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Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in Gryphon Lair Writing's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, October 27th, 2004
7:49 pm
"The Journey Of Life"
This is a really short story that takes place in my sorcery world. It's not really meant to be great. It's just an exploration of the pains of life, death, and knowing that everything dies.

Friday, October 22nd, 2004
11:44 am
The Stag-Wraith
A ghost story, set in my novel's world of Rhlem. Completely seperate from novel canon. A tiny bit spooky, but more sad than scary. This is the story of a vengeful slain deer who befriends the ghost of a little girl.

First draft. Feel free to critique it mercilessly.

The Stag WraithCollapse )

Current Mood: accomplished
Monday, October 11th, 2004
5:33 pm
This story is old, but I'm going to post it anyway cause I still like it. I have edited the story a little, though one day soon, I'll probably make lots of revisions to it, because, well, my writing style has hopefully improved since I wrote this in the 11th grade. (Which was only last year. XD; Who knows if I've improved that much.)

For anyone who doesn't know, Chiko is my character, and I am a really evil creator. ^^; This short story was inspired by chapter 39 of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller, in which the main character wanders through a war-torn city and witnesses the aftermath of war, life, and anarchy. In my story, a young version of Chiko takes to the streets after his mom and dad die and his brother leaves him alone to die. It's rather short and I feel it is incomplete, but I am still fond of it and hope to improve it one day.


" At an age when most children were only just entering kindergarten and learning basic skills, Chiko had learned a new word: Anarchy.

The five-year-old Chiko was in a state of despair and misery. He had spent the weeks following his mother’s death in a lone room of the once magnificent palace, which was quickly being destroyed by vandals. He had eaten very little, and he did not desire to eat. All he really wanted was to see his mother and father again. The little cat-boy did not move around much at all for those few weeks. All he did was curl up in a ball and sob for what seemed like hours on end. His body appeared to shrivel-up as his ribs began to show and some of his fur even shed. His once healthy, creamy skin color seemed to bleach itself into a pathetic grayish-white. This skin alteration also gave the illusion that he had more fur than he really had.

The condition of the outside world wasn’t much better. Chiko didn’t even know it, but the ruler-less kingdom was suffering from the effects of mob-rule. All around the palace, people were suffering form the effects of other people. Everyone was at each other’s throats and survival had suddenly become a sickening game of animal instincts, fighting, betrayal, and war – a sort of war where the rules were altered causing even more chaos and confusion.

It was, in a twisted way, a good thing that the palace caught fire on that cold winter’s night. A gang of arsonists had set fire to the once beautiful and strong palace, for this somehow triggered the thought in Chiko’s mind: He wanted to live. For the first time in weeks, he actually felt hungry. He gathered a bag of his father’s belongings he found in a closet, and he escaped, not even looking back as the home he once knew and loved disappeared in the smoke.

He ignored the sinking feeling that resided in his stomach – the same feeling a child separated from its parents in a large crowd might feel – as he moved on. Chiko had no idea where to go as he hurried past the walls that once seemed to isolate him from the outside world. He had never been outside the palace walls before then, and stepping into the outside world for the first time filled him with overwhelming excitement. In a very childish way, he somehow expected his mother and father to be waiting for him on the other side, still smiling, still living.

It was cold outside, as a dreary mist of rain fell from the heavens. It was the kind of rain that sends shivers through a person’s spine. Though no one seemed to care. They were so miserable that even the rain had no effect on them.

Everyone in the crowd towered over the little cat-boy. On more than one occasion, a passer-by would brush right by him, not bothering to say an “Excuse me” or “Pardon me”. He was mainly ignored. Though some would glance at him coldly, piercing him with their cruel eyes, and then would continue to walk on. Chiko’s little heart sank with confusion. Why was everyone so cruel? Was there something wrong with him?

However, Chiko put away these thoughts, as he was hungry. He continued to search for food, not at all wary of what was to come.

As he walked through the streets - which were paved but covered in mud – he noticed that very few lights were on in any of the windows, and as he walked further, there were fewer and fewer residents walking about. There was no talking or laughter. The world that he had always wanted to see was quite an unwelcome place.

While he traveled further into the darkness, he encountered a most horrific sight. A dove woman with an injured wing limped through the streets pleading for help, while a nearby crowd of wolves, ravens, and a few other Anthromalians ignored her or paid very little attention. “Please, oh, please, help me!” she sobbed, “A tom-cat did this! He’ll be back! Oh, won’t anybody help me?” From behind, the ferocious cat man answered her pleas by crushing her neck, and dragging her innocent body away into the distance. And no one cared.

Chiko stopped and stared into the pool of blood left behind. He was in shock. Had he only imagined it? No. He took one glance into the alley in which the cat had escaped to, and saw the murderer plucking off the dove’s feathers and devouring her lifeless breast. Chiko had a horrifying feeling. He felt like he was going to be sick and at the same time, break down into a sobbing fit. Instead, he ran, he ran to the next street and saw a glimpse small raccoon youth being bullied by an older group. It was more than an innocent case of peer pressure. Chiko trimbled in fear as he ran even faster from the scene… before he could see the group continue to beat the little raccoon until he could no longer get up. He did not see that the older raccoons left him there to die. No. Chiko ran away until he was out of breath.

