know it isn't. And yet the computer seemed to be watching him... and he could feel it... feel some artificial awareness boring holes into him waiting, expecting, demanding. It felt very real. Random words began to fly from his lips. One then another, faster and faster he ran through anything he thought he might use. The computer, never changing tone, never speaking faster, somehow sounded more and more irritated with his incomptence. Password please. I know what it is! It's that one I used on those two sites... it's... it's something clever. I certainly don't feel very clever right now. Password please. Why did this feel like such a life threatening situation. Surely he wasn't that dependent on being tied to his computer. Panic. He had to think of it. Quickly he grabbed the first thing within reach to read. It was the back of a candy wrapper. He delivered each word with emphasis, with confidence, with utter desperation, with hideous mispronunciation. Something had to be the password. The sweet songlike quality of the voice from his computer send chills down his spine. Password please. Three hours passed, then four, then six. Z's bladder ached and his stomach was protesting loudly, yet even after the onset of hoarseness, Z continued without moving from his seat. Material snatched from arm's length was beginning to pile around the base of his chair. Wrappers, bags, boxes, drink cans, jewel boxes, a prescription bottle, even one of his computer speakers with the words Made in Taiwan emblazened on the back all lay strewn at his feet. He got up... only once and came back with dictionaries in two languages, a phone book, and a porn magazine. Password please. Nothing worked. Finally well into the night, his voice aching from constant speach, his head throbbing with panic, his legs, rear, and bladder all numb from the pain of some hours ago, he tried the only thing he could still think of. Reset password. The computer whirred quietly for a moment then spoke. Security alert. Unauthorized access attempted. Computer shutting down. NO! he screamed. It was too late. The sweet torturing voice had fallen silent. The computer purred, beeped, and shut down. He looked. There were no buttons. Thinking of anything, he fumbled for the surge protector. There was nothing there. No cords snaked their way down from the back of the case. In rage and fear, Z snatched the case, uncertain if he was going to throw it violently or simply carry it out to find someone to help him. It would not budge. It seemed as much a part of the desk as the wood itself. I have to get someone. He tried to call for his roommate, but he didn't have enough voice left to carry beyond his room. He walked through the apartment. He was the only one home. Stopping only long enough to pull on shoes and make sure that his shirt wasn't too twisted around his body, he darted for the door and reached for the.... There was no doorknob on the front door. What in the name of... how do I get out of here?!? Just as his fingers started to grope the inside of the door, a hauntingly familiar voice arouse from where the doorknob had been. Password please.

I've not seen you for 16 years. I'm still angry at you though. I think I reserve the right to be angry at you for all of eternity. How dare you? Why did you single me out? Why couldn't you treat me with the same disreguard as you offered to the rest of the world? Did it ever occur to you that in telling me how much you loved me... in telling me I was your angel... in thanking me for all I gave to you and all of the support... that you set me up in a position to stand on some lonely, isolated, freakish pedistal with no way down and no company to bury my face into? You were always different. When I was 6, you gave me a BB gun for Christmas. I thought mom was going to ban you from the house or any visit to the house for all of eternity for that. Did you know I loved you for that? I never did like dolls and tea sets. You gave me something to change them from dust collectors into range targets and suddenly they were fun. I don't think I ever told you that. That's another thing I'm angry about. I never told you a lot of things. You didn't give me that chance. Most of all, I'm angry that you didn't give me the opportunity to say goodbye. Neither did they. My goodbye wasn't even to you. I got to hold your glasses and say goodbye to blood stains on the concrete where they had cut out the carpet beneath where your head had been. How dare you? I hope you found what you needed. I hope you found peace away from this world. It isn't a better place for your absence though... neither am I. I was your comfort, your strength, your shoulder. You walked away and left me to look for my own shoulder to drench. My oldest son looks a lot like you. He never got to know his uncle. Do you really think that's fair? How dare you?

A birthday toast A call to boast Another year Has begun m'dear Lift no glass To the one that passed But cheer instead The one ahead. Happy Birthday, Ayshela! (And forgive the cheesy rhyme. ) -Illi

Would a toast offered with 2 glasses of potato vodka be a bad thing here? LOL I loved it! I'm delighted that I clicked on the peculiar title. This one is an instant classic. It also gives warning not to stay up late eating junk food before going to bed... too many potato chips perhaps. I do have a question... in your edit, you mention your grandfather. Was he the one that originally penned this, or are you crediting him for inspiration? Thank you very much for sharing this! It was a joy to read. -Illi

The one thing clearly captured here is a sickly-sweet truth that is as disturbing as any facts that may occur. In dysfunction, the only sanity is to act like it is normalcy. There may be comments made to disclose pain, but the delivery of the disclosure acts to belie the depth and enormity of the damage done. Brief. Disquieting. Interrupted. Well done in it's ability to capture interest and to evoke emotion... or perhaps to evoke physical discomfort. All things worthy of praise. -Illi

