The Call; Prince Caspian.

Okay, I admit it. I am a squishy marshmellow, all soft and pathetic. Yet another movie has made me cry. Chronicals of Narnia; Prince Caspian to be exact.

The reason why? Peter and Susan don't get to return to Narnia, and Lucy had to say goodbye to Aslan. :( Sad sad sad parts! And to top it all off, when they were leaving, to go through the hole in the tree to return to London, this song was playing!



Lyrics:

It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word

And then that word grew louder and louder
'Til it was a battle cry

I'll come back
When you call me
No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never
Been this way before

All you can do is try to know
Who your friends are
As you head off to the war

Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye

You'll come back
When it's over
No need to say good bye

Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and now one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget

Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye

You'll come back
When they call you
No need to say good bye

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Call by Regina Spektor. It made me cry! As such, it is now in my playlist. XD I think it's a lovely, wonderful song ...still made me cry though. *sniffles*

Anyways! Review of Prince Caspian.

It was good. I for one, while I have read the entirety of the Chronicals of Narnia, couldn't really get into them. I didn't really understand the hype, therefore, for me, the movies are better than the books. It's a year later, after the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, when Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy had returned to London.

Prince Caspian's uncles wife births a son, lo and behold, Uncle...thingy, I forget his name, plans to have Caspian the tenth assassinated. The old tutor, I forget his name too, helps Caspian escape into the woods and voila! The Narnians that were supposed to be extinct, aren't quite that wiped out, and uncle thingy's guards, the telmorians are beaten up by a dwarf and before another biffs caspian over the head he blows this ivory horn and poof! (not quite, but you get the idea) Susan, Peter, Edmund and Lucy are pulled back into Narnia. A thousand years after they left it, or something along those lines.

Ta da, they meet up with caspian and the narnians, fight an epic battle while not believing Lucy about seeing Aslan, then rely on Lucy FINDING Aslan to help them kick some badguy ass.

Suffice to say it works, the Narnians get back their kindom with Caspian as king, but P, L, S, E have to go back to London. :( It's all sad, Peter gives Caspian his sword.

And then when they're all saying goodbye, be good, stay happy, you've learnt all you can and so on, the call starts playing and I start crying. Lucy didn't even get to hug Aslan goodbye! :( So yes, it made me cry.

Another that I watched, All Dogs Go to Heaven, made me cry at the end too. Even though it was a happy ending, kinda. Sorta. Charlie got to go back to heaven, and Anne-Marie got a family but still.... it made me cry. :( I am such a marshmellow! *sigh* good movie though, even though it was a kids cartoon movie. :) I recommend it for watchings.

Potential novel; Prologue

The oak-wood brush ran down the shining burgundy curls, smoothing out non-existent tangles in the candle-light, the soft, shushing sound of dry hair as it is cared for, almost painstakingly brushed into a shining glory, capturing the soft candle-glow and turning it into dark red highlights in the dark strands. The illusion of lit from within is lost as paler than new snow hands divide the hair into three, and braid it, the thick sections of hair weaving back and forth over, under and around each other, to form a neat, but thick rope of hair, reaching down to midback. This is where the story starts, with a braid of burgundy hair, cared for and prepared in the soft golden glow of candle-light.

The braid whips through the air, the end weighted, and cracks into a face, causing a howl of pain from a broken jaw, another howl and the wet splatter of blood on the wall, a hiss of dying air, and the sobbing moan of the wounded.

“Where are they.”

Only a moan, a pitiful thing, is the response.

“Where. Are. They.”

Another moan, escalating into a shriek as the broken jaw is grabbed and wrenched so that the wounded’s face is turned to his interrogator. He whimpers and points down the alley, curling up into a ball around his pain. A disgusted snort, and the owner of the burgundy braid steps over that piece of human refuse in the direction indicated.

A few metres down, and there is a scungy wooden door. A scan of the surroundings, the braid shifting slightly, heavily, against the owners back, lamplight catching the glean of the almost red strands. “I need to speak to Dmitri.” Is the greeting to the guard, who folds his arms, muscles bulging against the black muscle shirt.

“Who’s askin’?”

“No one of your concern.” Whiter than new snow, the hands and arms they are attached to move, and the guard finds breathing to be much more interesting than questioning the stranger, who walks in the door, the solid clump of a boot against the wooden floor. Another guard approaches, burlying up, muscles flexing, arms folding, eyeballing the intruder. “Who’re you?”

“I am here to speak to Dmitri. Where is he?”

“Aint no one seein’ Dmitri until we clear it.” The tall, bald bouncer looks rather smug at this.

A glance from eyes mostly hidden by shadows, on a paler than pale face, a snap of a wrist and there is a white hand around the bouncers throat, bringing him down to the newcomers height, “Where. Is. He.” A flex of the hand prompts the bouncer to betray his training and his boss, he points to the stairs.

“Of course.” Released, the bouncer stares at the intruders retreating back, the burgundy braid swinging slightly with the flexing of the body as they climb the stairs. First door on the left, a couple being less than discreet, first on the right is the same situation, albeit two pair, and not a one heterosexual. Down to the end of the dark hall, a blue door, two bouncers on either side, each eyeballing the stranger. No word had been sent up to expect anyone.

“Name, purpose?”

“My name is my own and will stay that way, I need to speak to Dmitri.”

The guards exchange a glance, before grunting “Aint been cleared. Gotta know who you are, before we let you in, an’ even then is chancy.” A slight smile curves what is visible of the lips of the stranger, before they move, a dark blur edged with snow white, the white of alabaster, and both guards are curled up on the floor, groaning and holding tender parts of anatomy, kidneys, throat. The door is opened, and the intruder steps in, idly flexing snow white hands.

“Kair. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Where are they, Dmitri?”

The chair behind the ebony desk turns and the seated male is visible, a small smile curving his lips beneath his moustache. “Where are who?”

A step forward from the stranger, that is all, but the threat looms larger than the slight stature. “Where. Are. They.” A low growl fills the strangers voice. A warning all on it’s own.

“I no longer have them. And neither will you get the name of who does.” Brave or foolhardy, two hours later, the guards outside the door, having recovered from their earlier interaction, and a subsequent rapid retreat when they attempted to defend their employer, hear a final shriek and a sharp crack of bone snapping. The stranger opens the door and steps out, a white kerchief in hand, wiping off blood before dropping it to the floor, stalking down the hall like a frustrated feline, and that braid of hair flicks like the tail of the irritated cat. A glance over the shoulder, the light catching and giving colour to the brilliant green eyes, so green as to have some yellow in the centre around the pupil. “Remind Dmitri’s boss that I do not bluff.” And the intruder leaves, as the phone starts to ring.

The guards peek into the room, one answers the phone, the other finds what is left of Dmitri Kobanlov. “Uh, I’m sorry but I can’t put Mr Kobanlov on the phone.....why not? ....uh because sir, he’s dead.” The phone is briefly taken away from the ear “Yes sir, that’s right. Dead sir. ...I don’t know sir. He said to let you know that he didn’t bluff, sir. ....I suppose so sir? .....sir?...” click, the beep beep beep that signals that the other line is dead, and the bemused guards look towards the remains of their former employer, blood soaking into and staining the carpet and thought, what could do such a thing?

A cup of sugar with a bit of salt thrown in

Is apparently what I am, according to a workmates stepfather. Relayed from him to her to me. That's alot of relaying. Is that a good thing...or a bad one?

Also, CHRISTMAS is just TWO weeks away! Not this thursday, but the next!! It's hard to believe, isn't it? Got most of my christmas shopping done, apart from two people. One is because it is being shipped from the US and will be here in 20 days. -_- and the other because I have NO IDEA what to get her. The aforementioned workmate is the her.

