Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Legend of Manshaar

A hero gives up everything. I say this because I am one. I have given up everything and everyone I ever knew to do what I believe to be the right thing. Why is it that as living beings what makes us who we are is actually contained within others. Without that contact, without that touch we wither, we expire and cease to be. When we are deprived of that touch we become something else, monster. They called me such names. Hero, villain, what exactly chooses that path for us. If there is a higher being, if she exists and made us I believe she did so for her own entertainment; again I am an example of this. My wounds are trophies I carry from winning in her games. Why do I go on, and why do I live when others pass on, leave, or die? Even in my arms, the ones I swore to use as their protection. I sat there and held her in my arms and could do nothing to save her anymore. I failed at being what I define myself as. You'd laugh to see me now. My father named me after himself. My mother gave me her eyes, and her ears, but somehow I am none of those things anymore...

A humble cottage sits a top a grassy hill overlooking a small town. An elderly man harvesting his crops from the small field on the side of his property. The sun fading into the horizon, the orange hue filling the front window causing a small box to sparkle within the home. The toy box, with a crank of the side was a brilliant gold and maroon color in a cris-cross triangular pattern and glittered as if it were made of gold. Little rainbows dancing about the main living space. Once the sun tucked itself in for the night the man entered the house, hung his hat, and sat down in a large high back chair facing a small fireplace.
"Isn't it time for another story?" the man asked.

A small elf jester with stark red hair arose slowly from the box. His clothes the same gold and maroon pattern. He yawned and stretched.
"Don't you tire of my stories?" the jester laughed through his yawn.
"I could never tire of the tales you tell. They remind me of a life I wish I had."
The jester smiled and then winked at the man.
"For you then I have a special story. It's about a young boy."
"How young?"
"Too young to be adventuring as he does, but it is how the story goes."
"Why is he wandering about so young?"
"Shush. Do you wish to hear the story or not?"

The old man sat back in his chair. Clearing his throat the jester continued on.
"Once upon a time in the land known as Manshaar a young boy by the name of Jaqual was getting ready for his first day of class. He was quite the rogue among his friend. Always getting into trouble, never able to do thing correctly or to his parents liking, and yet he still managed to pass the mage test to enter school."
The old man was now snoring in his chair. Smiling the jester stopped telling his story.

"Goodnight Jack. We'll finish this next time."

(Just a beginning...)

Saturday, August 13, 2011

I am broken, can you love me still?

I actually believe we are all broken. It is within the brokenness that we find fulfillment and a finalness in life. After all our favorite things are often wore things of love. A rough hewn teddy bear who has seen better days still resides upon our bed. That well-loved book that could use a rebinding. It is the broken things that seem to prove how much we have loved them. Strange how that works out.  A i look around my little pieced together apartment. A little bit here, a little there, some of it mine, some of it not, but it feels like home. As long as I have my broken loved thing I think I can find home anywhere I go. Bedtime calls.... 

Friday, August 12, 2011

As the world spins, faster now! hiya!

I always imagined what my life would be like when I grew up. I was gonna be a famous writer, but not the kind hounded by paparazzi. I was going to have this husband who was going to be my best friend and partner in crime. We were gonna rule the rule together and have the most awesome kids. When I was younger I always wanted four kids, that wish of course has changed a bit. I might still want four kids, but only if I can afford them.
Back then the days seemed to last forever and a week was a century between things. No wonder so many of my friend had a new relationship each one of them. That's what being young is about, learning what you like and growing up to be the person you're gonna be once you get out in the real world.
I've had all the practice one person can handle. I am tired of awkward dates and silence as the movies goes on. I want so much more. However the challenge of my age is finding someone who isn't either so scared or damaged they no longer want a relationship. The other challenges I can handle as they come at me. Lets just get past the first year first. So far it's been my and my little moo against the world. I am looking forward to moving on with my life no matter what that means. maybe it means I won't ever be married again. Hey I am still pursuing that writing thing.
In the pursuit of happiness there are a few people who did shape who I am now. To those people I thank you, and I am sorry that I hurt you, if I ever did. I know I damaged Falkor, but he was the best. I always remember him. He gave me BNL, writing, the world I write, and my first real love. There is the boy wonder of the bay area. He taught me the most about what being an adult is all about, but I happily did not inherit his inability to have any kind of emotion. He was, for a short time, my closest friend. He also taught me what I was really looking for in a love affair. Best friend, makes me laugh, best hugs, and has gotta love me back. That is where my gryphon comes in. He's magical in ever sense of the word. It' still new and I am doing my best not o let my feelings run away with me. If I don't keep the reigns on those puppies they are liable to run straight into the fire. My feelings do enjoy tugging at their chain whenever he is on the line.
So, I closed my eye and suddenly it was tomorrow. I closed them again and suddenly I was 28. It feels like yesterday I was 15 and sitting in English 10.
Speaking of being grown up, my little moo brings me out of blogger land and back into my living room reminding me I have work in the morning and laundry to plan for as well as her computer to pack into the car.   

