Post by phziad on Apr 14, 2007 15:30:05 GMT -5
felt like posting up a story.
the person narrating is Sirarie (if you don't know who that is, that's fine), and for a vague bit of backstory: she is Finnea's child. She is also Kazeielan's grandchild. And there are spoilers for the main story she's in.
Note: this is still incomplete, but C&C is fine.
I remember rifling through my father’s belongings; I wanted to know. I found a picture, of him and my mother, and the only thought that processed was why does he look the same? People age, after all. Why should anyone else be different?
I don’t believe in magic. Kind of a useless idea, when you think about it. All those fairies and elves flitting around everywhere granting wishes- it’s a bit stupid. But when I woke up, in the house of a man who said he was my grandfather even though he looked barely five years older than my father (and I know that none of my mother’s relatives are here- they’re in the other world. No, not magic.) with my throat slit and blood all over- it gets kind of hard not to believe then. Especially because I was still alive. I was dead, but still alive. How crazy is that?
I don’t remember my mother, not much. I have fragments from when I was a child- someone holding me, someone singing quietly- but nothing large. I remember her dying. I was three at the time, and the memories are faint, things that could have been misread in the archives of my brain. But memories nonetheless.
Once I found a journal, or a novel, or a book of some sort. It was handwritten, and the words sounded almost archaic- like the person writing wasn’t quite sure how to form the sentences correctly. It was old- not ancient, but at least as old as I (which, now that I think about it, could be ancient- how old am I, anyways? I fear I’ve lost track), or more. There were a few faded pictures, drawn mostly. Fantastical things, of people with wings and feathers like out of some fantasy story, or maybe the other world. Dad probably had just picked it up at a flea market or something; probably it was only a novel someone had written in their spare time and never thought to publish. Pity. It would have made a good book.
The thoughts and memories flutter down like snow on a cloudy day; the first time I rode a bike, my first kiss, first impressions- things like that. You’d think that those were stupid things, not really worth anything. You’d be wrong. If you will pardon my badly-written metaphor, they are like piecemeal change. But gather them all up, put them together, and you can buy the world.
the person narrating is Sirarie (if you don't know who that is, that's fine), and for a vague bit of backstory: she is Finnea's child. She is also Kazeielan's grandchild. And there are spoilers for the main story she's in.
Note: this is still incomplete, but C&C is fine.
I remember rifling through my father’s belongings; I wanted to know. I found a picture, of him and my mother, and the only thought that processed was why does he look the same? People age, after all. Why should anyone else be different?
I don’t believe in magic. Kind of a useless idea, when you think about it. All those fairies and elves flitting around everywhere granting wishes- it’s a bit stupid. But when I woke up, in the house of a man who said he was my grandfather even though he looked barely five years older than my father (and I know that none of my mother’s relatives are here- they’re in the other world. No, not magic.) with my throat slit and blood all over- it gets kind of hard not to believe then. Especially because I was still alive. I was dead, but still alive. How crazy is that?
I don’t remember my mother, not much. I have fragments from when I was a child- someone holding me, someone singing quietly- but nothing large. I remember her dying. I was three at the time, and the memories are faint, things that could have been misread in the archives of my brain. But memories nonetheless.
Once I found a journal, or a novel, or a book of some sort. It was handwritten, and the words sounded almost archaic- like the person writing wasn’t quite sure how to form the sentences correctly. It was old- not ancient, but at least as old as I (which, now that I think about it, could be ancient- how old am I, anyways? I fear I’ve lost track), or more. There were a few faded pictures, drawn mostly. Fantastical things, of people with wings and feathers like out of some fantasy story, or maybe the other world. Dad probably had just picked it up at a flea market or something; probably it was only a novel someone had written in their spare time and never thought to publish. Pity. It would have made a good book.
The thoughts and memories flutter down like snow on a cloudy day; the first time I rode a bike, my first kiss, first impressions- things like that. You’d think that those were stupid things, not really worth anything. You’d be wrong. If you will pardon my badly-written metaphor, they are like piecemeal change. But gather them all up, put them together, and you can buy the world.