He walked down a street where he saw a drunken pit-bull, hit a poodle-woman. The poodle cringed pleading, “Don’t…. Please don’t…. No more! No more!”

Chiko trudged on, with tears in his eyes… ignoring the cries he heard from the children who had not enough to eat; ignoring the barking of angry dogs; ignoring the fox that ran away with the old rabbit’s purse; ignoring the fact that the rabbit ran into oncoming traffic; ignoring the violent revolutionists; ignoring the arsonists; ignoring the screaming of the confused masses; ignoring the hustle and the bustle; ignoring the sound of the world seeming to die; ignoring the sick; ignoring his hunger; ignoring the fact that life was once happy; ignoring the fact that life was now loveless hell; ignoring the world; ignoring the will to live; ignoring the call of death. Was a five year old supposed to worry about such things? Did he not have a right to innocence?

He suddenly heard the whimpers of a newborn puppy. He looked into a nearby alley, in the direction of a family of dogs – no particular breed – and realized where the whimpers were coming from. The bony, weak-eyed mother nursed her litter of six malnourished puppies, as she looked away from her husband, who held the runt of the litter in his paws. The runt had a patch of brown on its eye and a short, stubby tail. It was scrawny, yet strangely cute. But it was dead in the blink of an eye. His father had silenced it by dislocating its neck. The little one would whimper no more.

Chiko’s heart sank to a new level. He could no longer hold in his feelings of anguish as he cried out loud, “You- You killed it!”

The father growled at the pint-sized cat that stood in front of him. “So?”

“That puppy! You killed him! Why? Why! Isn’t he your son?” Chiko sobbed.

The father tossed the lifeless corpse to his mate’s side and then barked at the cat child, “Don’t you get it, kid? There is no food. The others would have starved. He would have died anyway.”

“But--!” Chiko sobbed.

The dog knocked Chiko off of his feet and demanded that he leave at once. Chiko tried to continue running, but he didn’t get far at all. He collapsed. Finally starvation had caught up with him. He struggled to pull himself from the ground. It was nothing less than a miracle when he saw a bread stand. He never had particularly liked bread, but the sight of any sort of food appeared to be a Godsend to the starving cat child. Chiko glanced left and right before he went up to the stand, making sure the coast was clear. Chiko took a piece of stale bread, and began to sink his teeth into it. But before he could even take a bite, he felt a horrible stabbing sensation in his back as he was forced to the ground. A raven, the owner of the stand dug his talons into the cat-boy’s back, squawking “Thief! Thief!” The last thing Chiko remembered was crying out in pain, seeing a strange figure before him, and hearing the word “nevermore” echo through his ears. "
Thursday, September 16th, 2004
11:07 pm
A love story between a man and his dog...
Sort of. It's a fantasy story, it's set in my novel's world, one of my many companion-but-unrealted stories to my novel.

It's an unconventional romance story. It needs some help, too. I think it needs more stuff, but I'm not sure what stuff to add. If any readers would be so kind as to help me out by giving me constructive criticism, I'd be most appreciative. It's a little over 3,000 words as it is. This is a first draft.

The Red Dog and the Man of Ten-Thousand DaggersCollapse )

Current Mood: frustrated
Sunday, August 29th, 2004
3:20 pm
My Novel-World Side Stories
I thought - I'm the founder of this community, such as it is, I might as well post some of my own stuff.

I've been handwriting on another side-story to the world of my novel, "Dreamer's Rhlem" and I got to thinking about the previous short stories I've done set in Rhlem. I'd like to compose a whole book of these little side-stories. I get them in mind to write all the time.

Tiffany would "get" them more than anyone else here, as she's actually had the privilage of reading my main novel, and some of these she's read before. I'm thinking some of these can stand on their own, anyway.

Rhlem, its characters, and these stories are COPYRIGHT S.E. Nordwall 2004-2005. I am not afraid to take legal action if they are plagerized, copied without permission, or refrenced without permission in any way.

They're on links... 4 complete stories so far.

The story of a minor-character in the main novel, a wind dog (sientient winged canine) wounded in the great battle in Chapter 5 of the main work. The tale of a dying creature attempting to find peace by one last, great act.

Burdens of Immortality

Ara Macau, a man cursed to a life extended beyond the span that men are meant for, finds solace in speaking to an old friend. Philosophy on life, loss, the great burdens and small joys of being immortal.

Conversations with Chickens

A humor piece. Ara Macau is blessed with the ability to speak to and to understand the speech of any bird. He spends an afternoon listening to the innane conversation that takes place in a chicken-yard. "I didn't remember them being THIS stupid!"

Guardian of Endings

An exploration of the Scavenger, the resident personifican of Death in the world of Rhlem.
Saturday, August 28th, 2004
2:00 am
Mermaid Grave
Hi everyone, I'm new here, just joined today. :) Here's a short story I did, It's full of typos cause I didn't have a chance to correct it yet, okay, here it is...

Mermaid GraveCollapse )
Monday, July 5th, 2004
11:20 am
Here is a drama I wrote a few months back, for a creative writing class. Its gotten pretty good reviews, so I thought I'd post it. Please tell me what you think!

The Death of Pooh
Christopher Robin Grows Up
A Parody
By Tiffany (TAHINAZ)

Scene One

Scene: The Hundred Acre Wood, from the Winnie the Pooh tales. A small clearing. Mike, a boy of twelve, enters with a blanket slung over his shoulder, containing two BBguns. With him is Christopher Robin, also twelve; significantly older than in the Pooh tales.

