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July 2010



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Jul. 5th, 2010


Chapter 1 part 1.

New story i'm working on. its about two people that get lost in another world in the forest.  I've been thinking about writing it for a while. And I've got it all planned out now. Lets see how it goes? I'm writing each chapter in 3 or 4 parts. please review!

It was chasing me. What it was, of that, I had no idea, but it was there, I could feel its terribleness weighing down on my heart. Pulling me into a black abyss. You are too strong to survive, it whispered. Its snake-like scales scratched against the ground as it slithered, the sound vaguely associated with the desperation that accompanied entrapment within my mind. The same sound as a beast trapped within a crate made, scratching at the walls restraining it. All the while, I hear the flap of is mighty wings and the thundering of its gargantuan feet as they struck the earth. All three coincided in a regular rhythm, the drum to my execution, in conjunction with my heart beat. I wanted to slow the beating of my heart, my heart beat as a hummingbird, foolishly singing in the face of its prey. It will hear me, I thought, heart calm. Heart slow. But I was foolish to think I could control my own heart. Perhaps it would not be so bad. To be killed. That I would meet my mother and father once again. Perhaps I would meet her. Who was her? The one with the voice, low and murmuring. Yes, I wanted to meet that girl. There was something odd about that girl; did I remember her? Or did I just meet her. Have I seen her? If only I could see her. I remember, I don't know her. No, no I only know her voice. The murmuring. Was she Real? Real? Real.

           My eyes snapped open. The girl's voice was real.  My body reacted quickly and I instinctively turned my body towards the voice, momentarily closing my eyes, holding my breath, so I could hear. Damn heart, still beating. I took off in a run, noting that the voice was close.  She's wearing a camouflage army jacket, I realized too late, even as I collided into her. She was small and easily knocked over. Instinctively, I clapped my hand against her soft, small mouth.  I heard her screaming an instant after, felt its reverberations in my hand. My rough, dirty hand. I felt the waves of  her animalistic panic, sudden and instinctive. 

      "Calm," I whispered. My voice was low and guttural as I quelled her high pitched screams, pushing against the waves.  She became still under me, her body relaxed, her vocal muscles loosened, her heart stabilized. I removed myself from her, heavily and helped her to stand.

       "I am…Aros. Call me Arrow. " My name wasn't something I had heard recently, so I recalled it. It was an instant's delay, " Can you get out of here? I've been her for four wint- years. What is your name?" My speech had become strange, punctuated. It sounded animalistic to my own ears,   with an accent that was difficult to place. I had not spoken aloud much in the past four years.  The girl looked pointedly at my hand.  One hand was on her mouth, the other still in her hand from lifting her. I removed both.

          Her eyes widened and she whispered, "Four years?". I felt the sense of panic and resignation surge forward again, from some instinctive corner of her brain. The amygdala. Her eyes brimmed with water. A tear escaped as well as a strangled cry. The same cry of a trapped animal. It was, once again, animalistic. Her knees buckled and she doubled over, as if in prayer to a god she was begging to exist.  No not, in this forest. The god here, if he exists, wants me dead. Her fists dragged through the soil and she became limp, moving up and down only in sobs, as if they were a manner of breathing. I looked  down at her, unable to think of how to respond to her human despair. She doesn't know the way out either, obviously.

        I knelt down beside her, placing a hand on her neck and felt her despair, its smothering hold on her emotions, coming in little waves like heat.

             "Calm," I said, applying pressure, as if to press the calm into her. She sat up and stared at me with clear eyes. I put a leather flask to her lips.      

             "Water," I said.  She drank, swallowing deeply, slowly.

"My name is Shefali, but you can call me Shefa, like everyone else does. No one can seem to say it. It's okay, though." She smiled apologetically. She turned her gaze to me, her eyebrows knitting in thought.  The words bubbled to her lips as she added, "You can control emotions."

      It struck me, though it should have been intuitive, that what I could do was not possible in the other world.  That she would think it strange, that she might think it manipulative, invasive, I had not thought before. I had never thought of my ability, just as I had never thought of my ability to survive. It, like everything else I had to do to survive, had been waiting, instinctual, unused, until I was lost.  I quickly stumbled, in my odd voice, " Yes, I'm sorry. I did not mean to… I was, it was just to calm you."

       "No," she paused and smiled thoughtfully, "It's useful. Especially if it works on animals. Does it? Its why you've survived so long… Is there anyone with you?" 

      "Mm," I shook my head in denial.


