and that's the best place to be, I guess.
Happy Independence Day, everyone.
I've started writing again, a lot. JulNoWriMo. You'll remember that last November I did NaNoWriMo [National Novel Writing Month] and came up just short of the 50 thousand words in one month. But for those of us who are truly crazy, there is NaNo in July. I'm actually almost on top of my word count, but it's just a few days in. On the other hand I have way more time in summer. Or I like to think so. July is gonna be killer.
Last night I went to a rather splendid performance by the local AAA Theatre....you may remember my posts about their awesome amateur shows last summer, and at Christmas.
Today we had lunch with my grandmother, and then tooled around home until evening. Then my dad and I went into town to Red White and Blues festival....lots of good rock, blues, and etc music and other fun times downtown.
I am angry and feeling sorry for myself. I am trying to accept the fact that there is not really anyone in this town who cared enough about me to want to spend the 4th of July with me. And that's not entirely true, a few people were already busy.
The best thing to do is obviously make peace with this fact and even...embrace it. I can be the lone wolf when I need to. In fact, I tend to work better alone. If I have a job to do, no matter what it is, I am usually happy. And useful. I can do that again. Get through the summer and come September, there will be something to occupy every minute. Make the good grades, keep the FLL teams enthused, get the funding for our FRC team, get the scholarships, get admitted to DigiPen Institute of Technology.
And-
I was all depressed and now I'm not. Yeah, I definitely just talked about God to one of my friends for about two hours. I can only say I'm thankful....that God can use me. That I can still help. That He makes things work out all right in the end.
It's a new day now, early on the morning of July 5th.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, July 5, 2010
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Happy Advent!
Hoo boy. Long post coming up.
First off: I did not win NaNo. :( 42,618 was the final count.
*A big than you to everybody who commented and supported the frenzied author during the time of need, you're the best!! :) *
The weekend was ghastly. I went for 46 hours without sleep.
My second all-nighter on Sunday night did not go well. I decided to hole up in the pantry because my room doesn't really have a door and my parents would probably have heard the tapping at the keyboard.
The parents did not go to bed til kind of late so I sat up in my room writing notes on paper. Then I snuck downstairs with the utmost furtiveness and ensconced myself in the pantry.
I soon learned that it is very very hard to use a laptop without any other light in the room. I ventured forth in search of a lamp; failed to find one (this was about 1 AM). FInally I absconded with an electric candle-thing which worked passably. I also learned that it is almost impossible to read pencil by the light of the little flashlight I had taped to a baseball cap, miner-like.
Went out to get carrots, cheese and bread, and of course more coffee. I have come to simply loathe coffee, chiefly after the first all-nighter.
I kept banging away at the keyboard, engaged in a lot of sprints and word-wars on the NaNo forums where a small group of nocturnal peeps attempted to up the lagging word-count.
As I gulped down more coffee I had an occasional qualm about how much caffeine one can ingest before effects set in.... o_0
Around 4 AM I was dead, absolutely dead. I think I may have been falling asleep for nanoseconds between words. I believe I was beginning to hallucinate slightly. I left the pantry to go to the bathroom or maybe get some more coffee, I forget which. In the hallway I encountered my mom. She did not see me at first (I was so disoriented that I had turned into the wall believing that the hallway ran the other direction). She did however see the light coming from the pantry which I had failed to turn off. FInally saw me and made me go back to bed.
I got four hours of sleep and faced the next day with renewed energy (sort of). Went through school in a daze. Wrote crazily all Monday.
Around 3:30 that afternoon I had a rather brilliant idea to have another character come into the story. This did not boost the word count as much as could have been hoped however.
I degenerated into having one of my characters reminisce over how she did NaNo one time...got about ten pages out of that...every fifth word might have been spelled right.
Parents made me go to bed at 9:30 or so; truth be told, I was not unwilling, I was exhausted.