Mike: Alright! I got the stuff!

Christopher Robin: Alright! Over here, over here! (Mike lays out the blanket, displaying the BB guns. They both kneel on the ground before them.) Cool! You gonna teach me how to use ‘em?

Mike: (Nodds) And these woods here of yours are perfect for it. Just great! You’re lucky, man!

Christopher Robin: Quiet!

Mike: Huh?

Christopher Robin: Nothing. Lucky, huh!

Mike: What, these woods are yours, right? I mean, dude, there’s nothin’ out there that’s gonna-

Christopher Robin: No, no-

Mike: I mean, that’s the point of BB gunnin’ right though? (Stands) Bring ‘em on! I can take ‘em!

Christopher Robin: No! (Pulls on Mike’s shirt) Get down! (The bushes rustle nearby. Christopher Robin starts. He looks around, frantically.)

Mike: Aw, its probly just somethin’ small. Probly a just chipmunk or something. (Looks down at Christopher Robin) Woah, you ok, Chris?

Christopher Robin: Yeah, uh. (Lowers his voice) Its just that when I was little, I used to like to play with these little stuffed (Pause) stuffed action figures, and they sorta came alive (Pause) I mean, not like real alive- like imaginary friends, ya’ know (Pause) Not real.

Mike: Imaginary friends? Dude-
Christopher Robin: I mean, I don’t do that any more. But these woods (Pause) I don’t know, they’re kind of freaky. Stuff hangs around. That could be- (Christopher Robin stands up, slowly. He takes a step toward the bush, then looks over to Mike. Mike nods toward the bush. Christopher Robin parts the branches and peers in. There, at the bush’s base is Piglet, a pink, pin-stripped, ‘living’ stuffed animal who speaks with a stutter. Christopher Robin bites his lip and hangs his head.)

Piglet: Oh, Christopher Robin! Oh, dear!

Mike: (Jumps back) What the heck?

Christopher Robin: (To Mike) I (Pause) I told you.
Piglet: Oh, dear! Christopher Robin! Where have you been, I was so worried about you! We have looked all over the Hundred Acre Wood, and you never came around!

Christopher Robin: (To Mike) Its not real. Just (Pause) just little kid stuff, not real.

Mike: Dude! I mean, this is freaky! What the heck? (Mike grabs a BB gun and hands one to Christopher Robin. Christopher Robin hesitates, then nods resolutely and accepts the gun. Mike aims his gun. Christopher Robin awkwardly follows suit.)

Mike: (In a husky voice) Your days are numbered, little freak! Charge! (Mike runs toward Piglet. Piglet jumps in surprise and scurries away through the undergrowth. Mike and Christopher Robin pursue him, with their guns cocked. Piglet screams. Mike and Christopher Robin give battle cries as they run. Shots are fired. Some miss; pinging noises are heard. Others hit. Piglet rips and explodes in a puff of fiber-fill. Mike and Christopher Robin keep running, in play, and trample Piglet’s remains under foot. Fade out.)

Scene Two
Scene: A clearing in the Hundred Acre Wood. In the center is a large tree with a wooden swing hanging from one of the branches. Bushes encircle the clearing.
Enter Christopher Robin, now in his late teens, holding hands with Alexis, his girlfriend. They appear to be idly chatting. Christopher Robin leads her over to the swing and sits down. She sits on his lap. They begin to kiss.
Enter Rabbit, an anthropomorphic stuffed bunny. He shifts feet and preens one ear anxiously. He makes no noise. Christopher Robin shifts in his seat mid-kiss, and as he does, he suddenly notices Rabbit watching them.

Christopher Robin: Oh, for gosh sakes!

Alexis: What, Chris? (Christopher Robin leans over, with Alexis still on his lap. He grabs a rock, and Alexis tumbles off.)

Christopher Robin: Get out of here! (Throws rock.)

Rabbit: Christopher Robin, I-
(Christopher Robin throws another couple of rocks. Rabbit ducks one, but the other hits him, and he tumbles comically to the ground.)

Alexis: Chris, I (Pause)I better go. (Turns to go)

Christopher Robin: Alexis, no! (Christopher Robin runs after her a ways, but as she exits, he stops and stomps the ground.)

Rabbit: Christopher Robin! (Stands, uneasily) Tigger was bouncing in my garden once again, and he-

Christopher Robin: (Christopher Robin turns slowly towards Rabbit, his eyes narrowed in anger.) Get out of here, already! Leave me alone!

Rabbit: But I do wish you would say a little something to-

Christopher Robin: (Christopher Robin grabs a large branch from the ground beside him.) I said leave me alone! (Christopher Robin runs headlong after Rabbit. Rabbit jumps in surprise and screams, as Christopher Robin runs after him, wildly swinging the branch. The branch connects and Rabbit is flung towards the camera, screaming. The screen appears to shatter. Fade out.)

Scene Three
Scene: Dusk of the same day. A lazy stream, running through a clearing. A curved footbridge rises over the stream. On the far side of the bridge is a small lean-to made of sticks. On the bank, Christopher Robin sits, sighing and tossing pebbles into the stream. Mike sits near him. A campfire burns before them. Mike is toasting marshmallows.