Monday, August 8, 2011

Hot Dense State

I use this term as a scientist would. In a state of change and transformation.Which is what I am in currently. Once I am out of my hot dense phase I will be a whole planet once more. I say that I am like this because I have my little moo beginning school and I am settling into the routine of having a steady job all while thinking of the future. I must say the planet stage ofter this look quite promising. Being a fully grown human being, according to science, does not mean one is fully grown. I think at the age of 28 I am finally beginning to understand this. I am by no means grown all the way. Grown-up, sure, but far from being absolutely adult. I may never get there, adults are stuffy and don't like spontaneity in my mind. I will always love the thrill of the unknown, but I hate the dark. *laughs nervously*
Ok so you may now laugh as I have not completely conquered my fear of darkness. My friend, Narya, would find this hilarious. As I use the elements in my story a lot, and darkness happens to be one of them. As a matter of fact he's the most popular one I role play as. He is the most requested character I have made, and he's also the most boneheaded. He is part of me, after all. *smiles*
Moving on. I am just happy. I now have a gryphon. He's quite charming, and sweet, I love him. perhaps i should wait until  the planet stage to say that, but I feel that way. I am tired of censors and putting limits on myself because society says I should. I Have two perfect examples of what society makes us, and I don't want to be like him or her.  They are both fake people, I believe I wrote another post about these two. So to my gryphon I love you with all my heart. Through all the stages of me, dense or not.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Snick Fallen Rift

I am told I am not a writer. That because I fail to produce or have any published works in a book form I am not or can not call my self such. Do you have any idea of how frustrating that is? So frustrating I wanna self publish one of my totally amateurish unfinished works and just shove it in people's face and say... Hey! HEY!!!!!! I am a writer! SEE SEESEESEESEE! However the perfectionist in me slaps that idea down very quickly. So I guess you can say I have found myself in a hole of sorts. A rift in time where I'm both a writer and a non-writer.
I write something everyday in someway. So in my mind even if it's not noteworthy or even publishable I am a writer because a writer does write, always. I can reference plenty of movies that will support my belief. This rant /starting pages come thanks to Two people I thought were supporters of mine and backers/friends. They however were not, and I regret saying nice things about them now. I should've kept my little mouth shut, or at least more tight lipped. Now that I know who they really are. Sadly they are not the kind of people I like to associate myself with.
I am not someone to be trifled with. I can eviscerate you in fiction. I am vilify you in a single word. I can totally destroy you within the black and white of my pages. If you wanna piss someone off as a hobby go elsewhere because I am not a nice person once you piss me off. Am I an adult about it, yes. I can release pressure in my own way, and thee words are my friend, the comfort I keep for my mental health. 
The boy wonder himself who fancies he is some computer wiz who lives in a lofty place because he is in a bustling metropolis, and thinks he is impervious to emotions. The wicked wench of the east who thinks she can weave words as well as I do and create worlds all her own. Alderguard would eat her alive. Whole Quillick played with her insides. As the rest of the master would find it fun to evict her soul from her body, never to be found again. This is just me venting. As it should be, and as it is current;y I should be off to take a flight back to my home. I shall find my way out of this snick-fallen rift. Until them I write.