Also, seven week old kitten = not much sleep. -_-

Mother's boyfriend brought it home, and she's fixated on me, since they kept her in what was my room, sleeping on my quilt, on old pj's...of mine. So when I dropped by for the weekend (and had to housesit because of little darlings) she took a whole five minutes to say 'hi', and now i have a furry slipper shadow. That tends to be hyper when it's sleep time. And doesn't want anyone else. *sigh*

Oh well.

I squiiiiii!

Because I have a wiiiiii!

Seriously. I'd been saving up my extra notes since august pretty much, and when I was getting into the high triple digits I priced a wii. Around $390 was what I'd found. So I went back to my saved up spare cash, hmm. $300 odd, I need $400 for the wii, plus around $50 for a game ...make it about $100 to be safe, and get the upper end of the games as well.

No problems. I work, I sleep, life goes on as expected, with ten, twenty, the occasional fifty going into my wii savings. I go on holidays for two weeks up at my dads (that was AWESOME, so relaxing and I was sleeping at NIGHT again!) come back home, give the landlord $420 for the rent, two weeks holiday plus this weeks.... and lo and behold, I am broke and have no food. Hmm. well, I expect to have no food.

Surprisingly, my vegetables that I bought about a month ago were still edible. So I tossed up a pasta dish, spaghetti bolognaise, ran out of pot (The thing you cook it in silly) before I'd added everything I'd intended too, cooked up about a packet and a half of spaghetti and voila! We has fud for the next week and a half. XD

I also discovered -why- I was/am broke, I didn't get paid over my holidays. -_- HEADS WILL ROLL. I don't blame Joondalup KFC for not paying me, since I've quit, but I -do- blame midland. So, on saturday if I haven't gotten paid before then, I will seriously go off my tree at them. And demand 28 hours of pay. Upfront. (that's how many hours of holidays I got >_>)

Also, today was hyper productive. I went to no less than seven places and put in a resume, and the only one that replied with a 'perhaps' that -wasn't- into next year, was a bar. XD Oh well. Also applied at myers, david jones, eb games, jb hifi, and a bank. Oh, that's only six. My bad.

So! I have stuff all food, but I have a wii, 3 games for it, credit on my phone, my smart rider (for public transport) topped up and a possible second job for christmas. Life. She be goooooood. :D

(who needs to eat anyways?)

Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem is usually misquoted in first person, 'I will not go quietly into the night, I will not give up the fight'

But very inspiring regardless.

~ShaedowDancer~

A bit of trivia...

The Sidhe (pronounced shee) are the 'elite' of the faerie world, the aristocracy so to speak. The sidhe are also known as the (un)seelie, elves, and so on, depending on the 'nightmarish' quality to them, those that are bloodthirsty, sadistic, 'terrifying' are unseelie, and those that are 'nice', and the good guys, are seelie. Like how 'elves' are the good guys, dark elves are the bad, and drows are a race on their own, considered to be 'evil', and worse. This is also could relate to the Wild Hunt, or the sluagh... All fall under the classification of 'sidhe' though..apart from the latter two, they are generally ostracised from the previous four.

One of the main classifications of a sidhe is them having tricoloured eyes. Say, white, blue, black in rings around the pupil, starburst gold into green and blue and so on. The pointed ears are a tag of a 'crossbreed' and an individual that is not 'pure sidhe'.

Now, on the offchance that you meet me, (I forget if I'd mentioned this before...) but pay attention to my eyes. The first you'll notice is two obvious colours, light blue and a navy blue ring around the iris. So yeah, no big deal, I have blue eyes. If you were to look closer without freaking me out, or by simply asking, you might notice that in a starburst out from my pupils is green. This can vary from the light shade of new leaves to the darker green of oak leaves, and it blends with a blue that varies from sky, to electric, to steel. Always present around these two is a couple mm wide strip of navy blue colour.

Three colours.

My dad is the same. He has blue with the navy ring, but his centre colour is grey, from his mother. I got my green from -my- mother.

Makes you think, doesn't it? Tricoloured eyes. Not exactly common in the general population. Think how rare hazel eyes are, let alone when there are nearly perfectly defined rings of colour.

Maybe all the 'faerie tales' weren't quite so .... fake and mythological. Perhaps they are actually real, magic exists, and it is lying dormant under the earth while mankind blunders about with science...

Naaah. I mean come on, magic? Telekinesis, telepathy, shapeshifting, elves? Who'm I kidding.

I'm just nuts.

Right?

Princess of Hell

As I stand on my balcony, looking out over the scenery -- Hell doesn't have to be all fire and brimstone you know, some parts are actually -nice-. Course, there's no light beyond the fires, as the sun doesn't shine here, so it's bleak compared to what humans are used to, but it has it's own beauty -- I realise that there is -alot- of hype over my mother and father.

I mean sure, fair enough, Satan and Lilith, the evil pair in the major lexicon of the mortal realms, but it's mildly irritating. Satan is one of the Lords of Hell, sure, he's got a bit more oomph than say, Lucifer, who is a asshole to say the least, who was rather stomping around in your great grandfathers day, or earlier -- time is a little confusing to me, or rather, the passing of it is irrelevant, who in turn is higher up than Beezlebub. Now -that- is a male you don't want to be alone with, not in the sense that he used to be the king of Hell, but in the sense that he is ...oily. Sleezy. A ...not pleasant male. Sure, Satan is slick and oily himself, but he does it with -class- you know?

Oh, who am I? I'm Dzeintra, or Xanthia, whichever tickles your fancy, youngest of the seven princesses of hell. I think. They might've gotten busy in the millenia or two I've been ...shall we say ... less than family orientated? I'mthe prodigal child, the black sheep of the family so to speak. And -considering- said family, it's not that hard to figure out -why-. See, I'm a seer. Not one of those white billowing robed things that are utterly irritating in their holier-than-thou attitude where you have to do impossible tasks to get an answer to your question, but ultimately they're on the Light side. That's the uh, 'good guys' for you mortals. Not that it's terribly accurate, but you go with the flow. See, I'm Dark, mother is Dark, we live in the shadows and revel in the destruction of things. It's rather fun actually. On the Light side, you have the celestials, the christian/catholic God -- arrogant asswipe as he is -- technically the Arcana, they're all about rules and whatnot, Gaeans, you know, Gaea, the green goddess of fertility, mother earth? Yeah, them.

On the Dark side, there's us, the demonic, (I'm actually of a different sort, Daemon), the vampires, and so on, all the nasty 'ghoulies' that haunt your nightmares. What was I saying? Oh, right, seer.

Okay, general run down, there are different power levels, as it would be pretty redundant to have an imp (essentially a paper shuffler) on equal power with say, cerberus'. It just wouldn't work, you know? Now a seer is someone (or thing) that can see into the future. Essentially speaking, they are Neutral. Dealing with the grey areas. But alas, the Neutral is divided just like the rest of things into Light and Dark. I, obviously, and a Dark sided seer, one of the rarer breed, Light sided are more common, as they find it ...shall we say... -easier- to align with the Light to get the path they want followed initiated. Some can only see the beginning of this path, others spot the middle, some eye the far end, and so on. Depending on the strength of the seer depends on how far, and how accurately they can see.

Take for example a spiderweb. At first, you wouldn't see it at all would you? But if the light hits it right, or if it was a cold morning and dew clings to the strands, you can see it clearly. A really strong seer can see -all- of the spiderweb, all the possible paths, those that are yet to be made and those that already -have- been made. This type of seer is called an Oracle. All-knowing, in theory. (Trust me, it's not that great). The weaker types will see say, the path they want, and one or two branches off of that path, but not much beyond it. That path generally tends to lead to the continuation of life as it is existing, if they are Light sided.

