Random Musings

Not that I'm going to get any takers here, but...

Wed, 23 Aug 2006 17:57:31 GMT

Every year, the Muscular Dystrophe Association hosts a "Locked Up for Good" charity event where certain members of the commuity agree to stand behind bars at the movie theatre for an hour to raise money.

It takes $600 to send one child with MD to summer camp, so that's the minimum I need to raise. If you or your parents could possibly find it in your hearts to help me out with this, I will be eternally grateful, as will the child or children that you help out. Donations are tax deductable and can be given online by going to my little area of the MDA website.

And if you have to ask your parents, be sure and tell them that donations are tax deductible. We adults love hearing things like that. *nodnod*

Thanks in advance, guys.

The Eye of the Goddess

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 20:15:29 GMT

Pirates of the Caribbean
Rated G I guess
Jack gets his comeuppance for trying to rip off a tribe of Amazons.
No pairings
Complete

It was bad enough when Jack insisted on a visit to Isla de Muerta for Barbossa’s forgotten horde. They had left the cursed Aztec gold behind, of course, but Gibbs would have been just as happy to leave the rest. After all, who was to say that the curse couldn’t leak out onto the “good” loot? But Jack wanted it for something, and when Captain Jack wanted something, Captain Jack got it. If he had to go alone in an escape boat and carry the treasure back bit by bit, he would do just that.

He had something up his sleeve, of that the crew was certain. His compass, squirreled away where no one could find it for months, had suddenly appeared in his hand. He seemed unusually excited about something, and Gibbs had privately vowed that they would never stop at Tortuga again. Every time they did, Jack went off on some fool errand or other and nearly got the lot of them killed. Granted, they usually came out of those scrapes richer men, but that was beside the point.

Barbossa’s horde was locked in the hold. Surprisingly, no one had touched it after the initial move. Gibbs supposed the stories of the Aztec gold kept the usually-greedy sailors at bay. Or perhaps it was simply the promises of even greater riches when Jack finally found what he was looking for. Whatever the reason, it stayed right where it was left until they arrived at a certain island. Since it wasn’t Isla de Muerta, Jack didn’t risk mutiny when he ordered the treasure loaded into the long boats and taken ashore.

Gibbs had watched the process with apprehension; the island looked a bit too much like the cannibal’s island for comfort. Still, Jack seemed perfectly comfortable, so he bit his tongue, drank some rum, and watched the ship. He listened to the dark mutterings when the sailors were ordered back and tried to remind everyone that Jack had never hornswaggled them before. He wondered along with everyone else when a handful of natives arrived to lead Jack and the gold somewhere out of view. He did not join in the renewed muttering when time passed with no sign of their captain, though he did begin to wonder if something was wrong. Finally, however, their patience was rewarded.

Marginally.

Jack finally came back, alone and with no great treasure to justify the loss. He tripped several times on the beach, which led to many half-hearted jokes about finding rum in a wilderness. Still, he rowed the escape boat back well enough, and it wasn’t until he was floating next to the hull that anyone noticed anything particularly amiss.

Gibbs wiped his head with a handkerchief and took a swig from his flask. “Jack?” he ventured with a silent prayer to the nearest deity that he was wrong.

The strange woman in Jack’s clothes flashed a roguish grin. “Bit of an unexpected side-effect, that was.”

Those in the crew near enough to see and hear broke out into good-natured snickering. Word was passed back to everyone else, but the laughter was kept at a quiet minimum until Cotton’s parrot announced, “Bilged on his own anchor!” It seemed to sum up the situation quite nicely, and their captain’s eccentricities were temporarily forgiven in favor of mocking her plight.

Gibbs turned toward the interior of the ship to lean against the rail and wonder if he should be concerned or amused. It was bad luck to have a woman on board, after all. He shook his head and called, “Someone get Captain Jack back up here!”

A loud flurry of activity later, Jack strode across the deck to her cabin, compass in one hand and a small sack in the other, shouting orders to be under way again. She took the ribbing in remarkably good humor, and Gibbs decided that something was either very wrong or very right. Naturally, he followed.

“Jack…” he began once the door was safely closed behind him. “What happened to you?”

Any lingering hope he might have held that it was all some kind of trick was dashed when she raised a finger, swaying slightly, and said, “This.” She upended the sack over the chart-strewn desk, and the largest uncut diamond either of them had ever seen rolled out. “Now, what do you think this is?”

After a moment to regain his voice, Gibbs replied, “Not worth what you spent.” He leaned in for a closer look.

“That’s the Eye of the Goddess,” Jack explained. “It’s said that any man who touches it will instantly become enlightened.” Gibbs blinked and started to reach for it. “Of course, considering that it was a tribe of Amazons, it really should have been obvious what ‘enlightened’ meant.”

Gibbs paused for that to register, then jerked his hand back as though the diamond had sprouted spikes and flames. He cleared his throat and sidled a bit farther away. “What are you going to do with it?”

An expression of long-suffering pain flashed across Jack’s features. Apparently, she had not thought quite that far ahead. “Take it back to some temple like they expected me to, I suppose. And then we’ll probably be back to get our treasure back.”

“They expected you to pay them to do their work for them?” Gibbs asked slowly.

Jack shrugged and dropped her chair. “And here I thought they were getting the short end of the stick.”

That didn’t make much sense, so Gibbs decided to stop trying. He left Jack staring down at her randomly spinning compass needle and wondered if more rum would help.

A few leagues away, the native women laughed to each other and wondered how long it would take foolish Jack Sparrow to realize the Eye of the Goddess wasn’t even a real diamond.

Original Story, Angel in Ash ch1, PG-13

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 17:53:55 GMT

He ran through the brightly lit corridor, his heart pounding, and his breath in ragged gasps. He longed to stop, to simply fall on the ground and put an end to the game, but he dared not. He had no idea where the torturous hall would end and, in truth, was afraid to continue. It might have been a monster or a bottomless cliff; it might have been the Man himself. There was only thing of which he was certain: whatever lay ahead had to be better than what lay behind.