Aug. 24th, 2009



August 21 at 10:30pm
           Not very far away from here, in the grass field just past the old, decrepit barn, there is a small pond. If you sit and watch the comings and goings of everything at this mucky, filthy little pond, you’ll notice that the few ducks and insects that dare to wander near it, promptly fall in. Even the ducks can not float on its water. All the other animals stay away, because they know, instinctively, that this pond is not one to be messed with. But, the ducks, they are stupid. The insects don’t have brains, so of course, it is what one expects.
Ages ago, when the barn was owned by somebody or another, a human child wandered into this pond. And of course, like the stupid ducks and the insects, she fell right in. And just as the stupid ducks and the insects, she came out on the other side. Well it turns out, that the ducks are not quite as stupid as we, and the other animals, assumed them to be, because this is a land which is very sparsely populated by humans. The ducks, you see, are not hunted. Nor are any of the other exotic animals that live in Dhinusa. I could, of course, go into how such a land, and such a pond, is scientifically possible, but I don’t want to bore you with tedious calculations. Just know that it involves something being, eventually, divided by zero, and so it exists. It exists simply because it can not possibly exist.
                  Dhinusa is a strange land. Or maybe, the pond that leads to it is strange. Everything that falls through changes, so to speak. Humans gain what we on Earth would call “magic”. It is no such thing of course. All creatures gain this “magic” when they fall through. It is only humans, however that have enough intelligence to effectively channel it and use it effectively. The “magic” is a connection to Dhinusa. It becomes even stronger when that connection to Dhinusa is “consummated” by eating the plants from the ground.
            There is a reason the people of Dhinusa do not hunt any animal of the land. Animals have a connection to Dhinusa as well, and so, you can see it would be problematic to one’s magic to eat such an animal.
          Ah, I stray too much into the mechanics of Dhinusa. Back to the dear child. She was a very curious and intelligent child, like many of the others that fell through. She grew up in Dhinusa, under the care of Rhesia, a kind woman who has not looked a day older than twenty nine from the day she had turned twenty nine. The child, Anasin, was a dark girl with gray eyes, eyelashes like curtains, and thick black hair that fell in fluid waves to the middle of her back. They say the night radiated from her eyes, that you could drown just staring into them. Her appearance is important, you see, because her magic was the same. Her magic was dark and her spells heavy and powerful, uttered in a guttural language that weighed the air down. The short silence in between the words could be felt-- thick, playful and wondrously black. The spells, when she uttered them, rolled off her tongue in rapid succession, leaving a bitter sweet taste in the air. That is why they called her Anasin Black.

Sep. 6th, 2008


(no subject)

      This is just a little story I started.  Please post your thoughts! I need encouragement (and constructive criticism) to go on:

          I like to hide in the closet of the bedroom where my grandparents stay whenever they come.  It feels like I’ve disappeared from our little house in Iran.  I can hear the kids screaming and playing, their mothers shouting for them to come inside and eat something, and I can hear the sound of dishes clanking.  When my parents need me to do something and I don’t want to do it, that’s where I hide.  I like to hear them looking for me.  Then, I quietly get out of the closet, go to the bathroom, and flush the toilet and wash my hands.   I pretend like I was never gone.
    I was hiding in the closet, one day, listening.  It was early morning and the sky was barely blue.  There were a couple of birds chirping,but the morning was otherwise devoid of sound.  There were no mothers screaming, no children laughing and playing, no dishes clanking.  There was just the sound of an occasional long drawn sip of tea and the harsh sound of rough Farsi.  I was listening to my parents arguing in hushed voices.  The argument came in waves of quiet talking, of which I could distinguish only a few words, and screamed whispers, harsh enough to strain my ears and their throats.  Farsi is a language spoken mainly from the back of the throat.  It can be sensual and elegant when spoken softly, but harsh when spoken roughly and with anger or strain.
    “A time of War is the last time to send her away from us.” Ami was screaming at Dadu  in a whisper.  
    “Don’t you want her to be safe—“  
    “How DARE you even suggest  that I wouldn’t want my daughter to be safe.” I could imagine her eyes going wide and her finger shaking as she pointed it at my father.
    “Soheila, we are both in the war and so is her brother.  What will happen to her if she stays here and, God forbid, we die.”  My father’s voice broke slightly at the end of the sentence and this is something I could not imagine.  I could hear Ami crying..  This reply provoked a vivid image, I assume, in front of her waking eyes of the dim and dreaded nightmares of me alone and orphaned in this world, exposed to the horrors of a cruel time.
    They did not ask me.  I don’t suspect parents ask their children when the issue is concerning their children’s safety.  But I want to stay in Iran and fight with them.  Anyone would think it laughable.  I could imagine my uncle, laughing in his deep, rumbling way.  “What would a twelve year old girl do in a war?” he would say.
    After a long silence, which I suspected were filled with shaking, silent sobs from my mother, my father spoke. “I’ve booked the ticket already. She’s leaving tomorrow night.”