It doesn't seem that a *hug* would be out of order here. *hugs* I do indeed know the feeling. I think the two of us must share appointment books and oganizational skills. Perhaps it's a strength of mine, perhaps it's a weakness of mine... I've come to accept myself as being a walking state of chaos with some degree of endearment for my own mobile mess. If nothing else, that's the single source of my remaining piece of sanity. These are the moments chocolate was created for. When in doubt, make an emergency run to Godiva. All else in the world can take second priority to truly good chocolate. -Illi

WrenWind, I have been away for too long. I have yet to read any of your writings and not have to take a few moments to re-read, re-absorb, and appreciate anew. Thank you for sharing your self and soul with us. I love the poem. -Illi

A shadow's weight (For Yatsuna) In shadows dwell many a good thing For the fullness of the sun can burn As an ever-watching eye can sting And cause a bloom to wilt and turn. All angst can be outlasted All pain can be overthrown Let the ache of sorrow touch unabashed Lest compassion dies with memory outgrown. When walking far behind the step Of those whose path is lit with attention Remember from your spot you've kept Your own choice as yours for your direction. The day shall come when amidst the shade Another soul of quiet breath Shall cross with yours thus a new path made And this lonliness shall meet it's death.

My apologies for my abscence and a hearty round of hello's to those that remember me. I don't know if I'm *back* per se... just here atm. I must however apologize for something else. It seems my creative muse only notices me when I am somewhat in a blue funk, so the pen family is only apt to see me when I'm having a night I can't sleep through and need to get up and do something constructively destructive. That being said, don't worry about me, I'm still terrorizing my children and making the school board wish that someone else was their mother. Mwahahaha! Life has it's ups and downs... if I could just get my brain to work during the ups, I might have something less crestfallen to share with ya. Anyway, hello again to all those that remember me, and hello, I'm Illi to all those that haven't met me. I'll see if I can get back to lurking again. The writings and ramblings of the whole Pen clan seem to help me get back into the spirit of putting thoughts to paper... err... monitor as the case may be. Good to be back... or semi back... or at least here! Yes, good to be here. -Illi

Nighttime is the hardest Where is your voice when the night air is still? My pulse is deafening. Where is your touch when sleep just won't come? My skin is aching. Where is my happiness when I'm all alone? I've ripped it away. Where is the comfort in what I have done? I've sealed it in stone. Why is it that nights are the hardest to bear? I do dread them so. What will come of the mistakes I have made? I just do not know. Why is it so hard to just be alone? That one is simple... I do not like the company I am in. My pulse is deafening.

*whispers back through time to Sorciere* WrenWind's fairies dance us rainbows. It really would be wonderful if we could correct some of the oversights and lost moments in our childhood. Perhaps that is a function of our dreams and why we cherish them so.

The bell rings. The heavy wooden door is closed, the faces of parents still peeking through the window as the teacher shoo's them away. Fresh haircuts and new clothes have everyone looking ready for pictures, yet all tiny eyes stay focused on that door long after the last face has vanished. Maybe mom is still here. Introductions seem very frightening. There is a strange odor to the room. Everything looks so foreign. Will this day never end? The first assignment is given. Use crayons to draw a flower. I want to go home. He makes a rose. Everyone likes roses. She makes her rounds. "Very nice, Nathan. The sun doesn't really have a smiley face does it, Chelsea? Good, Sydney. Excellent, Liam. Color in the petals, Erin." She pauses at his. He smiles hopefully, as if to say that maybe he feels better now. He used all 8 crayons. Surely his effort shows. "That's all wrong! Yellow sun, green leaves, red petals." Then she says to the class, "Don't forget to color things as you see them." The last full day of school comes before the winter break. Everyone is dressed in sweaters, many of them festive. Secret pals have been chosen for the class party tomorrow, the room will be a sea of red and green then. Tiny fingers fidget throughout the room in anticipation. I hope no one laughs at my present. All around the room sit new friends with open minds, all eager to please. I hope I get to make a gift. The assignment is given. Use watercolors to paint a card with what you will do on your break. I'm so excited! He paints his Christmas morning. So many pretty things on Christmas morning. She makes her rounds. "I like your reindeer, Nathan. Make sure not to burn your fingers on that menorah, Chelsea. Looks like you're having a lot of visitors, Sydney. Santa should be more plump, don't you think, Liam? I see you're hoping for a puppy, Erin." She pauses at his. He smiles hopefully, as if to say, I'm proud of my picture. He has used all 8 colors. She will surely like it. "That's all wrong! Christmas trees are green, not spiny rainbows. Why don't any of the presents have bows on them? And don't forget to rinse your brush between colors." Then she says to the class, "Don't forget to paint things as you see them." Spring comes, and only a few lightweight jackets now hang beneath the cubbies. Long pants and turtlenecks have given way to spring dresses and short sleeves. Tiny faces keep turning toward the windows. Recess in the sunshine! In unison everyone turns to face the teacher. The rules are readily understood now. I wonder what our art project will be today? The assignment is given. Use tissue paper, markers, and pipe cleaners to make a butterfly. I hope I can find my favorite color. He picks light blue. One color is best. She makes her rounds. "Shouldn't you give it antennae, Nathan? Very pretty, Chelsea. I like the design on the wings, Sydney. That looks like it's ready to fly, Liam! That's beautiful, Erin." She pauses at his. He smiles hopefully, as if to say, I finally got it right. He didn't overdo it on the colors. This time, she will be pleased. "That's all wrong! Butterflies don't have eyes on their wings, and the certainly don't have mouths on their backs." Then she says to the class, "Don't forget to make things as you see them." Finally it's the last day of school. Shorts and sandals seem almost like a uniform today. Children glance back and forth. It will be a long summer, fun and free, but so long before they are all back together again. I hope they don't forget me. The room still has it's own unique odor, but now it seems normal. Eyes and ears glued to the teacher. My last project before first grade! The final assignment of the year is given. Use any supplies you want, and draw a picture of yourself. Wow! First grade! He draws nothing.