Mike: Don’t worry about it, man. (Pause. Christopher Robin tosses in a pebble.) I mean, she’s just a girl.

Christopher Robin: A girl, Mike, a real girl. And the little brain fart had to go and scare her off! I was such a dork, as a kid! (Eeyore, a morose stuffed donkey, enters. He saunters silently out of the shadows from the direction of the lean-to.) I mean, look at this, look at this! Look what I’ve filled the whole darned forest full of!

Mike: Aw, its not that bad (Pause) well, no, I’m not gonna lie to ya’, it is that bad, but Chris-

Christopher Robin: I’m the freak, that’s what it is! It was this retarded skull of mine that drove her off!

Eeyore: Don’t mind me, no one else does.

Mike: That’s a promise, fuzz-ball.

Christopher Robin: (Christopher Robin holds his head, as if in agony.)And they won’t leave me alone, after all these years! How many of them did I end up imagining into life, huh? (Pause) Ten? A hundred? The entire contents of a toy store?

Eeyore: (To himself) Been a lot of disappearances, lately. Piglet. Rabbit. Suspect I’ll be next. Not that anyone would miss me.

Christopher Robin: I don’t even remember, that’s how retarded I am!
(Pause. Christopher Robin falls back onto the bank of the stream. Eeyore idly swishes his tail. Mike pops a marshmallow into his mouth and mounts another onto a stick.)

Mike: Don’t be so hard on yourself, man. She’s just a girl.
(Eeyore’s tail falls off. Neither of the boys notice.)

Eeyore: Can’t even keep my tail on. Not that its much of a tail, but I’ve grown attached to it.

Christopher Robin: Its not Alexis. Not just her. What am I supposed to do, tell me that! Move? Yeah, I can just imagine what the new owners would say! (Christopher Robin motions to Eeyore.) ‘Oh my gosh! Possessed toys! Talking fuzz-balls! Deranged manifestations!

Mike: That’s a two-dollar word, man. (Chuckles)

Eeyore: Wouldn’t blame a body for laughing at poor old Eeyore. Not that I feel much like laughing, myself.

Mike: Keep poppin’ ‘em, that’s what I say.

Christopher Robin: Forever?
(Mike shrugs.)

Eeyore: Don’t suppose I’m no good to no one.

Mike: Geez, if you’re that depressed, why don’t you just pop yourself, already?

Christopher Robin: Wha?

Mike: Not you!

Christopher Robin: Oh. (More cheerfully) Yeah! Hey, ya’ know, jackass, you’ve been bringing me down since I imagined you. Why didn’t you do us both a favor and off yourself ten years ago, huh?

Eeyore: Wouldn’t even miss myself, I sup-
(Mike stands, with his old BBgun in hand. He fires off a shot without warning. Eeyore explodes in a rain of fuzz. Mike calmly sits back down and picks up his roasting stick.)

Mike: (Cheerfully) Marshmallow?

Christopher Robin: Might as well.
(Fade out.)

Scene Four
Scene: Christopher Robin, now in his early twenties, sits on a fallen log, in a small clearing. A book bag is at his feet, and various papers are spilling out of it. He is writing in a notebook. A thick book sits open beside him on the log. He wrinkles his brow and picks up the book. He seems enthralled.
Enter the fantasy-type figure of a woman. She has ethereal, pale blond hair, a sensual, flowing dress and large purple wings that arch over her head and all the way down to her feet. Christopher Robin starts in surprise, then smiles.

Christopher Robin: Did (Pause) I imagine you?
(The woman nods and steps toward him. Enter Tigger, a bubbly, anthropomorphic stuffed tiger.)

Tigger: Helloo there, Christopher-Roonie!

Christopher Robin: No, no, no! (Exit woman) Oh, great!

Tigger: Say, you been keeping kinda scare. I seen you on the path across the wood from Pooh’s house, the other day but you must not’ve seen me, ya’ nut! Ya’ went and run ‘afore I could bounce after ya’! (Bounces in a circle around Christopher Robin.) Why, if the bestest part of bein’ a tigger wasn’t that I’m the only one- then a fella would tend to get sorta lonely without his old bouncin’ buddy!

Christopher Robin: Tigger, tigers do not bounce. They hunt. They have three inch canines that they use to crush their prey’s neck, slowly suffocating it.
(Tigger stops bouncing and looks blankly at Christopher Robin.)

Tigger: I’m a Tigger. T-I-double ga-

Christopher Robin: Whatever.
(Pause. Tigger blinks stupidly.)

Tigger: Say there, Christopher-Roonie! You doin’ some studyin’? I betcha ol’ Owl could help you with your homey-homework, he knows lots of nifty stuff!

Christopher Robin: (Derisive laugh)

Tigger: How’s about I bounce on over and get him, buddy?

Christopher Robin: (Sarcastically) You do that.

Tigger: Just you wait here, ol’ pal!
(Exit Tigger. Pause. Christopher Robin glares silently. Enter a ‘real’ tiger. It jumps onto the log with Christopher Robin, then down onto the ground in front of him. It sits demurely on its haunches before its creator. They lock eyes. The tiger then turns in the direction that Tigger exited, licks its chops and growls.)

Christopher Robin: My sentiments exactly.
(The sound of flapping wings and a spring-like ‘boing-ing’ is heard in the distance. Christopher Robin starts, and the ‘real’ tiger disappears. Enter Tigger with Owl, a pompous, scholarly owl.)