“Don’t run away!” The voice was playful, teasing, and perhaps even flirtatious. It had a child-like quality that was completely innocuous. The boy ran faster. After all, if She was still engaged in the chase, then She had not yet caught him. That eventuality was too horrible to contemplate. He had been through it one time too many.

Ahead, shouts mingled with the sound of gunfire. He hit the door that separated the hall from the foyer and hesitated for the barest fraction of a second. Experience taught him that a merciless beating waited for him there, but the fog his pursuer created brushed at his ankles. Even a sadistic woman with psychic powers could not have kept him there.

Beyond the door that marked the edge of his world, the massive foyer was in complete chaos. She would never have followed into such a battleground, hence his chosen time of escape. He ducked to make himself less of a target and crept along the wall. It was a miracle that he remained unscathed, but he hardly cared. Even death was preferable.

He glanced up briefly to plan the escape route. Gunfire sprayed the wall around him, but the large potted fern he hid behind provide ample cover. He was about to run for the front door when the roar of some great beast caught his attention. He looked and found himself frozen to the spot.

It was an angel.

There was hardly a living creature that never heard the stories. In the first months of his imprisonment, he dreamed that she came to rescue him. It was a good dream, at first, until it faded into bitterness and resignation. He hated her for never saving him.

Too much time had passed while he stared. Choosing a different route to allow for the shooters’ movement, he took a steadying breath and charged into the fray. Immediately, a line of fire shot across the back of his head, and he discovered that he wanted to live. Agonizing pain overtook his leg, and he knew the folly of such an escape. He saw the Angel of Death bear down on him and closed his eyes, certain that the mystical steed would crush his small body.

Something grabbed the back of his shirt and hoisted him into the air. As the beast grumbled beneath him, someone shouted into his ear, “Hang on!” Lost in terror, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her jacket. It was an oddly familiar sensation, and he felt comforted in spite of himself. He opened his eyes for just long enough to note that her face lay obscured behind the reflective visor of a black helmet. Then his old coping mechanism kicked in, and he was lost in his dream world.

He was only vaguely aware of the passage of time after that. A little girl laughed happily. A beautiful woman dressed in black smiled down at him. A man joined her; he, too, dressed all in black. The little girl danced into view and grabbed his arm, the better to make him dance with her. They laughed and played in the fields of black grass, and the woman held him against her.

Suddenly, a flash of white split the black sky, and the wonderful people faded away. He longed to cry out, but his voice failed him. He fought against the bonds that held him until he hit something hard and, gasping, jumped to his feet. The action sent an agonizing pain up his leg from the bullet wound, and he crumpled to the floor again. It took a few minutes before he felt well enough to look around.

The room was dark, blessedly dark. He looked around in wonderment at the lack of white for a few moments before he remembered everything that happened. The crash, the gunfire, the escape from Her…and the angel who saved him. It was real. He limped into the hall to further convince his mind. Low voices drew him up to a threshold where he stopped to listen.

“I don’t know…” a woman said. “She just left him here. I don’t know what to do with some kid!”

The boy felt something brush his mind and recoiled in terror. It retreated again just as quickly, and a second woman said, “Well, he doesn’t seem to like psychics much.”

“One thing we’ve got in common…” There was a pause, and she called, “Come on in, kiddo! No one’s going to hurt you.”

Shuddering, he peeked carefully around the corner. “You shouldn’t be up,” the younger of the two chastised him. “You’re a very lucky boy, you know.” She swept across the room, and he scrambled back as quickly as the wound in his leg would allow. The woman creased her eyes and pursed her lips, pouting. “I only want to help.”

“Let him be, Kayla,” the other said. “You know that old witch’s taste in boys. I’m November,” she introduced herself. “This here’s Kayla.” The boy merely continued to stare.

Kayla folded her arms and glared November. “I told you he’d wake up soon, but do you ever listen to me? No, of course not.”

“Right, ‘cause you’ve got that medical degree with Harvard. Oh, wait! No, you don’t. Now, get over here and sit down, and leave the poor kid alone.” She sighed and looked at the boy. “That’s my cane collection, there. Choose one you like until your leg heals.”

“You mean, that’s your father’s cane collection,” Kayla scoffed quietly.

The boy gulped and remained where he kneeled until well after she moved away. They seemed nice enough, and intellectually, he knew that not all women were like Her. However, one of them was a psychic, and he didn’t know which one. Psychics were evil mind-rapists, as far as he was concerned. He listened to their good-natured bickering for a long time before deciding it was safe to move forward.

He found the canes next to the doorway as indicated. Part of his mind insisted that it was some kind of trap, so, prepared for the worst, he chose one. It was familiar, somehow, almost friendly. He glanced at the women out of the corner of his eyes and waited for the black-skinned November to attack, cursing his choice and existence. When several minutes passed and still nothing happened, he examined his prize more closely.

It was like the one the man in his daydream carried, he realized. It was black, like everything else there, and had a brass grip in the shape a duck’s head. His breath caught in his throat at the knowledge that any part of that imagined place could be real, and he clutched it just a bit tighter.

“Well!” Kayla announced. He cringed, but she merely stood to leave. “I’d best be off. Some of us have lives.”

November scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine! Leave me alone with the kid!” Standing as well, she saw the younger woman across to a second threshold, and then he was alone. He could hear the continued muttering as they said their goodbyes. There was silence for a time, and the sound of a door as it opened and closed. Boots retreating across Pergo…

He straightened and leaned heavily on the cane to wander around the room. His leg hurt, but She had hurt him worse on a regular basis. As far as he was concerned, he was in Heaven. After years of living in a stark, white reality, the muted browns and greys were enough to bring tears to his eyes. He trailed his hand along the dark beige couch and wondered if it would be all right to sit down.

He bit back a cry and spun around on his good leg at a sudden noise, but there was no one there. After a moment, he realized it came from another room and followed the sound. The dark-colored theme continued throughout the house, and he found himself relaxing in spite of himself. She would never venture into such a dark place, and it made him feel safe.

He finally found November in the kitchen, and cringed as his cane tapped the floor. Rather than the expected punishment, she turned, nodded slightly, and went back to the microwave. “You got a name?” she asked. He stared for a moment before turning his attention to the radio. “That works, too,” the woman muttered with a shake of her head. “She got you bad, didn’t she? I met a guy once, social worker. Said he rescued a kid from her once about five or six years ago. Poor kid. Bet she got you to replace that one, huh? You can sit down, if you want, by the way.”