Remember how I mentioned I was Dark? Yeah, that's not the path I want. Oh don't look at me like that! Death is as much a part of the cycle as the sun setting every evening. The path -I- want (And the one, incidentally, that leads to the -least- tangles and issues later on, which is always a good thing) is one that has a major overhaul of things. Like, end of the world overhaul. Which would be seen as B.A.D by some folk.

But, out from the ashes rise the next generation, and it is towards -this- generation that I guide things. Yes, guide. Think of the Fates, in ancient mythology, where they measured, wove, and cut the thread of mortal life? I do that job, sort of. So, now you know about me, lets get back to Hell hmm?

It honestly isn't that bad! Sure, there is screaming, and fire, and hurting, and in some places snow -- yes, it -does- snow in hell, it's for those that didn't share warmth or something, they have to walk about in the cold without comfort -- water and so on. The only thing that is constantly absent from Hell is light. Sunlight that is, that's the province of Light, obviously, and we are not called Dark for no reason. Oh, and you recall how myths describe demons and such with glowing eyes? Nightvision baby, tenfold. But then....my eyes really -do- glow, they cast their own light.

So, there I am, musing over my balcony, idly toying with some of the flames, making them flare and whatnot, considering things, like how the fear of Satan, the dislike of Lilith, but above all, how much of a -large- part they play. Don't mention the Beasts name, for to say his name is to call his attention to you. Funny, how it takes only -one- person to say daddy dearests name for him to pay attention, but it takes at -least- seven and several hours worth of effort for humans to get the vague interest of Him Upstairs. Show you how much of an asswipe he is, huh?

Mother dearest walks in, my tail swishes slightly (yes, I have a tail, horns, hooves, the whole kit) before she speaks, informing me of a guest. I sigh, turn, bow, and make like a dutiful daughter to greet said guest. Did I mention that mother and I don't get along? Sure, we might both be succubi, but that doesn't mean I go for the whole 'sex 24/7' that she does...although it doens't have to be sex, in retrospect... Anyways, surprise surprise, my guest is actually one of her playthings. One that is mine as well, the gaean prince, so to speak. Next in line to take the throne from Gaea when that overhaul happens -- remember me mentioning it? Several reasons why it's necessary -- evidently just out of a session with mother dearest, judging by the bleeding and marks. Another sigh, and I grip the back of his neck, shadowstepping back to his glade so that he can heal -- side stepping the minotaur or two. You'd think these things'd learn, I mean, I've been tripping in and out frequently enough that the dryads have given me a gaean name. Ugh. But still, he's still their lord, and I'm just the adviser. Think grand vizier, -not- the going to kill him evil Jafar-esque thing, but the same powers.

So yes, I shadowstep back 'home'. I'm not comfortable around green things, it makes me want to burn them -- which is kinda frowned upon there -- and return to oh so patiently waiting for the time to pass. Things have a schedual you know, and at the moment, things are running on track for the overhaul, so I've got very little to do.

Oh, besides turn the enterprising invader back from the past, but those walkways are another story.

The Doll House

There was this village, out in the middle of nowhere in England. Rolling green pastures, a lake glimmers in the distance under the brilliance of the sun, and beyond it was a lush forest. It was a sleepy sort of village, the kind where you could walk into it in the middle of the day and there wouldn't be a soul to be seen, not in the creepy or frightening way of an abandoned derelict building, no, but in the homey, snoozy type of way, the way a cat napping on the windowsill feels.

Freshly moved into this sleepy, lazy, warm little town, was a couple. Brand new, off the honeymoon and first-home-for-raising-the-children-in phaze, where they vigorously and enthusiastically took part of the necessary 'baby-making'. But alas! The years roll by and still no pitter-patter of baby feet stomp down hallways in the wee hours of the morning, indeed, she doesn't even swell with the promise of those feet. A doctor is seen, and devestating news, both are infertile. The wife tearfully cries "I can't be! I've been pregnant before! I miscarried!" The doctor just shakes his head and shows them the result, decrying that both are unable to bring life into the world....but he cannot explain why.

It were almost as though he was tempted to say they were born barren, but alas...there is the miscarriage.

Distraught, melancholy and mournful, they return home, to their dainty little cottage at the end of the street, homey and warm, just like the rest of the town. More years pass, and the wife developes a passion for making dolls. China dolls, porcaline, the fine art collectors edition of every type, every race and breed, from the baby-kin, eyes screwed shut and toothless mouths open in eternal silent cries, to the toddler-esque, three feet high, bright eyed and curious. The husband doesn't really understand it, until one night the wife shows him a particularly pretty doll, somewhere between walking and not, sucking on a fragile porcaline lollipop, the colours smearing from her efforts, and whispers to him "Look honey, this is the baby we would have had." He blinks at her in confusion "These are our children, the ones we can't give life to, they are our darling ones...right?" A strange ripple at the nape of his neck, the hairs rising, prompt him to nod in agreement "Of course dear, come, have something to eat."

More years pass, and the number of dolls accumulate, their blankeyed stare filling the rooms, more dolls than furniture, all lovingly handcrafted, a dedication of the wife to each of her 'children'.

Twenty years on, from that mortifying news that they were infertile, and the husband dies. Or rather, is found dead by the cleaning lady one weekend, the wife was at a friends place, buying fabrics for her 'children'. There was a shattered doll beside him, what could be seen it was a younger one, perhaps two or three, eyes screwed up, tears down its little cheeks, and the shattered end of its arm imbedded in the husbands through, imbedded with such force that it came out the other side, the porcaline streaked with blood.

The cleaning lady screams and runs out of the house, calling the police, who upon arrival, before the wife returned home, found strangely, no shattered doll, no arm pushed through the husbands throat -- just a hole where it was, and a pool of drying blood.

The wife, with a few grey hairs now, is thrown into a fit of depression at the news of her husbands death, feverishly turning to her now, only solace -- her children.

Production of the unique dolls comes out as never before, a new one every week, and soon, she can't move for risk of knocking one of the life-sized, realistic creations over and risk shattering them. Two months later, she dies of a heart attack, an unfinished doll in her hands, older looking than any of the others, a girl of around eight, only half of her curling blonde hair was attatched, her face painted to hold infinite sadness, melancholy in her green eyes, and her dress half-sewn yet pulled on, tattered edges showing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years after the unfortunate couple's death, the doll house still stands, complete with the fortune of now antique dolls, a silent guard, balefully glaring at any who dare try to enter, the door unable to open for the dolls shoved up against it, wedged tight so as to not shatter under a hard shove. Yet strangely, in one room, sitting at one window, is a single doll, half-finished, as though she had been set aside briefly, to be finished at a later date, alone in this one room, watching the comers, watching them leave, alone in the study.

Some say, that lone doll seems mournful when the visitors get turned away, her sad, sad eyes seem to weep real tears when people flee before the glares of the other dolls, all perfect, pristine, finished works of art, crying the innocence of childhood, yet how they glare! It's as though they blame everyone for their mothers death....but that can't be true.

They're just dolls, after all. Attatching emotions to the inanimate is a foolish human trait.


Right?

Sleep

Sleep is a funny thing lately.

It is elusive, and demanding at the same time.

It is like trying to catch a moonbeam blinding your right eye, with a butterfly net. The moment you go for it, a cloud passes over the face of the moon and that silvery beam of irritating light is gone, and the need is no longer present.

So you relax, pack away your butterfly net, and consider carving a log. You get to the middle of that log, where it is starting to take the shape you see in your imagination, when the cloud passes and that moonbeam is back in your eye, -demanding- that you try and catch it with your butterfly net. You try, and try, but the silver keeps on slipping free, but demanding your attention, until another cloud comes, and you are no longer half-blind from the silken light.

That is about how ....easily...I sleep lately. I meditate, I count sheep, I turn about on my bed as though I was a compass that couldn't find north and still, I do not sleep. Or if I do, it is a doze that lasts a few hours, and I am irritatingly awake again, with that blasted moonbeam -daring- me to try and capture it.