The story is maybe 75% complete at this point. I'm fairly happy with it, there were some rather nice scenes and quite a lot of side-splitting humor. I'm fairly attached to my characters. Won't have much time to work on it though :(
Other stuff: Yes, happy Advent! Can't believe it's so close to Christmas! The excitement is filtering through from Kendra, I think :P
Theatre news: I'm likely going to audition for Romeo and Juliet at CHS!!! I'm really excited. Auditions are December 14 and 15, the show is at the end of February. I'd love to have an acting part but I don't know if I can fit it i, I'd really like to do robotics at my dad's school and it's during the same time-window. Might be able to do tech or costuming or something though. I have to memorize some Shakespeare for the audition.
Weather: is awesome. COLD and sunny. It started to frost almost as soon as the sun went down yesterday, and there are rumors of impending snow at the end of the week! I love this weather, I ought to move to Montana or something :)
Hay bales: I had to move a 60-pounder today, and I had the brilliant idea of backing up to the trunk of the car (where it was) and rolling the bale onto my back, holding it by the strings.
Yahoo: I got yahoo IM, me address is bethie_forty_two :)
2012: Shardhana left a comment inquiring my views on 2012....a very thought-provoking subject, hehe. Let's just say I am attending "2013" ;) I don't believe it will be the end of the world, BUT I think there could certainly be unknown repercussions, for one thing I've heard about solar flares picking up then, who knows. I don't know if that could result in some form of EMP which might knock out power/communications, in which case we would be in rather epic trouble.
I'm not worrying about it too much. Would love to see the movie, though! :)
First off: I did not win NaNo. :( 42,618 was the final count.
*A big than you to everybody who commented and supported the frenzied author during the time of need, you're the best!! :) *
The weekend was ghastly. I went for 46 hours without sleep.
My second all-nighter on Sunday night did not go well. I decided to hole up in the pantry because my room doesn't really have a door and my parents would probably have heard the tapping at the keyboard.
The parents did not go to bed til kind of late so I sat up in my room writing notes on paper. Then I snuck downstairs with the utmost furtiveness and ensconced myself in the pantry.
I soon learned that it is very very hard to use a laptop without any other light in the room. I ventured forth in search of a lamp; failed to find one (this was about 1 AM). FInally I absconded with an electric candle-thing which worked passably. I also learned that it is almost impossible to read pencil by the light of the little flashlight I had taped to a baseball cap, miner-like.
Went out to get carrots, cheese and bread, and of course more coffee. I have come to simply loathe coffee, chiefly after the first all-nighter.
I kept banging away at the keyboard, engaged in a lot of sprints and word-wars on the NaNo forums where a small group of nocturnal peeps attempted to up the lagging word-count.
As I gulped down more coffee I had an occasional qualm about how much caffeine one can ingest before effects set in.... o_0
Around 4 AM I was dead, absolutely dead. I think I may have been falling asleep for nanoseconds between words. I believe I was beginning to hallucinate slightly. I left the pantry to go to the bathroom or maybe get some more coffee, I forget which. In the hallway I encountered my mom. She did not see me at first (I was so disoriented that I had turned into the wall believing that the hallway ran the other direction). She did however see the light coming from the pantry which I had failed to turn off. FInally saw me and made me go back to bed.
I got four hours of sleep and faced the next day with renewed energy (sort of). Went through school in a daze. Wrote crazily all Monday.
Around 3:30 that afternoon I had a rather brilliant idea to have another character come into the story. This did not boost the word count as much as could have been hoped however.
I degenerated into having one of my characters reminisce over how she did NaNo one time...got about ten pages out of that...every fifth word might have been spelled right.
Parents made me go to bed at 9:30 or so; truth be told, I was not unwilling, I was exhausted.
The story is maybe 75% complete at this point. I'm fairly happy with it, there were some rather nice scenes and quite a lot of side-splitting humor. I'm fairly attached to my characters. Won't have much time to work on it though :(
Other stuff: Yes, happy Advent! Can't believe it's so close to Christmas! The excitement is filtering through from Kendra, I think :P
Theatre news: I'm likely going to audition for Romeo and Juliet at CHS!!! I'm really excited. Auditions are December 14 and 15, the show is at the end of February. I'd love to have an acting part but I don't know if I can fit it i, I'd really like to do robotics at my dad's school and it's during the same time-window. Might be able to do tech or costuming or something though. I have to memorize some Shakespeare for the audition.