He glanced at the chair in indecision. November seemed nice enough. In the end, it was the fact that she reminded him a bit of the woman from his dream that convinced him to sit. She didn’t even look around, so he turned his attention to the pictures on a nearby wall.

He recognized November and Kayla in a few, though they seemed younger. There was one of Kayla pretending to ride a cherry red motorcycle with November doubled over in laughter behind her. And there was one of November with some older man in a lab coat, standing outside some junkyard. Another of the older man, his hand resting on…

…the beast bore down on him, and he knew he was dead…

He tried to calm his pounding heart and reached out to touch the image. It was a black motorcycle, but not the same one.

“That’s Frank,” his hostess said. “He was such a moron; a real absent-minded professor.” She set two bowls on the table and sighed sadly before going back for the food. “Went to Yale to be…I don’t know. An astrophysicist or something. Nuclear science. Whatever. Suddenly, he discovers cars, throws his Bachelor’s out the window, and becomes a mechanic. Man was a genius, but not real bright.”

After some hesitation, the boy decided it was safe enough and tapped one of the other pictures.

“That would be my parents: Bernard and Shawna. Hawaii, I believe, the Big Island. I think that was that one huge volcano; I can never remember the name of it. And that was my senior prom. I still can’t believe Mom and Dad let me take Kayla. I thought they were going to disown me when I first told them. That one? Spring break. Please don’t ask. I was too drunk to remember anyway. Yeah, that’s Kayla again. She’s a concert pianist! I believe that was at UMKC, but I don’t remember right off.”

The boy couldn’t help but smile. It had been too long since anyone had been friendly to him. Even when She tried to seem nice, Her eyes gave her away. Although he was reluctant to trust November, he wanted to enjoy the novelty while it lasted. His eyes drifted toward the awkward mash of canned vegetables and stew meat, and he poked ineffectually at it for a very long time.

If there was one thing he could say for living in the Man’s house, he never went hungry. A veritable parade of the expensive and exotic had passed over his tongue. Compared to that microwave stew, which he likened to a taste of real freedom, the finest caviar was as ash in his mouth. He spared a moment to fight off tears of relief and took a breath as though to speak. It was several minutes longer before he managed to ask, “Are you psychic?”

His voice was quiet and hesitant. He didn’t want to ruin the image he had built around her, but he needed to know.

November’s eyes widened in surprise and her mouth quirked just the tiniest bit. She bit back the exclamation, “So you can talk?” The last thing she wanted was to scare him into silence again. “Not me, no. That was Kayla.” As always when she spoke of her partner’s abilities, her voice was torn between fond affection and irritated acceptance. She shrugged. “She means well, honestly.”

“Fucking mind-raper…” the boy whispered, almost inaudible.

“Hey!” November barked. She slammed her hands onto the table, heedless of the terrified child’s cry of panic. “You want to say that about Santiago, be my guest. But don’t you dare ever let me hear you call my girl that again! Got it?”

The boy nodded frantically and hunkered even further down in his chair. He clutched his cane against his chest in unconscious debate about whether to fight or run away. Eyes clenched tightly shut, he failed to notice when November grimaced and sighed quietly at herself.

“Sorry.” She was unsurprised to note that her apology did little to make the boy relax again. “It’s just…her parents kicked her out for that. She was about your age actually. Got bumped around foster homes for a couple years before I met her, right up until she started living on her own. I don’t like psychics, either, kid, but Kayla’s special. She helps people. She won’t go poking around in your head, and she definitely won’t play games with you like Santiago does.” The boy finally opened his eyes again, and she tried to smile encouragingly. “I won’t ask you to trust her, but give her a chance, huh?”

He nodded carefully. November was unable to tell if he agreed or simply wanted to placate her. She decided to be grateful that he relaxed enough to resume eating even though he refused to look directly at her again. She briefly wished Kayla were there, and then realized the psychic’s presence would likely have made matters worse.

Of course, the boy hates psychics, she thought. He’s been the plaything of one for who knows how many years. She wanted to ask if he remembered his life before Silver Meryll Santiago took it all away, but that was horribly tactless. If he did remember, it would dredge up things best left unsaid. Silver never learned about subtlety. If he didn’t remember…

The last child had been given a whole new past to replace the one Silver took away. November had never been privy to the details, but she knew it involved fire and blood. She knew that because the boy had babbled constantly about it when she found him running madly through the deserted streets.

“I burned them all,” he whimpered. “The Lady says so. She says I’m lucky she’s so nice. She says I should be punished. She says…they died ‘cause of me…”

November could easily imagine the flippant, cheerful tone Silver would have used. She shuddered once again in memory of the child’s voice; a voice that reflected a mind trapped in some twisted madness. He was so scared and mournful, and so happy at the same time. She had gladly turned him over to the local child protection agency. Only Kayla and the social worker knew who had really found that boy.

She glanced up to see her houseguest give her a curious stare and mustered a grin. “Lost in thought,” she explained.

The boy nodded vaguely and returned his gaze to the table. Whatever occupied her thoughts had put a furious glare to her eyes. He thought, at first, she was angry with him, but her expression was too distant. The way November said Her name, with that near-unconscious loathing, had finally connected then. “You hate Her, too?” he asked carefully.

November barely registered the inflection. The question fit so perfectly with her train of thought that she nodded long before it occurred to her to wonder whom he might have meant. It was so obviously Silver that she wondered if he were a touch psychic himself.

The two enjoyed an uncomfortable silence for the remained of the meal before November realized that she had to say something. The boy jumped but did not cringe, and she was heartened to feel that she had recovered some lost ground from her outburst. “Hey, kiddo? I have to go pretty quick.”

The boy nodded and continued pushing his bowl around nervously.

“I have to leave you alone,” she explained further. She did not expect him to suddenly freeze, but it seemed a reasonable reaction. “Look, I’ve got a nice cop friend next door. His kids are a bit rowdy, but they should leave you alone. Do you want to go over there while I’m gone?”