Funny, today....erm, yesterday now, looking at the time, (It's 4.28am), I passed out from exhaustion at say, 10.30am. I had woken the day before at 11.30am. Now, I sprawl out on my bed, dead to the world, well...mostly. The whole daylight thing, and other people being around. I wake up at 1pm, and then at 2.30pm, or there abouts. And funnily enough, that was the best -rest- I have gotten for a very long time. It was lovely.

I get drowsy again at eight, get up, make dinner. Oh dear, no longer drowsy! I get sleepy again at about 10.30pm, I push to 11pm, doing last minute before bed things, like showering, and.....

Lay in bed.

I roll over.

I roll back.

Onto my belly.

Onto my left hand side.

Onto my right hand side.

Onto my back.

I look at the window, and shift so that my head is pointing to it (across the bed), knocking some clothes off in the process.

I roll over.

I roll back.

I doze. Yay, sleep!

Onto my belly.

Onto my back.

I shift so that my -feet- are pointing to the window.

Rinse, wash and repeate. You get the idea.

Five hours later, I give up. Or there abouts. It is exceedingly frustrating. Do you know how -long- it takes for those hours to pass while you stare at the back of your eyelids, the headboard of the bed, the wall, the ceiling, your eyelids some more...

I have reached the conclusion that sleep is highly overrated. Who needs a bedtime anyways? Who -wants- one? We all manage to get some approximation of sleep at around 3am, and wake up again at nine thirty, right? No? Wow, man, you are so -weird-, you should get that checked out ay? Might be serious.

Imagine.

Regularly sleeping every night. My mind boggles!

Oh, and the few moments when I -do- get to sleep (Apart from earlier yesterday when I hit unconsiousness in the middle of the day) I dream. And they're really, really animated and energetic dreams.

People say you dream in black and white. Right. Then why did I dream I had a pet snake, that had a jet black head, and a blood-crimson body? A snake, mind you, that doesn't seem to exist. If anyone knows of a snake with those colourings, be a dear and let me know? I wan't to know what the devil it is.

*sigh* I'm thinking about getting over the counter sleeping pills, since I have a sneaking suspicion that I sleep too much to get prescription tablets, to be declared an insomniac. Who needs to sleep anyways? You can sleep when you're dead!

Funny, this seems to be a recurring topic/occurance with me. Either I sleep too much, (14 hours plus) or, I don't sleep at all. Hmm. Maybe there's something wrong with me.

~ShaedowDancer~

Dream walker

Far away on a silver skein;
the mirror of your dreams.
Pack away the precious things,
the memories of your past.

Sail along the silken road
searching for the truth.
Destroy the threads of reality;
the secret hidden inside.
Learn to taste the waters,
the flavours of the sky.
Find the truth of reality
in the old sea-turtles cry.

Far away on a silver skein;
the mirror of your dreams.
Pack away the precious things,
the memories of your past.

Walk upon the sunken floor,
the history of the earth.
The shifting tides of eternity
measuring your worth.
Glitter of the floating shell
drifting in the breeze,
to tell the truth of a melody,
look among your dreams.

Far away on a silver skein;
the mirror of your dreams.
Pack away the precious things,
the memories of your past.

Just pack away the treasured things,
the fragile memories of your past.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It's half a song, since I've got the tune in my head, but stuffed if I can put notes to it. Since I kinda can't play anything, nor read sheet music, or write it for that matter. Not like I've got anything to pluck out the notes on -anyways-....

But still, I think it's nice. Just came to my head while I was waiting for the bus to go to ....somewhere. Ah-ha! the city. To buy a book, and get money out to pay my rent. Wrote it on the train, and bus. So it's all good.

Opinions people?

~ShaedowDancer~

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I am so happy at myself!

Okay, update. I am now out of my mother's house, and living on my own, kinda. It's an awesome deal. So that's all good.

Also, today, I bought a tv, dvd player, a stand for the two to rest on, soap, suitcase, headache tablets, milk and yoghurt. Guess the damage?

suitcase = $10

soap = $1.59

headache tablets = $2.something

stand = $20

tv= $99

dvd player = $39

So all told, around $170

which I think, was absolutely fantastic. ^_^ A steal! So, I am very, very happy.

The Theater

It was dark in the cinemas, but that's not really the right word. Cinema is like the meaning of industry, or a building complex. It brings to mind grey chairs, set in rows on dull blue carpeting with those little flakes of colour, as though someone had shaken sprinkles out onto the blue in an attempt to lighten it, but all it really does is make the blue seem more dull, more grey, more industrialised. Lastly, a massive screen at one end of the room, infront of all those rows of grey, generic chairs, and voila, there is a cinema. Moderately well lit, impersonal, lifeless, just one of a million.

This wasn't a cinema, it was a theater. This had scarlet carpeting, maroon chairs, set in rows, but curved towards the 'stage', where the screen sat, taking up the entire front of the room. There was an upper balcony, where more seats were set, above the lower rows, sectioned into four. There was beige painted murals carved into the woodwork of the ceiling, curtains covered the walls, and the walkways were lit with small lights. This was something alive, built from an era when you went and sat in those cramped rows to see a play, when movies where half an hour long, silent, and something of a treat. When the very act of going to the theater was a social occasion, not a spur of the moment decision. It wasn't well lit, it didn't have generic bulbs set into the walls, the ceiling, no, it had rectangular boxes to mimic the holders of a torch in a medieval castle, giving a murky, shadowed light at best.

A lone individual walks into this atmosphere, the murky, old-seeming lighting, blue jeans, sneakers, and a white t-shirt that says 'your village called, they want their idiot back', a backpack over one shoulder. She -- definitely a she, with breasts pressing against the white cotton, and the curve of her hips within the jeans -- scans the seating before turning and leaving, ascending the stairs to that upper balcony, to see what it felt like sitting where the 'upper crust' would have sat. She sat, leant back in the chair, listening to the imitation classical music with a few lyrics thrown in here and there, not particularly interesting ones, that came from everywhere, and nowhere in particular. It was dark, close, almost claustrophobic or comforting, enough to encourage a doze, and it was empty, from her brief scanning gaze.

She starts to drift off, the soft music, not very riveting, lulling her into dozing, leaving her ignorant -- she's just an average person after all -- and deaf to the soft brush of fabric against the soft felt of one of the seats, the quite whump of a footstep, followed by a couple others as a darker shadow in the murky, isolated lighting moves down the row. Sleep, so soft, soothing, and close, beckons seductively.

A soft thing startles her out of the beckoning arms of sleep, at first, she is unaware of what it was that changed, and she frowns for a few moments, before sitting up, still not seeing the shadow almost at her back. Ah, now she realises what it was that disturbed her, the music was no longer playing. Strange, the previews hadn't started. It was as though for those few seconds, the world had stopped.

She was still confused when a leatherclad hand reaches around from behind the seat, closing over her mouth, another braced against the side of her head, and the soft leather of the cowhide covered hand slides off of her mouth, grips her jaw, she has time for a shrill scream, building to the crescendo but never getting there, cut off abruptly with the harsh crackling of her neck being broken. She is left to slump against the chair, head resettled, staring eyes closed.

Not so empty after all.

Wacked dream

I haven't mentioned my dreams for a while, so here's one that I had last night, a pearler.

I don't remember how the dream started, but the bit that I remember clearly, was that I needed to get out of this city, but didn't have any money. So a friend of mine took me to this boat thing -- the city is entirely on the water, and it is -very- rare that you need to go on land, so all the automobiles are types of boats, sort of like a jet ski -- and to get money, you slap your hand against where the glove compartment would be infront of the passengers seat, and it would open, extending a digital solid scrabble board. Out the bottom of this is a teeny keyboard, and you type your name into it. You hit enter, and it'd flash and then set into the board. Beside that, a little cup thing would seeeep out and down, open hinge like, and coins would drop into it, depending on the letters in your name depends on what coins you get. Like the common letters, a, e, s, n, and so on, would get a copper coin, l, g, m, and the like would get silver, and the rare letters, x, y, u, z, would get gold coins. A mesh bag would wrap up your coins and you'd take them out, then the board would retract back into the dash. That's how you got your funds.