Owl: I say, Christopher ol’ boy. I was just having a visit with my dear friend Tigger here, and he happened to mention that you are seeking my advice in regards to your scholarly pursuits. May I assume that this is the cause of your absence, of late? I do wish you had come to me sooner, I am quite knowledgeable in all of the various classical studies.

Christopher Robin: Yeah, whatever.

Owl: I say, what is it you are studying, my dear boy? (With difficulty)‘Theories of Parapsychological Matter Manifestation’?

Christopher Robin: Don’t touch it!

Owl: Oh, of course, quite. A scholar would be possessive of his (Pause) references (Pause) regarding (Pause) that (Pause) subject. I understand completely.

Tigger: Why, Owl’s just chock-full of learnin’ and all that other neat stuff. (Bounces in circles around Owl and Christopher Robin.)

Christopher Robin: Sure. (Suddenly cocks his head and grins mischievously.) You know, Owl, ‘ol’ boy’, I think I do need your expertise, here. What advice would you give a ‘scholar’ who found that he is evidently in possession of the parapsychological power to imbue simple material objects with sentience and intelligence, however nominal, drawn from his own psyche during his developmental years? (Pause) Not effective everywhere, mind you, but only within the confines of a single geographical location.

Owl: Oh (Pause) of course, of course.

Christopher Robin: Furthermore, what if these mental progenies retained their powers of being long after their creator’s mind and social standing had expanded beyond its need of them? And what if this creator now found his creations entirely disadvantageous, found them irksome reminders of his awkward, infantile past, that he would indeed prefer to expunge from existence? And what advice would you give, ‘dear old Owl,’ to this creative scholar, if he ascertained of late that he is not only in possession of these aforesaid powers, but (Pause) in this particular location (Pause) could affect full manifestation of responsive personages, as well? (Pause) -Chimerical beings more fitting of this mature psychological state? What would be the most advantageous course of action under these circumstances, Owl? (Pause) Well?
(Tigger stops bouncing and comes to rest beside Owl.)

Owl: Well. It entirely depends on (Pause) -but, of course one must keep in mind (Pause) -Oh, dear, I do feel a bit- (Owl’s head explodes. For a moment, his body remains upright, and stuffing can be seen, sticking out of his neck. Then the stuffed body tips stiffly over onto the ground. Tigger blinks stupidly. His mouth is hanging halfway open. Then he explodes, as well. Christopher Robin seems unsurprised and unaffected.)

Christopher Robin: Well, that’s two more down, and only the Pooh-bear to go. (He shivers. He closes his book, puts away his notebook and papers. Then he pauses. He retrieves the book again and looks at its cover. He then looks over to where the woman and the ‘real’ tiger had been, in turn.) I wonder…
(Fade out)

Scene Five
Scene: Some weeks later. A wooded area with a large, low tree stump at one end. Winnie the Pooh’s tree home can be seen a short distance away, through the trees. Pooh, a stuffed teddy bear, is sitting on the ground beside the stump. His back is to the camera. He is concentrating on a pot of honey.
Enter Christopher Robin, at Pooh’s back. He is carrying a large, old book with the words ‘The Book of Pooh’ written in childish, handwritten letters.

Christopher Robin: (In a sing-song voice) Pooh! Oh, Pooh-bear! I have something I want to-
(Pooh tips back while devouring the honey. His head becomes stuck in the pot.)

Pooh: Oh, bother! It seems to have gotten dreadfully dark, all of a sudden! Oh, help! If whoever-you-are could see to un-darken (Pause) oh, but this isn’t so bad. There is plenty of honey. Never mind, whoever-you-are, if you please-

Christopher Robin: Oh, for gosh sakes! (Christopher Robin picks Pooh up by the pot on his head, roughly shakes him out of it, then tosses the pot aside, unceremoniously.)

Pooh: Oh, its you, Christopher Robin. If it is you. You seem to have gotten a lot bigger, Christopher Robin, or else I am a much shorter Pooh. I do not know which.

Christopher Robin: (To himself) Was I ever this stupid?

Pooh: If you are not Christopher Robin, then surely he has gone away, with all of Pooh’s other friends. That is, if I am Pooh.

Christopher Robin: Yeah, but listen-

Pooh: No one has come to share a small smackeral of honey in such a long time. Unless they are all at the other Pooh’s house, having his honey.

Christopher Robin: Whatever. I-

Pooh: Perhaps you could tell me, if you please, where the smaller Christopher Robin is, so I can follow him to the somewhat larger Pooh and all of his friends- and his honey, whoever-you-are-

Christopher Robin: Its me, ok! Christopher Robin! I’m Christopher Robin, and you’re Winnie-the-darn-Pooh, already! (Christopher Robin turns his back in order to control his frustration, then turns and faces Pooh again.)

Pooh: Are you very sure, whoever-you-

Christopher Robin: Yeah, I’m sure, ok. Listen! (Christopher Robin composes himself, again. He sits on the tree stump.) For a while now, I have been wondering what to do with you, Pooh. With all of you.

Pooh: We have had such great fun, Christopher Robin, if it is you.

Christopher Robin: I know, I know, but I was little then and now I’m grown-up, see? (Pooh looks at Christopher Robin blankly) Right. (Pause) So I’ve got to move on, for gosh sakes!