The boy gulped and tentatively asked, “Where are you going?”

“I have work. A night job. I’ll be gone until around four. Maybe five.”

“Don’t go.”

November smiled, touched that he trusted her at least enough to remain. “Hey, kiddo, relax. I’ve got a cop on one side, a huge professional boxer on the other, and state-of-the-art security. You’ll be fine, and…frankly, no one knows you’re here, yet. The way you got swiped right out from under Roho’s nose like that, it didn’t seem very smart to just hand you over to the cops when a bunch of them are in his pocket. Not my friend!” She quickly added the afterthought when he started to cower again.

He didn’t quite relax, but he did nod. “I’ll stay here.”

November answered the nod with one of her own. “Okay. I’ll have Dillon keep an eye out for prowlers. That’s Officer Daycrist; his number’s on the wall behind you there. Yeah, above the phone. Benny’s the boxer. You call either one of them if you get scared or anything. Tell them you’re my cousin or something, okay? Oh, and keep out of the garage. The lights burned out, and there’s tools and sharp edges everywhere.”

She went on to say that she would call periodically and not to answer the phone unless her name or Kayla’s came up on the caller ID. He was to rest and not walk around too much until his leg healed. She would have no objections if he fell asleep in front of the television. The French silk pie was expressly off-limits.

The boy paid little attention. Half of his mind raged at him to go stay with her officer friend until she returned home. The other half was terrified that Dillon Daycrist would happily turn him over to the Man, Roho, again. He couldn’t bring himself to trust Benny the Boxer, either. That name sounded familiar, and he was afraid to wonder why. The only option was to stay in the house alone.

He followed November to the “family room;” an ironic name for someone who lived alone. She showed him the remote and the caller ID and made sure he was settled before she wandered into another part of the house to get ready for work. He stared sightlessly at the cartoon until she returned to say goodbye. Her boots tapped out a cadence of doom as the sound retreated. He listened until the door closed, then turned off the television.

Five minutes went by…ten…

“Is anyone there?” he called, suddenly certain he would hear an answer. It was too quiet. The only time things became that quiet were the times Silver wanted to play Isolation Chamber. She would convince his mind that everything was perfectly dark and quiet. If he called out, she would remind him of all the horrible things she said he had done through a barrage of mental images. If he didn’t call out, she made him relive them.

Unable to take the silence any longer, he turned the cartoons back on, turned the volume up as high as he could tolerate it, and stood to wander the house.

Whistlin' Dixie

Mon, 09 Jan 2006 22:06:30 GMT

The ghost wore a dark blue suit with matching hat and black sunglasses. He looked like he was auditioning for the part of one of the Blues Brothers. He played a slow tune on the harmonica, but stopped as Danny cautiously approached. “Hey,” he said in greeting; he even sounded like Dan Aykroyd.

Danny looked around. They didn’t seem hostile, but not all ghosts did at first. If it came to a fight, he was grossly outnumbered. “Um…mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” he said, trying to be firm and pleasant at the same time without sounding weak. Sadly, he failed miserably.

The ghost shrugged. “Jamming. What’s your name?”

He was hesitant to give it. If they had heard of him, it might start a fight. Instead he asked, “What’s yours?”

“They calls me Blues,” Blues replied with another shrug. “On account of ‘cause, I plays the blues.”

Well, he seemed nice enough. “I’m Danny.” Blues showed no reaction to that, except to gesture at each band member in turn as he introduced them.

Vicks wore a ball cap pulled low over his eyes and a red high school jacket. He lifted his chin in Danny’s general direction without looking and went back tuning his trombone while staring at the floor.

Louie and his wife Dixie were black ghosts with the egotistical air of a born trumpet player. Dixie flashed Danny a flirting smile while Louie raised horn in greeting. They stood beside Vicks, clearly annoying him with their chipper arrogance.

In front of the horn section sat Alto and her two brothers, Tenor and Bari. Like saxophone players everywhere, they were friendly yet reserved. They actually looked like their instruments, with red-gold hair and brass eyes. Alto was relatively small, while Tenor was of average height. Bari, like the baritone he played, was big and heavy set. Unsurprisingly, they had voices to match.

On the other side of Alto was a small, thin girl in pigtails who resembled a cheerleader. She squeezed her eyes closed in a friendly grin and didn’t stop playing scales. Danny didn’t need to hear her talk to know that she probably squealed in a voice like the flute she played.

On the other side of the band, a big man named Bass used a pick on a cello while a cowboy named Casey played the electric guitar. They stopped and looked around at the sound of their names, then waved distractedly. They seemed annoyed to have been forced to stop.

Behind them on drums was a somewhat vacant-looking fellow named Troll. While his name didn’t entirely fit his appearance, he would never have won any beauty contests either. He was gangly, and might have been nerdy if given a pair of glasses. He paid no attention as he was introduced, but continued pounding the drums with a blank gaze.

Finally, on the end, was Ivory, pale and slightly overweight. Her long black hair hung in front of her face, and she hid behind the piano like someone who was painfully shy. She blushed at Danny as her name was announced and ducked her head closer to the keys so as not to look directly at him.

Black and White

Fri, 30 Dec 2005 22:24:51 GMT

This is being posted after Electric Angel is over. I like it a lot, but I'd like a second opinion.

Prologue

It’s time for a history lesson, my dear boy. I know how much you look forward to our little sessions. I must say, you’ve made better progress than I expected after that little debacle; doubtless, that sister of yours has something to do with this, yes? But I digress.

When one has looked into the mouth of darkness, as you have, he finds it rather difficult to look away again. The darkness exists in all places, not only those few you have seen before. I know you won’t enjoy hearing this, but it exists here, as well, in your quaint little city of Amity Park.

Does this come as a shock to you? Violence is a universal trait; all mankind shares it. Even the smallest hamlet has, at one time, had its share of murders and hatred. True that it is more concentrated in a place like Carnate Island, but there is no way to escape it no matter where you go.