And then there was a dream jump to a school oval/mall area, me and a male friend, as well as an older female supervisor -- for some reason we were wanted criminals -- had to wait outside on the grass for a while. I found a sandy patch, and first I started drawing things, then I started digging a hole. It was elbow deep before she said we had to go, and she told me that I had to make sure that the sand on top of the hole matched the rest of the sand, they tended to get annoyed if it didn't. So then we went into the mall, building thingy, and one entire SECTION was devoted to ice cream and desserts. He went off to get what he wanted, I was given coins to buy a piece of fudge for the overseer lady, so I did that, but then I had about three, four dollars left over, so I got myself something. It was in a bowl, it was like, 'candy' choices. There was hollow candy, rare candy, and blonde candy flavours. Three scoops, so the rare candy would be vanilla, strawberry and banana, the blonde would be banana, caramel, and carrot or something. So I got one, and pocketed the fudge. Walking outside, she came to me and asked for the fudge, panic! what did I do with it?! I checked my pockets and there it was. I handed it to her, she took a bite "It's cold" before throwing it away.

For some reason, I had to drive a van and it was parked like RIGHT against a wall. Van|wall close. I was like "great parking, how the hell'd the driver get out?!" So I had to crawl in the passenger's side and settle behind the wheel. While this was going on, the supervisor was talking to the other guy, and they screamed 'Gryphon!' just before a really badly wounded one fell onto the van, the beak was at the drivers side window, tapping on the glass when it passed out. "Quick! To the hospital!" shouted the guy, while buckling up.

Dream jump.

160km/h down the road, and I wake up. No idea how I got there or anything, but suddenly in control of a speeding vehicle, swoosh around the corners, spray up of water, trying to keep the unconsious bleeding bird thing from falling off of the van. Then he said, the guy in the passenger seat "Could you worry less about braking and more about stoppign?" and I was like, huh, why? and then the hospital was right THERE. we careeened through the doors, skidding down the hall while I'm like STOOOOOOOOOP!!!! crash.

When we came too, the gryphon was gone, but there was a puddle of blood, we had minor wounds. He went off one way, I went wobbly off the other, and found an icefooty rink. Like normal football (Aussie style that is) Except all the atheletes had to iceskate to do anything. And the 'good guys' were losing because the star player had broken his leg (he was the gryphon, I knew completely that it was the gryphon, but it wasn't, he was human) but it got fixed, and couldn't see. So someone eventually gave him some glasses. Massive things, that took up half the face, a -OO- style, but the round lenses overlapped slightly. And then he wa slike 'yay I can see!' and they won.

And then I decided to wake up.

Walking out of my room my mother just appeared before me and started tugging at my clothes, gesturing, asking if it fitted alright, oh yeah, it does, is it comfy? And I'm like ...huh...? Ice...foot...oh. Pyjamas. Right.

And that is my night.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Side note, I've got 'witch doctor' stuck in my head, from the record thing. Like, old school music.

'I went to the witch doctor, he told me what to say, I went to the witch doctor, he told me what to do, my friend the witch doctor, now I'm telling it to you! He said 'ooh ee ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bom. That's oooh ee ooh ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bom!'

-_- I got it stuck in my head int he middle of my shift at work. I'm like whaaaaaayyyyy?! And how the HELL did it get there?! Lets just face it, friday was one RANDOM day.

I have precognition! Eets skeeery O.x

MSN conversation.

Balketh just sent you a nudge.
*
Balketh says: <--- Him
BAH!
Balketh says:
Fricking stupid button
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says: <-- me
gah
Balketh says:
I was gonna say I found an awesome new webcomic (Not really 'new', but new to me.)
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
lol
Balketh says:
It's shweet...
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
www.zapinspace.com <--- spooooooky
Balketh says:
O_o
Balketh says:
How the FUCK did you know that?!
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
*grins*
Balketh says:
Seriously, foregoing all smilies, that's the fucking scariest finishing of a sentence I've ever fucking seen.
Balketh says:
I'm creeped right the hell out now.
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
*giggles*
Balketh says:
Can you explain to me, please, how you did that?
Balketh says:
Did I tell you of it, and forget?
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
I'm telepathic
Balketh says:
Did you tell me of it, and I forgot?
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
or more accurately, precognitic.
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
hehe, no, I didn't tell you of it.
Balketh says:
>_>
Balketh says:
Seriously, that's the worst case of co-incidence I've ever seen.
Balketh says:
>.<
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
haha
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
because it wasn't coincidence
Balketh says:
The HELL it wasn't!
Balketh says:
Don't freak me out like this!
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
what's you're problem?
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
Scared of ESP and stuff like that? :P
Balketh says:
YES.
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
why?
Balketh says:
Well, not really 'scared', but just this case if fucking freaky.
Balketh says:
>.>
Balketh says:
its*
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
*patpats*
Balketh says:
If you're really telepathic, etc, then the only thing I am is as jealous of you.
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
*laughs*
Balketh says:
Remove the as.
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
For years, my dreams have become the evening news
Balketh says:
I'm going to not believe that, and not believe anything like that from anyone who can't prove it to me.
Balketh says:
It seriously freaks me out too much.
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
hehehe
There is a saying; Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, but today is a gift -- that's why they call it the present says:
y'know, that wasn't the first time I've gotten inside your head :P
Balketh says:
Yeah, I know.
Balketh says:
It's just, that was very, very coincidental.
Balketh says:
I was about to give /you/ the link.


Ooooooh, spooooooookieness! Teehee, he's really freaked now.

My day out!

Yay I had a day out! That wasn't either work or university XD Which reminds me, it starts next week, joy of joys, yay for getting up at half past sparrows fart. -_-

Anyways, I went out today, and saw a couple movies and bought some stuff. It was fun.








No you silly people! That's not the entirety of my post, you KNOW I'm more verbose than that. Sheesh, what were you thinking?

First and foremost, I have to say this as it's really ironic, I don't know if he does it deliberately, but Xin -- friend of mine, mentioned previously of those that recall him -- seems to have all these wonderful friends that I get along REALLY WELL with. Seriously. Lee, Leigh, however she spells her name, is a whole 147.5cm, which is around 4'10" for those of the american persuasion. So little! Wonderful sense of humour, bright and bubbly and effervescent. I never thought I'd use that word to describe someone, but there you have it. She's got shoulder length brownish hair, about half a foot shorter than me (as mentioned), fair-skinned, and yeah. We got along really well, I feel kinda bad in retrospect, I mean, she's -his- friend after all, and we kinda y'know...sort of made him a third wheel. Oh well.

We went to a couple stores together, he introduced me to JB Hi-fi, which is AWESOME. An electronics store that offers almost as great a variety in cds, dvds, and games as Borders does books! It even has a section for the multimedia devices, ipods, mp3 players, cd players, cameras and earphones etc. As such, we went back to it, and I bought a couple dvd's, Hercules, A Knights Tale, Jekyll (it's a series, VERY good, I've mentioned it previously) and Tales from Earthsea -- an anime. Out of the four, there's only one I'm a bit wary about, and that's the anime. It will most likely be of good quality, granted, it's from ....eboch or somehting, studios, the son of a really good anime writer etc made it, buuut... the Earthsea series? the books? Nooot that great, I found. Perhaps I just couldn't get into them.