Pooh: Are you going away, Christopher Robin?

Christopher Robin: No. I’m not. I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t think I’m going to give up this ability to create things here, either. Its just you that’s the problem, but you’re not real, so (Pause) it doesn’t matter, see? (Pause. Christopher Robin gets up, paces a few steps, then pauses again. He nods resolutely, then goes and sits back down on the stump. He pulls the old book onto his lap, opens it, and proceeds to write something.) Pooh, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to introduce you to a distant relative of yours. (Christopher Robin looks up and makes a beckoning motion with his pen. Enter a ‘real’ bear. It comes to a stop beside Pooh.)

Pooh: Oh, hello, friend! Its always so pleasant to visit with friends and family, especially family I didn’t even know I-
(The ‘real’ bear growls. Pooh still has a blank expression. The ‘real’ bear then takes Pooh in its teeth, rises up on its back legs, and shakes him hard. Pooh’s muffled screams are heard. Stuffing and bits of fabric fly everywhere. The ‘real’ bear plops back down on the ground. Christopher Robin seems unaffected. He flicks a piece of stuffing off of the edge of his book. He makes a flourishing mark in the book. He closes it, and the ‘real’ bear disappears.)

Christopher Robin: Well. I’m glad that’s finally over with. (Pause. Christopher Robin encircles the air with one arm, as if embracing a buddy.) What about you, *Harvey?

(Fade out)

The End.

(*Note: Harvey was the six-foot invisible rabbit from the Jimmy Stewart movie of the same name.)

Current Mood: silly
Saturday, July 3rd, 2004
12:36 am
Hello, everyone. lushdesolation gave me the link to the community a while ago, but I just joined. I'm posting a snippet I wrote for a shared original fantasy-horror world, that may one day turn into a Real Story. :P The narrator, Doris Fraley, and Setanta are mine; George, Tod, Jonathan and Sophie all belong to Sharon Jane Smith.

Sympathy PainsCollapse )
Saturday, June 19th, 2004
9:29 pm
Hi, everyone. I'm new, although the moderator, Stacey, will know me. We are in the same writers group, and in fact, are neighbors. Sorry it took so long for me to post!

Anyway, I was wondering- is this group just for finished stories, or can we submit potential story ideas for review, too? I'd love for you guys to tell me (honestly) what you think of the story idea that I posted on my journal. (Its crazy- but then again, so am I. I love comedy/fantasy writing!)


I look forward to reading everyone's work, too! Yay!

Current Mood: creative
Thursday, June 17th, 2004
1:42 am
Burdens of Immortality
One of my shortest stories. This is a companion-piece to my novel, "Dreamer's Rhlem." I think this can be understood by readers who haven't read any of my novel (and, it's not published yet, so it's only a few close friends and my writer's club who have been reading), though, people who have read some of my novel will probably have a better understanding of what I refrence in it.

The principal character of this story, Ara Macau, is one of the three main characters of my novel. He appears to be a man in his early thirties, but he is, in fact, 300 years old.

"The Scavenger" refenced in the the story is my novel-world's personification of Death.


~Burdens of Immortality~

A minor-tale of Rhlem
Rhlem and all characters therein
are © S.E. Nordwall 2000-2004

He pulled the edge of the cloak over his head as he approached the lakeshore. He listened to gentle waves lapping upon the shore and smelled the odors of the fresh water, of living fish, and of the pines in the woods behind him. Ara Macau whistled two notes, one high and one low.

An animal stepped out of the forest, lightly, almost as if dancing. The beast neighed and shook its gray mane.

“So, what cause have you to see me?” it asked.

“Oh, Ashé,” Ara Macau replied, “can I not come for a mere visit?”

“Seldom do mortals enter the lands of the unicorns.”

Ashé looked skyward. The light of the full moon glinted off his silver horn. His whithers shook and he curled his long, leonine tail.

“Am I truly a mortal, then?” Ara said. “It is with your kind I sympathize.”

“Oh, Ara, is that bothering you again?”

“Men are not meant to live for centuries in this world.”

“Bah!” the unicorn neighed, “You are only three-hundred-thirty-three summers old. I’ve been walking these woods for... has it been seven thousand years or only six thousand? I loose count.”

“You are not a man. Immortal beasts are dull to things that give men sorrow.”

“Are we completely without feeling, then?” Ashé responded. “A unicorn’s heart is filled with pain, but also with joy. All life is – all life must find a balance.”

“How long can I go on as this?” Macau asked. “This plane is a tiring place. Everyone mortal whom I love leaves. I watch as their bodies grow feeble. They then take the journey that I long for. There is no one who understands what I know. Everything changes around me, yet I remain – like some ancient tree, or like a stone.”

“It is only because you have chosen a mortal life, Ara,” Ashé said, walking in a circle around him. “The cursed spring bestowed upon you a special gift. You can always choose to live among those of us who are destined to remain until the end of this world. You began life as a human, but you do not have to remain as such.”

“But I am human!” Ara Macau protested. “It is what I am and shall always be!”

“Yet,” sighed Ashé, “They are short-lived creatures – to you now, they are, though that was not always the way of things.”

“Humans are short-lived, the birds that I talk to are short-lived. This world is locked in death. Everything is decaying, and I am left to watch it.”