Oh, do try to pay attention, my boy. I remind you that, as your doctor, I am only trying to help you. You may not want to hear this, but it must be said. Amity Park has its share of malefactors. The slayer exist everywhere; they are the spirit of violence in its purist form. The mainliners, as well, for they represent, not drug use or lethal injection, but simple debauchery. And I rather fear the marksmen have followed their master here, so you will likely meet them, as well.

Their master? My dear boy, surely…

Meryll, of course. Who else would I be referring to? Of course, she has followed you here. But, then, you knew that already.

Please, listen. Whether you choose to believe this or not, what I have to say is of vital importance. You are here; she is here. Do you honestly believe that it can’t happen again? Our dear Meryll is one of the malefactors; surely you realized this?

Ah, I have your attention now? Then listen very closely, for I shan’t repeat myself.

Twenty years ago, a madman climbed that clock tower in the center of your city with a sniper rifle in one hand and a very corrosive acid in the other. He shot eighty people from up there before the police were even able to draw near. If I recall correctly, he came to be known simply as Deadeye. Any identification was rendered impossible, I’m afraid, by the acid he poured down his throat when they arrived to apprehend him. It quite destroyed his face.

I should also like to warn you about Darwin, who took his namesake’s beliefs to heart. Not the most inspired or notorious of killers, but one must admire the way he disposed of his bodies. Consuming them is most thorough. I believe he vanished one day, shortly after his arrest. Perhaps he consumed himself?

No one appreciates wit anymore. Ah, well. There are others, I’m sure, of the mindless variety. You will meet them.

And so, I watch with great interest as this final chapter in your pedophiliac affair draws to a close. I shall be most interested to see which of you emerges as the final victor. Do not underestimate your opponent, my boy. Our dear Meryll has defeated countless men stronger in will than even you. Even in death, she is still a most perilous foe.

Where is she? Really, Daniel, you are not that dense. You have known the answer to the question since she died at your hands. As she was so fond of saying, “When you take a life, you make it part of you.”

Thu, 29 Dec 2005 22:24:18 GMT

I am crushed under the weight of my own greatness.

Man, that sounds egotistical, even for me. But I'm serious. Mirror, Mirror is a difficult fic to write because everyone is gushing about how great it is. It's thirty-two chapters now, and I can't seem to continue because of all the pressure to match what I've done so far. Nothing I can do at this point seems good enough, anymore. I was burned out on it, but now I'm just too scared to continue, I guess.

You know, it's funny. That's actually what got me started writing Danny Phantom fics. I guess I thought I needed a break, and I did. But starting again is almost painful. Ah well. I swore to myself that I would start again when I got as many reviews as there are chapters, and that has happened now. I was kind of hoping I'd have more time, but I'm not going to put this off any longer.

...But dang if trying to start up again doesn't make me nauseous.

squeals like a little fangirl

Wed, 07 Dec 2005 03:16:01 GMT

Ghost Writer! Is! Cool! Oh man, he is the coolest! I think he might even be cooler than Technus! Which is blasphemy! *runs around in circles screaming with glee* Finally! Finally! A cool villian who's a writer like me! That was just...that was...that was...*dies*

Bloody Bright Havens of Bahamut! I think I'm in love! *dies...again*

Oh...gotta stop now...

Oh, no. Tomorrow is going to suck, isn't it? Danny uses his Ghostly Wail, Ghost Writer frickin pwnz j00...the fanfiction that's going to hit tomorrow...*shudders* I'm starting a bet, now. If the first Sue I see is Ghost Writer's daughter, everyone owes me a hot dog. If not...uh...hm...I dunno.

But on a completely unrelated note, Phantom Ethereals is now open for business. How unrelated is that, you ask? It has nothing to do with Danny Phantom. It is The Ghost Master's jewelry shop. I have the Mystic Blue Pendant and Earrings and the Spring Love Necklace, Earrings, and Bracelet sets. They can be purchsed as the full set, or seperate items. Just drop me an email at silentelegy@myway.com and mention where you heard the ad (heh heh), cause all my friends get a Christmas discount...because I know most of you are under 18 and have no jobs.

I am so narcissistic...

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 06:48:05 GMT

It's really just pathetic. Ahem.

Hounds and Hunters: Prologue

The city of Baltimore has long played host to a prestigious gathering of ghost hunters called the Paranormal Society, which has met annually for the past fifty years. It is a Who’s Who of the most renowned and influential psychics, mediums, hunters, and experts from all over the world. They meet to exchange and discuss ideas and theories, to learn from each other, and most importantly, to brag to each other.

It was during one such convention, five years ago, that a disaster of apocalyptic proportions struck. No one knows what happened that day, though popular belief holds that it was a military experiment gone horribly wrong. The rumor states that the government was using a nearby prison island for illegal chemical weapons testing. The subsequent prison break that resulted in everyone being evacuated infected the city of Baltimore with hallucinations of terrifying monsters. The undeniable result was complete and total mayhem; many, many people lost their lives in the most gruesome ways.

The Paranormal Society held a slightly different view, naturally enough. They believed that a tear in the fabric of reality of allowed ghosts and monsters from the ethereal plains to enter the world. They spent five years looking for proof of their theory, but to no avail. The monsters disappeared as quickly and completely as they had arrived, leaving suffering in their wake. The only clues left were the numerous sightings of two of Baltimore’s most infamous ghosts.

During the eighteen hundreds, the city was a stop-over for the Underground Railroad, the path escaped slaves took to reach freedom. Many people made their livings off of hunting those slaves down, but one in particular went down in local history as the most evil and depraved of them all.

The slave hunter Copperfield was the best and the most relentless. Once he began the hunt, his unfortunate victim was doomed. By his side was a pack of rottweilers that he routinely starved; their meals came from their quarry. The unfortunate slaves never survived being hunted down, and neither did the people who helped them.

Other, more recent legends, tell of a string of murders. At first, the victims were always prostitutes. Since no one much cared about them, very little was done to stop the killer. After a while, the victims became women in general. Towards the end, men who were or might have been perceived as homosexual were added to the list. By the time the police decided to be involved, it was far too late to catch the culprit, a misogynous pimp who came to be known as Creeper.