Anyways, the first trip was only brief, as we had a movie to catch. Hancock, starring Will Smith. Now, I know people have raved over it yadda yadda, but in all honesty it wasn't that great. Not totally horrid, but not that great either. Limited backstory, the reason explained away by the main characters 'amnesia', which was a rather shoddy excuse, I would have enjoyed the backstory, even if it was flashback. So, without giving too much away, I will say this -- worth the price of admission (around $12), but not the price of buying it. See it in cinema's or rent it if you're too slow, but as a permenant member of your DVD collection? No thankyou.

The second movie I saw, The Dark Knight, a batman film with Heath Ledger as the antagonist and I forget who was the protagonist (batman), but, it wasn't bad. Not great, but neither that bad. Some good CGI (I liked the way his motorbike comes out), and the special effects were pretty good, but the overall plotline? Not that great. Some -great- quotable lines in there, and unforeseen quirks of the storyline, but it was kinda mostly predictable. One of the lines I love;

"Madness is like gravity," (this was from the joker while he was strung upside down, courtesy of a bat-string) "All it needs is a little -push-."

So yeah. This, rent, buy, or see in cinema. The end was lovely, if unexpected, and it almost made me cry. :( BUT! I won't spoil it for you, so go and see it for yourself.

Lets see...what else...

Nope. I think -- oh!

I've grown! I'm slightly taller than I was last time I saw Xin hehe. Rather than him being about two inches taller than me, he's now half an inch. whoo! Go me. Go go go me.

Yes. Now I'm done.

Smile, it confuses people -- what have you been doing?

I just have to share this.

Sometimes, I wish I wasn't a soft, squishy marshmellow inside. I'm yet to stop crying from this.

Christian the Lion.



The last bit I don't agree with, the whole, get in contact with someone today etc, that irritates, but the rest...*sniffs* so sweet.

That lion totally doesn't remember them. Totally.

What would it be like, to have an affectionate cat twining around your ankles, except that his shoulder is at your waist? Staying upright with the normal domestic cat is enough of a struggle...but my god, how awesome would that be to have a LION demanding the same attention? *cries more*

Slaughter the World

Credits go to 'Looking for Group' webcomic it would seem, Youtube, Blindferret Entertainment, Ryan Sohmer and someaudioguy.blogspot.com.



and the words!

Excitement abounds
I almost can't wait
Relax, I don't want your baby
I already ate
Though I do tend to generally kill
Kill things that don't fight back

I see this village
What does it hold?
What shall I butcher them with
Fire or cold?

Running from me sure you'd think
'He's a pathological bloodthirsty homicidal maniac!'
I'd kill kittens and puppies and bunnies
I'd maim toddlers and teens and then more

You see a wife? I see a widow
But what then?
Can't you see?
I'd kill four!

I want to incinerate and decapitate
I want to melt
Want to melt some faces
Watching the peasants...what do they call it?
Ahh...grieve!

I suppose that being undead there's not much to life
A soul is needed for loving...feeling...
How does this all not make me...what's that word again?
Heave!

You've nowhere to hide
Nowhere to run
Your village will burn like the heart of the sun!
With infinite glee
It's going to be me
That slaughters the world!

How could I glare into these eyes
And then not stab them?
How could I stare at their loss
And then not laugh?

I'd cut him in half
Then I'd graft
His head back onto his shoulders
Or after I'd lop it
I'd make a puppet
On top of a staff!

I am a lord
that is sometimes bored
Have some urges and need to fulfill them
After my mayhem I simply don't...what's the word?
Care!

The stench in the air
The smell of the gore
The carnage far greater than any war

My legacy
Death becomes...me!
I'll slaughter the world


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ah yes, I think this is funny, and wonderful, and...Hehe, I can see myself so totally taking this on as my motto or something.

'with infinite glee
it is going to be me
that slaughters the world'


Ah...bliss. ^_^

A couple jokes that I think are good...

Websters Dictionary definition of Windows 95 -

Windows95: n. 32 bit extensions and a graphical shell for a 16 bit patch to an 8 bit operating system originally coded for a 4 bit microprocessor, written by a 2 bit company, that cant stand 1 bit of competition.

Ridge Hall computer assistant; may I help you?"

"Yes, well, Im having trouble with WordPerfect."

"What sort of trouble?"

"Well, I was just typing along, and all of a sudden the words went away."

"Went away?"

"They disappeared."

"Hmm. So what does your screen look like now?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Its blank; it wont accept anything when I type."

"Are you still in WordPerfect, or did you get out?"

"How do I tell?"

"Can you see the C: prompt on the screen?"

"Whats a sea-prompt?"

"Never mind. Can you move the cursor around on the screen?"

"There isn't any cursor, I told you, it wont accept anything I type."

"Does your monitor have a power indicator?"

"What's a monitor?"

"Its the thing with the screen on it that looks like a TV. Does it have a little light that tells you when its on?"

"I don't know."

"Well then, look on the back of the monitor and find where the power cord goes into it. Can you see that?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Great. Follow the cord to the plug, and tell me if its plugged into the wall."

"... ...Yes, it is."

"When you were behind the monitor, did you notice that there were two cables plugged into the back of it, not just one?"

"No."

"Well, there are. I need you to look back there again and find the other cable."

"... ...Okay, here it is."

"Follow it for me, and tell me if its plugged securely into the back of your computer."

"I cant reach."

"Uh huh. Well, can you see if it is?"

"No."

"Even if you maybe put your knee on something and lean way over?"

"Oh, its not because I dont have the right angle - its because its dark."

"Dark?"

"Yes - the office light is off, and the only light I have is coming in from the window."

"Well, turn on the office light then."

"I cant."

"No? Why not?"

"Because theres a power outage."

"A power... A power outage? Ah, Okay, we've got it licked now. Do you still have the boxes and manuals and packing stuff your computer came in?"

"Well, yes, I keep them in the closet."

"Good. Go get them, and unplug your system and pack it up just like it was when you got it. Then take it back to the store you bought it from."

"Really? Is it that bad?"

"Yes, Im afraid it is."

"Well, all right then, I suppose. What do I tell them?"

"Tell them you're too stupid to own a computer."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ah, you have to love the idiots of society. I bet the caller was all righteous and indignant that the 'words went away' too.

Oh, lets all hear it for working from 3pm until 12.30am. Hip hip hurrah, nine and a half hour shift. No break. Hip hip Hurrah.

A Summers Evening and an Autumn Morn.

(Read the post 'On a Summers Day' first. Then this one'll make ALOT more sense.)




The body was Andrew McPhearson, the child, one Julie Andrews, and enither were the same. One, obviously, went to the morgue to be identified by dental records-- that's all they could use -- the other went catatonic, in order to save itself the mind rejected the cruel world around it and created one of its own devising.

Outwardly she was a silent, simple girl, no interest in interaction of any sort, she ate when forced to and broke her mothers heart by refusing to look at her, but through, always through, fixed on some distant point where crimson-black blood pooled, where dark blow flies droned and the sickly sweet scent of decay filled the air, where all the noise in the world couldn't break the shattering silence of an unvoiced scream.

The media behaved as it is wont to do, flocking and fluttering, scavenging and prying, delving sticky fingers into badly healed -- barely begun to heal -- wounds and pulling the ugly, foul, tittilating bits to a harsh and unforgiving spotlight. As expected, the summers day, bright with life, was replayed, repeated, displayed in a thousand different ways until public opinion deemed the entire thing a hoax, just some family's craving to be on television.

Never mind the shattered family of the deceased, never mind the previous happy, healthy child driven to seek her own world. Neve rmind the anguish the fluttering, craving, prying, uncaring fingers -- and eyes -- of the media caused. It was all a hoax, a plot, a conspiracy, a trick.