The gray-maned unicorn pawed the shallows of the lake, wetting a front hoof and stirring up soaked sand, a somewhat bored expression crossing his countenance. “Your pain is that which you have chosen, my friend.”

“I do not flee from battle, and I do not cover my eyes and turn away when truth presents itself.”

“You have chosen to care,” the unicorn said with a smile. “It is why you suffer the scars on your heart. If you turned away from the mortal Peoples, you would no longer suffer loss.”

“I don’t want to,” Ara Macau sighed. “Despite my affliction, I am still a man. I am not a unicorn, nor a phoenix, nor one of the Celestial Beasts... though I wonder if it is worth the pain I face to care any longer.”

“Have I ever told you the tale of the old woman and the cats?”

“You may have, but if so, I have probably forgotten it.”

Ashé trotted out of the surf and shook a hind hoof.

“The story goes that there was an old woman who lived all alone in a little cottage. Her only companions were little cats that she would feed every morning. As the years went on, cats would come and go. Some would die. Others would simply disappear. With every loss, the old woman’s heart ached. Every cat that came to her was given a name and was well loved. The woman thought many times about not leaving any milk out, and about never taking in a cat again, because loosing them pained her so.”

“Did she ever stop? Taking in pet cats, I mean.”

“No, she never stopped. She kept feeding and taking in pets until the day she died, though the cats were much more short-lived than she was. You see, both the woman and the animals benefited from her love. The cats received sustenance, warmth, and affection. The woman derived affection and companionship from the cats – even if only for a short time. Love brought her pain, but it also brought her joy.”

“So, you are saying that loss isn’t such a tragedy.”

“Precisely. So long as you give people the benefits of your love while they are here, they will benefit – and for the time that they are here, you are able to enjoy their fellowship. The greatest tragedy is to withhold your love when it is needed – to refuse to love because you fear pain. To love in the face of pain is the essence of courage.”

“Aye,” said Ara Macau. “This is exactly the wisdom I expect from a unicorn.”

“Come. Let us go into the forest.”

Ara Macau followed Ashé under the shadow of the trees. The wind whistled soft and low, and carried the rich aroma of pine-pitch. The unicorn’s sleek hide shone in the moonlight, almost rivaling its brightness with its pale, silken sheen. Leaves and pine needles softly crunched beneath hooves and boot-soles. Ara ducked and turned as an owl flew by his head.

“It is the simple things that my People enjoy the most,” Ashé explained with a neigh. “A night like this... clear, with a cool wind that is not frigid... the sounds of a forest by night – or by day... Simple beauty is what one learns to appreciate when one has been alive for seven-thousand years.”

“Do you think I shall live that long?” Ara asked.

“I doubt it,” the unicorn replied. “The effects of the cursed spring do not last quite so long. I heard a tale of a mortal who partook of the spring back in my younger days. He only lived for a millennium. It is a long life for your kind, but not forever. If I remember the story correctly, it was even too short for him. Very few are those who greet the Scavenger when she comes for them, even the very old.”

Ara Macau sighed and looked up at the dark trees. “Endings are eventual, though they seem to come much too soon to those I treasure. I have seen much – much to be loved and much that I regret... and I am a man of stained hands. I do not think I shall fear the Scavenger’s coming highly.”

“Endings, you say?” Ashé whickered. “Death, yes, but is it true ending? When one observes – thinks upon the way of things muchly – nothing truly ends. Things change form, yes. A body decays only to return itself to the earth. In turn, grasses, flowers, and trees – plants of various kinds take those nutrients from the earth to build themselves. Those, in turn, give their energies to those who live from them, beasts and men...

“It must be the same way with minds, souls, and thoughts. They must continue on forever in some form, for no energy in nature is ever created or destroyed – but merely changes form.”

“Mmm...” Ara Macau muttered, clearing his throat. “A fascinating way to see things.”

“Unicorns live forever, but, in their own ways, so do men.”

“Thank you, my friend. This has been a most interesting evening.”

“I shall see you again in days to come?”

“Of course, in days and years to come, as long as my life endures.”

Ara Macau pulled his cloak up around his neck again and walked along the edge of the forest, to return to the place and to the people to which he belonged. The silvery neigh of a lone unicorn echoed off the trees, bidding him farewell.
Wednesday, June 16th, 2004
7:08 pm
Post of Doom
Okay, since you need posts, I'll give you a revise of a short piece I did in tenth grade. Hope other people will post here soon.

Not That It Matters

Say what you want; feel it too if you want. Higgarde is dead and that’s all that matters. At least, that’s all I think matters. Whether it matters or not I think old Higgarde is dead and that’s all I know.

I thought he was dead when his heart stopped; I thought. I thought I killed him, but that’s not true. His heart stopped. It killed him. I think. Maybe that’s not true. I don’t know. Maybe the world isn’t true. Not that it matters.

Higgarde kept a demon in the basement. I know fat, old Higgarde knew that I knew. I don’t think he understood. Everything washed off him like rain.

I don’t like rain, and that’s the truth. It’s raining. I need to use my windshield wipers now. Windshield wipers are steady and black, but my car is a gray Pontiac. Higgarde would have understood if I hadn't killed him, (and that’s a lie). The angel lied. The devil told the truth. They killed him together and let the murderer go free. So I killed the murderer, which is a lie.