That was years and years ago, twenty at the very least. The serial murders have long since stopped, but every once in a while, someone will turn up dead. There’s no evidence, no suspects, and no apparent reason. The victim is found, often in an alley, gutted like a fish, Creeper’s M.O. Witnesses invariably claim to have seen a large man in a trench coat.

Sightings of Creeper and Copperfield increased dramatically since that day five years ago. The head of the Paranormal Society, Ed Johnson, dropped the latest reports on his desk and turned to stare out the window with a sigh. The two ghosts had become his life’s work since that day, and he finally had an idea for how to deal with them.

The only people to return from Carnate Island alive these past years just happened to be the world-renowned Amity Park ghost hunters, Jack and Maddie Fenton. He had honestly expected the outcome to be just like all the others he had invited there, but they had surprised him.

Yes, he rather thought the Fentons might finally capture the two ghosts and prove that all his theories had been right all along…

Beneath the Crimson Sky

Tue, 22 Nov 2005 03:45:44 GMT

Hm...Yeah, I like that title. Okay, ready?

Naread Assassin
Male
Age: 64
HT: 4'3"
WT: 99 lbs
Hair: None
Eyes: Green
One of the Shalen'Dari, or Children of Stone. His people are assassins, thieves, and mercenaries. He has four arms and a long prehensile tail like a monkey's. The dagger is his weapon of choice, but he is also partial to the noose. He is a devout follower of Donga the Corpse Worm, the Shalen'Dari god of death.

Kyda Steel Wire
Female
Age: 13
HT: 3'9"
WT: 81 lbs
Hair: Red
Eyes: Green
A Shalen'Dari child studying to be a mercenary. As her name implies, she favors wire, but is also skilled with the sword and bow. She is the daughter of Naread and the Priestess Nyu.

Nyu Archer
Female
Age: 69
HT: 4'4"
WT: 98 lbs
Hair: Red
Eyes: Green
A skilled archer before she was called to serve Donga. Her duties now include the locating of suitable sacrifices, which, contrary to popular belief, involves locating recently deceased infants of any species. While she has been known to take a few lives in this service, it is by no means the norm.

Write what you know...

Sun, 20 Nov 2005 20:47:49 GMT

They say you should write about things you know about. So I write fanfiction. I know the characters; I know the plot. I'm going to get a little arrogant now and say that I have a gift for keeping canon characters in character. The character, the style, the tone...all of that comes so easily to me. So that's what I write.

It's not so easy when I'm trying to be original. My talent is mimicry, not originality. The problem is that I know so little about our world, having spent so much of my life avoiding it at all costs.

Apologies. I'm feeling rather maudlin.

So, since I know so little about my world, the only recourse left is to make up my own. Not as easy as you might think. Writing is...a lot like playing god. YOU build the world. YOU create its people. YOU control their destiny.

And people wonder why I like it so much...

Crimson Bloodmoon
Female
Age: 82
HT: 7’9” from feet to horns
WT: 120 lbs
Hair: Red
Eyes: Red
Her people call themselves the Yylon’Dari, or Sky People. Her upper half appears to be a human female, but her lower half appears to be a fearsome dragon. She has long horns and wings to match. She wields no weapon but her claws, although she is an expert at most of them. She’s a warrior, and a hero among her people. She got her name because she is crimson in color, and was born under a blood red moon.

Pretty!

Sat, 19 Nov 2005 07:49:41 GMT

That is Silver, ladies and gents! I'm very proud of that picture. And my new style! It so putryful! I am 1337! Or something...

Huh? Oh, sorry. No, I do have an actual reason for this post. Apologies.

The Angel of Sorrow

It all started one day, so very long ago. I was young, I guess. We all were once, right? I had a good life, so don't go thinking this is one of those tragic, angsty little superhero stories. I'm no hero. I'm not even a vigilante. I'm a villian, through and through. Always was, I guess. It just took Roho to show me.

El Diablo Roho...The Red Devil. Supposedly. I don't know. I never could speak Spanish. I know how to say si and that's about it. But that's what they called him. El Diablo Roho. They said he got his name from being the only surviving member of some kind of massacre. They said he was covered in blood, and wild like a mad demon. Personally, I don't believe that for a second. Roho is far too calculating. He would never get so enraged that he stopped thinking.

But this isn't about Roho. It's about Frank. Frank and my Sweetheart. Frank who built my Sweetheart. Frank who was killed by Roho. That was the day it all started, the day I learned to hate.

Maybe I should start from the beginning. It would make more sense that way...

From "Mirror, Mirror"...

Sat, 19 Nov 2005 03:10:53 GMT

Illisaith looked around idly. He was worried, but he was bored, too. He might have finally decided to call himself a Hero instead of an Evil King, but there were still those tendencies. Most notably, at least for the moment, was his love for violence. He didn't want to kill anything, which was refreshing, but he was desperate for something to fight.

Eh...I can do better.

This is a difficult story to write. I'm a little burned out on it. I'm not quitting; I never quit. Well, actually, I do on occasion. But only when I didn't really want to write it to begin with. Like my Chrono Trigger sequel. But Mirror, Mirror is, by far, the longest story I've ever written. And not just chapter-wise either. My CT fic finished at 20 chapters, and it was upwards of 30,000 words, okay? This one, at 20 chapters, was about 44,000. Yeah. It is, as I write it, in the vicinity of 75,000.

I want to finish this story. I want to know what happens next as much as any of my readers. The desire to finish is there. Heck, even the knowledge of what's going to happen is there. The inspiration is gone. So I'll keep trying. But until I'm satisfied, there's not going to be another chapter. My apologies.

Sat, 12 Nov 2005 19:59:00 GMT

I'm borrowing Slap to the Head Fanfic Reviews' review setup here because I really like it. So...

DIFFERENT DIMENSIONS
IloveDannyPhantomandBeastBoy

SCORE
CHARACTERIZATION: 2/5 (It's not...too terribly painful in the first couple of chapters, but then the Sues show up, and I couldn't read it anymore...)
PLOT: 2/5 (If it weren't done in so horribly contrived a manner, I might have been able to enjoy it.)
WRITING: 0/5 (Grammar and spelling are usually my biggest pet peeves, but the actual writing in this thing...*runs away crying*)
GIVING NEW MEANING TO THE TERM "SELF-INSERT": 10/1

I will confess. At 23 years old, I love Danny Phantom. I love that show. I love that show so much that I have an ongoing fan series that I'm writing. And yes, there are OCs. Mostly villians, but one of them is a good guy.