The medias loss of interest was a blessing that came too late -- too late for Andrew's family to have the required privacy to mourn, too late for little Julie, who having to relive, and then witness it from a dramatised perspective, listen from a thousand different mouths -- why would anyone desire to remain in such a heartless world? So little Julie refused to make even the little progress she had out of her self-imposed prison, retreating in so far that she barely had any desire to eat, each mouthful swallowed was a hard won victory.

Life went on, as its wont to do, two months passed, three, and the media forgot about Julie Andrews and Andrew McPhearson. Summer changed to Autumn, dusky and brown from bright gold.

It was a crisp Autumn morning, the mist was clinging to the ground and every breath fogged in the air. The scent of winter was in the air, it was a taste on the back of the tongue, crisp, icy, chillingly close with the illusionary softness of snow. Rosy-cheeked from the cold, laughter and playing in the piles of fallen leaves, the child, a little boy, six or seven, ran behind a tree, out of his parents' concerned and watchfully indulgent gaze. All was well.

A peircing scream split the air. Followed by two more, then naught but helpless, hopeless sobbing.

Rushing to look, the mother added her screams to the shattered peace, before dropping to her knees to embrace and rock her sobbing son.

Strung out between two trees in a crude X, head lolled back in the limp, absolute relaxation of the dead and unconsious, was another body.

(Warning for those with tender stomaches, it gets graphic)

The skin, rather than removed completely, had been peeled back to expose the muscle and sinew beneath. Strung out, stretched thin by fish-hooks through the nearly transparant flesh, the light shining through, illuminating veins, capillaries, arteries, trails of brilliant red -- fire-engine red -- blood trailed down from the wounds, slowly seeping lower with each painful second.

The internal organs had been painstakingly, lovingly, removed and strung out, netted and woven among the branches of the two trees, the metres of intestine almost braided, intricate, lace, the stomach caught in the dark grey webbing. The lungs were pulled out of the chest cavity, the ribcage pulled open like some glistening, banded, red and white butterfly, the sternum cut clean through. The heart stretched out, the lungs likewise exposed, two pink sacks hanging, stretched in the air. In this mass was the body, the skin a backdrop for the macabre web, where the own internal organs were the bands that trapped the 'fly'.

It was too cold for the flies, so their droning swarm was absent, no moving black tide of hungry bodies swarming, moving, writhing over flesh and skin alike. The blood dripping, slowly seeping down the skin to plop ever so slowly onto the dry leaves was still wet, still fresh, still warm, still flowing. The strung out, web-captured body jerked and a helpless, hopeless whimper of pain sounded, silencing the sobbing into a gasp of horrified shock.

"Oh Dear God, it's still alive!"

On a Summers Day

It was the height of summer, the sky was a brilliant, breathtaking blue, the sort of blue that reaches up and DEMANDS your attention. The distant, merry laughter of children filtered through the air, mingled with the birdsong and the drone of busy bees. The world was bursting, overflowing with warmth, life, happiness.

And then the screams started.

Down a little way from the bees, just around the bend from the children, there was a droning. Not the almost musical buzz of the bees, no, this was the heavy, bloated droning of fat blowflies, their brilliant blue back sparkling in the sunlight like morbid jewels. The black with flashing blue tide crawled, buzzed, and swarmed over the ground and a single tree.

The first scream disturbed a few, not many, but enough for their meal to be seen.

A puddle of thick, black as tar blood on the bright green, rich, vibrant grass. More crimson black smears marred the smoothe wood of the tree, splatters and painted strips. But that wasn't what drew the scream, the second one, not of fright like the first, but of horror, of a deep abiding disgust.

Oddly enough, apart from that single, thick puddle, the grass is clean. And it is only the one tree, smeared, specked and caked with the sludgy, viscous, crimson black blood in the small thatch, the rest are clean, pristine, unmarked.

But the source of the blood, concealed beneath those heavy, hungry, shifting black bodies, the lone figure hanging from the branches, bloated in the heat, almost bursting, like some obscene fruit begging to be plucked, that is what drew the second horrified scream that shattered the shocked silence following the first.

For, it wasn't just hanging, covered with droning flies, bloated, tied by the ankles, no, that would be bad enough. But it -- not a man, not a woman, not a child but a dead, bloated buzzing thing -- had been skinned.

(Warning for those of tender stomaches, it gets graphic.)

The head was featureless, eyes gouged out, or rather, surgically removed from the orbits and yanked free. The nose removed, lips likewise, ears, scalp, then each slender strip of flesh carved from the face, leaving a morbid mockery of a skull, blood caked and writhing with flies. Oddly, morbidly, the tongue and throat were left intact, the skinning starting at the collarbones. The arms stripped of flesh as well as skin, bones visible, connected by gleaming sinew and tendon. The ribcage glittering, gleaming through the flies and the thick, black blood. The stomach retained the muscle, holding the bloating of swollen organs within, but the pelvis glimmered. A dark grey rope slithered out, wrapped painstakingly, almost lovingly, around the bones. The legs were simply skinned, simply used as they retained the meat, the flesh, but linked together with steel rods bent around the bones. Just the merest scrap of skin at the edges of the rods give the hint that maybe, just maybe, the victim wasn't dead when impaled ...or worse.

A third scream, high, wild, piteous came from the child, an innocent who went searching for the ball, the peircing, poignant scream of encroaching madness. Because dangling there, bloated, skinned, mutilated, the dead writhing with a mimicry of life, induced by the walking, crawling, buzzing black tide searching beneath the flesh, it seemed to reach for the child, reach with those skinned, fleshless arms.

A fourth scream came, hard on the heels of the third, ringing louder, higher, madness shattering. And as the child screamed, the body swinging, buzzing, bloated, flies taking their crimson black meal, the corpse screamed too.

How to say 'farewell' to $300+ in 30 seconds flat.

That's $10 a second. Steal.

I have realised, discovered really I suppose, that I am a very very bad impulse buyer. Most impulse buyers buy -little- things, on whim. Like chocolates while standing at the counter, stuff like that. Not me, nooooo, I behave myself, I limit myself to $50 a week for food and drinks and stuff, for MONTHS and painstakingly save, build up my bank account and everything aand... for what? For my account to hit the $400 mark and I go ooooh, I'm rich! So I go and buy stuff.

Like today. I took out $100, bought three books ($60), and, what I lament the most in buying on whim, is a PSP and a game. Because you see, it doesn't stop there! Oh no! I have to buy a memory stick and a cover as well, since my PSP will spend the majority of time in my backpack -- on the theory that I'll spend less on books if I've got a new toy to play with. And shame on you that thought I should buy naughty toys to play with! Yes, I mean -you-.

So alas, I am broke. For a week. Then I'll be rich with $200 of pay...and broke. To pay bills. Then a bit richer....then more broke. It'll take me a little while of doing sweet stuff all to build my bank account up to comfortable levels. Meaning that I can impulse buy expensive things that the majority of people would save up for months to purchase and pet and drool over.

I'm the worst kind of impulse buyer -- the rich kind. :(

Pause

Pause. Take a deep breath and just pause.

Wait. Take the time to centre yourself.

Close your eyes, listen to the sound of your inner voice.

Silence it.

Be surrounded by the sound of your breath.

In...and...out....

and in....and...out...

Calm. Breathe. Listen. Remember.

Remember the sound of the wind through the trees on a gentle, sleepy, summers day.

Remember that soothing, peaceful feeling you got, or get, in falling asleep on one of your parents'. So safe, and warm, and contented. The gentle stroking of a loving hand through your hair, how it soothed you, made you smile in your sleep, made you drift off even if you were wide awake.

Now pause.

Take that feeling, that moment, that serenity and envelope yourself with it, snuggle into it like a soft, warm blanket on a cold winters night.

Remember.

Hold it with you, always. So that when the world intrudes with its stresses and anxiety and demands for attention, NOW, you can shunt it off to one side and be wrapped in that muffling, soft, warm serenity of peace.

Don't you just looooove...