The gray man is a truth. I know him. He’s gaunt (The devil taught me that word because the devil was gaunt with black hair and eyes) and gray. I know he’s after me, but he doesn’t think. He killed the devil and let the murderer go free and that’s the truth. De Ja Vu. It’s irrational. I’m not irrational, and I’m not a foreigner, I’m a Native American.

My family used to live where the town now sits. The big, special town for good girls only. The town is quiet. I don’t like it, but I know he does. He killed Higgarde, who would have understood, and the lady, who was paid to understand, and that’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter that he killed the devil and let the murderer go free. Everyone loves the murderer. I don’t, but I killed him, and that’s a lie.

Sometimes I lie for fun. Like when I told the lady, whose red dress was too tight (or so I was told) and mouth was too red, that the man would kill her. I lied when Higgarde screamed. I lied that I was lying. I was efficient. Higgarde liked neat floors. He would have understood.

I never made a mess. It was Higgarde who spilled it. I had to clean it up with rags. The very red lady saw the rags and I told her the man would kill her and she screamed. She wasn’t supposed to. She promised she wouldn’t. She lied, so I lied. The man didn’t kill her. I did. I just lied. I lie for fun. The man killed the lady for fun.

Higgarde rarely let me in the kitchen; I was messy. The basement was my place. Funny how he got old and messy. I was neat, and I wasn’t stupid. I knew how to hide.
The devil hated the basement. The angel lied and said he liked it. I didn’t. When I got big they stopped coming. At the sink Higgarde told me I got smart. That was then the water was white and I knew my own name. I knew the man got smart. I knew. But then I didn’t care what I knew. That’s what the angel told me, but the angel lies.

I remember I had a dog, but he ran away. That’s when Higgarde got scared and got a stick and the devil stopped coming. Blood was so brilliantly red back when, and pain was so sharp. I didn’t do anything wrong, the angel and Higgarde told me he ran away, but I knew they were lying. The devil would have told me the truth so they and the gray man made him go away. Everyone tries to run away. Sometimes I don’t let them. Higgarde tried to run away, but I didn’t let him. The angel tried to run away and I let him, because he lied. Then the man came.

Then the curve I didn’t see came.

Then the tree came.

I remember hitting it and tasting blood. I remember thinking I was finally dead, but I wasn’t. I was just trapped. Trapped and dead. The man is coming; I can see his headlights now. They won’t pass me by again; they’ll turn and see my lying living here. Lying like the lady. Because I lied. I LIED.

Higgarde kept a demon in the basement. The angel and the devil visited me in the basement and talked forever senselessly but they made me understand what I had to so without them. So, I did it. But first I effaced them.

The devil and the angel are lies. I made them up from people I saw on TV; they are my invisible friends. They told me what I had to do. When I stopped believing in them, they died, and the gray man came to fill their void.

I turned the white water red, I spilled Higgarde’s life on the white tile kitchen floor the same way he beat the devil out of me after I beat the dog to sleep because the man on TV did. I kept going until I saw the red. Then I screamed and the man came in shadows to watch. The man likes my black hair. His eyes are green like mine. I think everyone has a gray man behind their eyes. Maybe. I’m just one girl.

I hid Higgarde; oh, but I could dig! (But, oh, I can’t dig my own grave or my car out from under this fallen tree.) I had to clean up the mess. I wasn’t messy; that’s what I had to do.

The lady came to "help me". She told me I could come out into the kitchen with her (she was lying). But I didn’t want another angel to lie to me of God and goodness. I didn’t want anything. So I hid. She knew I was there. She wouldn’t leave. She kept telling me to come out. But then the lady saw the rags so I came out so she lied and she screamed when she saw me and I was very big and I got mad so I killed her.
Then I saw the man. He saw the lady. I killed him, but he didn’t die, so I didn’t kill him, so I lied. He’s chasing me. I can see his headlights. He won’t pass me by this time. He’ll see me. He’ll stop. If I get away, he’ll chase me. He wants me to run and to lie so he can kill me "sportingly".

Sometimes I said that’s a lie. Sometimes that was a lie. I lied. It was all true. The man knows that. He’s chasing me. I think that no one escapes the gray spirit of a man named guilt. I think I didn’t lie when I said that. I think he chases everyone forever.

Several days later a businessman in a gray suit told police he saw a smashed car out by the ghost town. The police said it was starvation and it smelled. But even though the face was hideously disfigured with white and black stitched scars and misplaced tissue to the point of being grotesque they could tell the truth. It was fear. Fear of lies, fear of the truth. What is the lie, what is the truth? Is this fiction?

The story behind this story is that I wrote it for an assigment where we had to write a "gothic" story. Gothic as in style, not as in black eyeliner and suicide notes. I found out later through the grape vine that my story was the reason that our assignments took so long to grade... no one knew how to grade such a thing.

I eventually got a "C" because there "wasn't enough character development for a gothic story." Yet the page limit was something like... 3 pages. Okay, YOU develop more than one character fully in 3 pages.

Current Mood: scared
Tuesday, June 8th, 2004
3:51 pm
This is the first post. I'm the community founder, Shadsie. Welcome, post and disscuss sci fi and fantasy, and feel free to post original stories. Don't be shy!

If I don't get any joining soon, I might start us off with one of my own stories for critique. I have plenty to start off with.

As for now, I'm just trying to figure out how to set the look for this journal without changing my personal journal. LJ isn't the most user friendly thing in the world.
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