Anyway, I was looking through The Pit of Voles for some good fics. They're pretty hard to come by; 73 pages of Mary Sues, but you can find the occasional gem. This is not one of them. This is the one who's summary I was making fun of in the post below this one. So without further ado, the...heh..."fic".

Micayla has a new story to write. Now we want to change or add something.

That’s it, folks. Chapter One, right there. Do I even need to go into this? No, let’s just move on.

Authors note: Hey sorry about that weird thing on there you guys. That’s not even part of the story. Lol. Anyways, OMG! The Danny Phantom movie was SPACTACULER! Don’t you guys thinks so? Well any ways, lets get back to the story. And maybe this time I will actually start the story. LOL!

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to gouge out my eyes.

Okay, the official first chapter is exactly three paragraphs long. And I use the term “paragraphs” loosely. Apparently, she’s watching TV with her friend while her mother is trying to punch a hole into another dimension or something. If there was ever a more contrived plot…Well, there probably was, to be honest. And that’s what scares me the most.

I should probably mention that this writer (and again, I use the term loosely) is obsessed with Author’s Notes. In Chapter One, the official one, I mean, the notes are longer than the chapter. The writing is relatively…erm…decent. I suppose. I mean…well, she doesn’t use chat speak in the middle of the fic, at least. But the dialogue is woefully uninspired, and she seems to have trouble figuring out how to use spell check. Now, don’t get me wrong. My spelling isn’t the greatest either. I’m dyslexic, so I have a tendency to transpose letters when I type, combine words, and sometime skip words completely. That’s why I use spell check. Spell check is my friend.

So what didyou guys think? I know not so good but its my first fic! Danny and Sam stuff is on the way!Promise. So please review and give me some ideas too!

Yes, that’s right, folks. More Author’s Notes. Here we come to the part where I start screaming. You know, just because it’s your first fic is no reason to let it be poorly written. Look, I’ll confess. My first fic sucked. But that was because the plot was uninspired, not because I don’t know basic grammar and sentence/paragraph structure. My first fic was a learning experience for me. Every fic I’ve written has been a learning experience. This…isn’t. This is…just sheer laziness. A good writer can take a woefully contrived plot like this and still make a good story out of it.

Danny Phantom was almost over and it started to rain. Thats when it happend. Yes, we got sucked into the lives of Danny Phantom. I dont remember how it happend, it just did. i guess I guess I got knoked out when it happend.

So, now here we are. In Amity Parks hopital. You want to know how I knew we were here? Oh, yeah I saw Danny,Sam, and Tucker. They were walking here. Dont know why though. Paige was awake first and pointed them out to me. She was like standing there eyes wide. As big as saucers! I said "Paige what are you staring at?" She then dragged her finger to them up to the big area were theres a mirror and pointed them out.

They were kind of freaked to see us. Like they had just seen a ghost...or something scarer that they dont see everyday.

"Alright were are they! Were are the ghosts!" Iknew in just one second who that was.
Jack and Maddie Fenton.

That’s Chapter Three. No, no. I’m serious. That is the third chapter in its entirety.
Ugh, you should see this like I’m looking at it right now. You can’t really appreciate the spelling errors until you copy and paste it into Word and just look at all the red underlines. Oh, and the green ones. The grammar errors are considerably less prominent, though.

I…can’t look at this anymore. If I read any further, I’m afraid my head will explode. Oy…

And now for something completely different...

Tue, 08 Nov 2005 06:44:46 GMT

Okay, I have to rant. The Mary Sues are bad enough. They’re blatant self-inserts, and I despise them. Maybe that’s a bit hypocritical of me, but I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s possible to write an original character without infusing it with some part of your being. It’s like with any art; you have to have something invested, some part of your spirit. So I’m more than happy to admit to that my Katrina is my avatar into the world of Danny Phantom. My problem is not with avatars; it’s with Mary Sue.

Mary Sue is a blight upon the face of fiction, fan-based or otherwise, but especially fan-based. When she enters a canon world via fanfiction, she twists and distorts it to suit her desires. She is as a plague, which infects the canon characters. They begin to act out of character and can no longer function without her. The main character falls in love with her, be he straight, gay, or even a different species. The other characters worship the ruined ground upon which she walks. Good guys love her; bad guys fear her. She single-handedly saves the hero from certain doom before succumbing to her grievous injuries and finally perishing. And making all her readers very, very happy by result.

This, though, pissed me off to no end. I present for your (dubious) enjoyment, the summary for a fic entitled DIFFERENT DIMENSIONS by IloveDannyPhantomandBeastBoy. All-caps hers. And what a name, hm?

What happens when my friend Paige and I get sucked into the lives of Danny Phantom?Do we get to meet the Teen Titans? Why is Vlad here? Is he going to turn us into halfas?Or worse,...evil?

Let’s begin with the first thing wrong with this. You and your friend couldn’t possibly be sucked into the lives of Danny Phantom as he is a single person, and therefore only has one life. And really, half a life at that. And I think “pulled” would be a more appropriate term.

Second, the Teen Titans don’t exist in this world. I hate crossovers. More than anything. I think I mentioned that in one of my brainstorming sessions. (Yes, I hate them so much I’m writing one. Yes, go ahead. Call me a hypocrite. I do see this one that way.) If you’re going to insist on writing a crossover, however, at least have an interesting way of doing it. This makes it sound as though it’s a side note.

Third, why wouldn’t Vlad be there? He does live in that world, after all. Although, I highly doubt he would turn you into halfas seeing as how, in your very next sentence, you imply that you’re not evil. He would be creating a pair of new enemies. Additionally, he doesn’t know you yet. Trust me on this. He is not stupid. He is not going to give that kind of power to a pair of kids he just met. He might use you for bait, but he won’t make you half ghosts. Even assuming he could, which I highly doubt.