I enjoy the constance of the color blue. It becomes a symbol in itself to "forget me not". Very nice.

*click clack* I was roused from a deep sleep. After the fog of confusion started to lift, I tried to figure out what had woken me, and for that matter when had I fallen asleep? It was a sound. I'm sure of it. I strained to listen. Thick silence blanketed my ears. Perhaps it was simply something from within a dream. As I began to straighten out my wrinkled clothing and to shake off the last residual effects of my unplanned nap, the sound rose again. It was very clear and distinct. I froze. *click clack* Okiedokie... from here, it's up to each of you. Start from this point, not the from where the person above you left off. What is the sound? What is the situation? What do you want to do with it? *grins*

*cheers Orlan* That was absoulutely delightfuul!

Well, the answer collided with me shortly after I posted that I didn't know the reason that I continue to write. I had been trying for 3 hours to get in the shower. Finally, life seemed to slow down enough and I decided to make a run for it. I turned on the water to get nice and warm for my entrance, and had managed to get half undressed, when my 6 (almost 7) year old came flying through the door, running into the bathroom, and squalling like a storm at sea about *something* (I don't even remember now what it was). My blood-pressure flew up drastically as I dove for the towel and began screeching at my child to have 5 just 5 minutes of peace, privacy, and silence. That's it!!! I live in a life that is more hectic and frantic than a mosh pit, yet, when I write, I have serenity. What I write doesn't matter.... good or bad (and trust me, most of it is bad), stories, poems, songs, jokes, even posts or letters to a friend... it is "me time". Everything else I do, I do with or for someone else. Writing allows me to stop time and do something that is soothing, peaceful, and private. Ahhhhh... I feel so much better now.... and I did manage to get that shower.

Shame on you... now I have something to trouble me for the rest of the day. I know why I started writing. I don't know why I continue. Inertia? Is that a reason? *scratches her head*

Hmmm... For an adult: I think perhaps a person can be tutored to be able to "see" differently. If you can coach someone to be better observers, I suppose in that sense you can give them the fundamentals needed to "write", but I think the desire to offer that unique personal view must be there on it's own... I rather doubt one can be taught the desire to write. For a young child: I do think that you can teach a child both by example and by praise to feel comfortable writing, and to feel that writing is a natural thing and something to aim for. How about as a secondary question to each of you-- What made you write? For me it was withdrawl into myself as a child. Writing seemed to the natural evolutionary step after escaping into books. As a pre-teen, I did have an older friend who used to write and tell me elaborate epic fantasy stories. Perhaps she aided in steering me in this direction (writing, not subject matter)... I am not sure.

Hmmmmmm... Religion... A topic I tend to avoid as a general rule. I neither want to offend anyone, nor do I want to politely swallow something being thrust at me. Oddly enough with a rare few people, it is a subject I very much enjoy debating. All that aside, I was very impressed with the poem... well written, passion-filled, and melodic. Excellent job, Cheyenne. You have created a very masterful work that richly expresses your beliefs without threatening those of anyone else. (At least I would not view any of it as threatening. ) That is quite an accomplisment.

*looks shocked* A writer... making things up?!?! *gasps*

Upon feathered wingtips Lifted by upthrust air Another year soft slips As a new one appears. Further past are the days When down feathers ruffled Sooner come the new ways Sharp hearing is muffled. Yet eyes of the Falcon Shall ever remain keen As the soul's words becon Shall the heart's words be seen. Happy Birthday, Falcon.