The way that bookstores have the BEGINNING of a series, and the END of that same series, but y'know, it's missing the MIDDLE of said series? By say, four books?

Yeah, its wonderful.

Another thing that's absolutely wonderful is the way people at work tend to expect -one- person to -always- do something, say for example, serve customers in the dead end of the night with no help, and, then consequently, yell at said person for not getting their jobs done. Isn't it just darling and wonderful?

No matter where I am rostered during the shift, out front, on drive pack, in the drive box, at the end of the night, guranteed, I will be the SOLE PERSON serving customers. So I'll run from one end of the store to the other to serve customers, and then get yelled at when I yell for someone to take lobby. I get "can't you do it?!" and I'm like ...um no, I have a few CARS TO SERVE. And they get all huffy but serve. Or, if they don't, I dart between two people, packing two things at once, and then when the customers complain, and the boss starts chewing my ass out, I retort and say YOU get someone else to help! I have to do my stuffing jobs, and it's a bit hard when you've gotta be in TWO PLACES AT ONCE.

Or it'd be a classic, someone calls "ANGELA, customers!" and I'd yell back "I can't, I was meant to go home an hour ago and I've still got MY JOBS TO DO." then there's the whole 'customers come first' ..yeah. Why do they only come first for ME and not anyone else? Argh!

I'm just a little ticked off, in case you can't tell. Seriously, I think I'll get a new job. Doing something simple, and easy, and friendly, like ...5 star waitressing or something. Y'know what's really funny though? I'm one of the ONLY people that does, and knows, our policy and actively does it, as well as our promos and whatnot, I know the menus BETTER than the managers, and yet, yet, I am the sole exemption from this prize doohicky we're doing, because I supposedly, once, just ONCE, gave a customer 'attitude' and was 'rude' to her, when y'know, it was the middle of the dinner rush and I was doing bloody six things at once, running lobby and two trainees at the same time. Isn't it wonderful, that I'm currently, supposedly, on the bottom of the bloody ladder in this rank thingy, and I'm one of the BEST PEOPLE THEY HAVE.

So yeah. It's just wonderful. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Oh, I've also completely dumped my boyfriend. I took him back for a whole two days because I felt horrid, as the last post tells, and this time I felt much better about it and all. So now he hates me, or wants to or something, but I'm good. I'm a bit too stressed out over uni (six things due over two weeks, lovely, now I've got an extension, so one due this week, another due next) to be worrying overmuch about my private life. Its no big after all.

I'm seriously considering quitting and finding another job. Like, seriously. Even though I'm lazy and it involves writing, updating my resume, which is a pain. But hey, it's all good. I might even get paid more, y'never know, what with working in fast food and all.

Yeah, I think that about covers the majority of things, and I'm gonna go ...do something... before I get more irate and punch the wall. I kinda need both of my hands in working order.

Shatter

It’s funny you know, at how swiftly you can go from being relatively normal to the brink of shattering, to where you have to hold onto yourself so very very tight, tight enough that your teeth grind against each other and your bones squeak in protest, yet if you let go, if you relax, you’ll shatter. Shatter into a million teeny tiny pieces that will never be picked up again, put back together, because each shard is sharp enough to kill, sharp enough to die, sharp enough to hurt and not care.

I almost shattered last night, shattered into those teeny tiny pieces, shattered because...well... because I hate myself. I really do. I’m horrid. My boyfriend will now no doubt agree with me, I’m a dreadful heartless bitch. Too distant to be touched, too distant from reality to care about others. I don’t know. I ...I warned him. I told him, I don’t care easily, I cannot love. Not the way you would love, or anyone else for that matter. My ‘love’ is selfish, it’s simply really a desire to not be so alone. But then, I deserve to be alone. I deserve to be single all my life, a spinster, a hermit, someone that goes to work then comes home and immerses herself in the electronic banalities of society.

I don’t have friends. Not really. I have people I interact with on a routine basis. Those I talk to occasionally in/before/after class, the occasional chat I have while working, perhaps a talk with my mother, the brief interactions with the people online, but that is all. I don’t ...stress I suppose you could say, that I don’t have a clique of friends to spend the weekends with – I’m usually working anyways so it’s no big.

But...

Well. If -you- are the one that is initiating a break up, aren't -you- supposed to be not effected by it? I don't know. I've never.... I...

I really can't...I don't know. I'm shattering again, I can watch the fractures creep across the fragile inner me, creep creep ...spike...crack. Crawl across who I am like a disease, or the way that glass can crack into a million pieces just before it falls from the window. I'm ...afraid. Terrified. If I let myself shatter, if I ...stop desperately holding myself together, containing what I am, then my shattering will be fatal. And it scares me. It scares me so very very much.

If you had said to me, two days ago 'tomorrow you're going to try and dump your boyfriend and the day after see suicide looming as a very great possibility on the horizon' I would have laughed. I wouldn't have believed you. Two days ago, breaking up with him wasn't on my mind, I would have had a thousand other things hammering for attention -- movies to watch, books to read, or assignments to do which are still glaring at me in their unfinishedness. Suicide? yeah right, that was -last- year, I'm good this year. I've been to a counsellor, I'm 'fixed' or something.

But now ....


I can see it. I can see it through the fractures. If they fall, there won't be anything between me and ... I'm terrified to shatter, petrified. I don't want to shatter, I don't want to be nothing but depression and hate so I'm holding the flaws, holding the hate to me, holding it so tightly that my arms are aching, my teeth squeak against each other as I grind my jaw, my lungs are short of breath from the so tight grip I have on myself, that tight, fist hold that I need to have.

And already ....I know ...I can see ...I can't keep this iron grip forever. One day, something is going to knock me, nudge that fragile fracturing and all my careful grip has done was stave off the inevitable, and I'll shatter.

I'll shatter into a thousand, million, teeny tiny pieces of hurt, of hate, of self-loathing. One part of my mind is trying to deny this, deny that I'm so absolutely terrible, but it is a small part. A very small ...quiet...voice saying 'no no no, you're not. You're better!' and it's over powered by the voice that says 'you're a piece of worthless shit, you have no heart, you're heartless, empty and filled with a black, cold void of nothing. There is no light, no life, no love. You -deserve- to be hurting like this, you deserve to be hated, you deserve to be alone. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anybody. It's only a matter of time until the world realises how very worthless and pathetic you are. You've done the deed, or at least he thinks so, and is hurting because of YOU. You don't want to hurt any body? Keep going like you are and you'll hurt EVERYBODY and they'll hate you. And you deserve it. You know you do. Because you're just a worthless piece of shit, a fat, stupid, pathetic piece of shit. You didn't even THINK of giving him a call to break up, rather than doing it over an IM, you piece of shit, you piece of fucking shit, you're the dirt -beneath- the shit, not even worth that much. Fucker. Deal with the fucking consequences you idiot, you fucking worthless pile of emptiness. You don't deserve any body. You don't deserve to be comforted -- after all, you brought this on yourself. He didn't initiate it, -you- did, so deal with the consequences of being worthless, of less than a fucking piece of shit.'

And that little, tiny voice is getting quieter 'no no no, you're not, you're better!' so quiet that I have to strain to hear it ...while the other is louder, getting louder all the time. 'YOU FUCKING PIECE OF WORTHLESS SHIT. YOU DON'T DESERVE ANYTHING, DO YOU? YEAH, YOU AGREE WITH ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT'

'no no, you're better!'

Piece of fucking shit. Stop your fucking crying you worthless whore, think anybody cares? YOU DID THIS. You don't deserve anything. You deserve to be alone.

No no, you deserve more, everyone deserves someone to hold them...

PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT. YOU DON'T DESERVE ANYONE, DESERVE TO BE ALONE, LONELY, HATED AND HATING AND HURTING. AND YOU FUCKING -KNOW IT-