Fourth, and finally, the only person in the entire series who ever called Danny a “halfa” was Pointdexter. So explain to me why it seems to be the usual term. It’s stupid.

Okay, that’s all of that. Tune in next time when I start ripping the actual fic a new one.

DP Session 02

Sat, 05 Nov 2005 22:37:51 GMT

2:03 PM
Transcription of taped conversation with client Daniel Fenton
Note: Have Maddie Fenton reinstall ghost shield. Also, do not ask Jack Fenton ever again.

I was in my 1:30 appointment with client Stanley Trinidad, who was, as he so often does, complaining. Loudly. And threatening bodily harm on me at that (Note: allow Rosalyn to defeat him in…oh, just let her wipe the floor with him.) It was close to the end of the meeting that my intercom went off (Note: give moogle secretary a raise). I was informed by the secretary (Note: learn moogle’s name at some point) that my time was being most humbly requested. I will confess to being at a loss for words as so few (I.E. none) of my clients ever do anything “humbly”.

I instructed that hitherto unknown client should seek professional help at some point as he was clearly having a breakdown, and returned my attention to the crossword I was filling out while ignoring Evil King Stan. It was precisely three minutes after he left that hitherto unknown client materialized in the chair he had just vacated. We stared at each other for an indeterminate amount of time before I gave in and restarted the recorder. Here is the record of the following conversation, transcribed from that point.

Self: Something I can do for you, Mr. Fenton?

Fenton: I don’t like Hermes.

S: And you broke into my office for this?

F: No, I broke into your office because of all the false representation I’m getting from all the other authors out there.

S: This isn’t about the Mary Sues again, is it? I’m nauseous enough as it is.

F: No, this is about the suicide stories people keep writing. And the death stories.

(At this point, Danny rose and began to pace. Let it be noted that he was doing so near to five inches above the floor.)

F: I mean, some of the death ones are kind of okay, I guess. The ones that are done tastefully, you know. But most of them are just killing us off to get readers, and it’s really getting on my nerves. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the suicide ones.

(At this point, although I said nothing, he began ranting.)

F: It’s like…they think I’m suicidal! I’m not! It…it…it’s like they think just because I’m half ghost, I must be so depressed! Why would they think this? I mean, seriously, do I ever give them any reason to think I hate myself on the show?

(At this point, I began to wonder if he was ever going to shut up, so I could a word in edgewise. I have decided, for archival purposes, to edit out most of his ranting in this transcript. I resume from the first time he took a breath since he began speaking.)

S: Mr. Fenton. Please. Calm down, and sit. I know exactly what you mean, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe you should go talk to them.

F: (mumbles something unintelligible) So who do I get to meet in your next story.

S: (flips through my notes) That would be…November. Or Ebony Angel, as you will know her. She’s kind of a bounty hunter of sorts. You’ll be pleased to know Kat is not in this one, except passingly, maybe. I may give her a cameo in the epilogue; I haven’t decided.

F: Okay. What about after that?

S: I haven’t got that far. It’s a toss up between a headless horseman and Pointdexter. And Technus, but he’s a given.

F: I don’t think I like those choices. How about you write a story where I’m actually allowed to go on vacation?

(At this point, there are is a prolonged silence on the tape due to me staring quietly. Danny clearly realized he had just screwed up because he quickly fled after that. Note: Send Danny on working vacation with headless horseman.)

DP Session 01

Sat, 05 Nov 2005 07:04:09 GMT

3:14 PM
Transcription of taped conversation with client Daniel Fenton
Note: Invent Mary Sue character as revenge

I was working on the file for one of my other clients when my intercom went off (Note: fire moogle secretary). Upon answering, I was given to understand that a client was requesting an emergency meeting (Note: remind clients what “emergency” means).

I informed the secretary (Note: learn the moogle’s name before firing him) that I was far too busy to be disturbed and instructed that said hitherto unknown client should return at 4:30. I mistakenly considered that to be the end of it and returned to my work. At precisely 3:14, said client materialized in front of my desk (Note: install ghost shielding around office) and slammed his hands down onto the surface (Note: install ghost shielding around desk). He proceeded to demand my time, whereupon I motioned him into silence and retrieved the tape recorder from my desk. Here is the record of that conversation, transcribed from that point.

Fenton: (agitated) Okay, are you ready now? Can I talk now?

Self: (annoyed) Yes, yes. Make it quick. I have three files going at the same time and two of them are yours.

F: Really?

S: (glares angrily)

F: Okay, okay. Geeze.

(At this point, having gotten my attention, he seemed at a loss for words. Note: never agree to represent a fourteen-year-old again.)

F: Alright, look. The problem is all these fangirls. I don’t mind being in the fanfics; it’s kind of fun. And some of them are really well written. It’s the ones where random half ghosts show up for no apparent reason and suddenly I’m expected to just automatically trust and love them.

S: (whistles innocently) Mr. Fenton, you have to understand. The girls have a right to write whatever they want, and you are an icon now.

F: I know. I’m just sick of all the original characters.

S: (glares)

F: (quickly) Um, except for Kat. She’s an okay one.

S: Relax. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. Besides, like her or not, you will be dealing with her because I’m the author, and I can. Now, you said this was an emergency…?

F: (nervous grin) Um…So…what’re you working on?

(At this point, a slamming noise is heard over the recorder. This is, in fact, my head hitting the desk. I resigned myself to being far too distracted to work for a time, at least.)

S: Well, I’m working on my next you story, and a crossover.

F: I thought you hated crossovers.

(At this point, let it be reiterated that I despise crossovers more than anything else. I write this now to make up for the actual line I used in speaking, which was considerably too foul to repeat. I resume transcription from Danny’s response.)

F: (taking notes) Is that even anatomically possible?

S: Well, it would take considerable effort…

F: …Right…So why are you writing it, then?

S: Hermes demanded it.

F: …And you let him?

S: Are you insane? He’s a psycho! Of course, I let him!

F: Heh. Glad I’ll never have to meet him.

S: (evil grin)

F: Please no.

S: Too late. I’m already past the prologue. Speaking of which, if you don’t mind…
(At this point, I gesture towards the door. Danny grudgingly leaves me to my work.)