Weather: is awesome. COLD and sunny. It started to frost almost as soon as the sun went down yesterday, and there are rumors of impending snow at the end of the week! I love this weather, I ought to move to Montana or something :)
Hay bales: I had to move a 60-pounder today, and I had the brilliant idea of backing up to the trunk of the car (where it was) and rolling the bale onto my back, holding it by the strings.
Yahoo: I got yahoo IM, me address is bethie_forty_two :)
2012: Shardhana left a comment inquiring my views on 2012....a very thought-provoking subject, hehe. Let's just say I am attending "2013" ;) I don't believe it will be the end of the world, BUT I think there could certainly be unknown repercussions, for one thing I've heard about solar flares picking up then, who knows. I don't know if that could result in some form of EMP which might knock out power/communications, in which case we would be in rather epic trouble.
I'm not worrying about it too much. Would love to see the movie, though! :)
Saturday, November 28, 2009
pretty much insane right now
cAffEine and NaNo....got over 11 hours of sleep last night, went into town with my dad and Eddie (laptop) and got some writing done whilst taking stuff to the recycle, books to the used-book store, Co-op, Staples for a laptop cover and rubber bands and a flash drive.
Have been writing sporadically all day.
word count is over 15 000.
GONNA DO THIS!!!!
around 3 i decided to go for the caffeine.
view my progress here!
cheer me on, kick me, hug me, rub my shoulders which are REallY sore for some reason, comment please!, make my a cup of cyber-coffee, etc.
Have been writing sporadically all day.
word count is over 15 000.
GONNA DO THIS!!!!
around 3 i decided to go for the caffeine.
view my progress here!
cheer me on, kick me, hug me, rub my shoulders which are REallY sore for some reason, comment please!, make my a cup of cyber-coffee, etc.
Friday, October 30, 2009
could you please take a number and wait for the next mood-change?
ooh wow. Meh. Grahgh. Rowr.
Facebook status as of this afternoon: Bethany can't decide whether to be ticked off, happy, satisfied, excited, sad, in the throes of cold wrath, depressed, or what. Welcome to being a teenager. Factor in school, parents, school decisions, and you get something remarkably close to...eh..something. Crud crud crud.
It's been an interesting day. I got up all ready for a nice light school-load and a pleasant day. Tootled around on the computer for too long and got told off by my mom. I diligently applied myself to my studies for the next two hours. Pwned my bio homework through Monday; reviewed for the College Composition test; reviewed biology, took notes, tried to read notes, with limited success; lunched late. Mum came home. I tidied the kitchen, even doing the dishes as a tasty little extra to appease mom who was appeasement-worthy by this time.
Had a conversation about the scholastic plan. I think the worst part of school is trying to decide what to do. The trouble is always with me. I am not self-motivated enough to study and pass lots of CLEP exams [thus relieving the monetary angle of things]. I am going to have a "wasted year". We cannot afford to send me to college without alternative methods such as CLEPs. I am not self-motivated enough....you get the picture. I am spending too long on theatre stuff and Facebook. I would do school if I were told what to do [insert 1000-word discussion on the pros and cons of this, that and the other option. Including stuff that we discussed last year.] Why the dickens would I want to take Spanish I at a high school when I could be getting credit for it at college? I could spend three hours on Facebook if I were allowed to. Well what should I be doing? I did my biology didn't I?
Drat. I'm not trying to berate my mom. I'm sorry for loading this on you all....but then, what else are blogs for. Jest so's you know, this post may or may not be up here very long.
Eh. Biology is going well. Fungus. [Kendra, I will post something on the discussion board SOON! :) ]
Oh drat again. I just remembered some other schoolwork I could have done....
So you don't feel to sorry for me, please note that I did a grand total of about 3 hours of school today. That's a lot more than usual. BUT WHAT THE DICKENS AM I SUPPOSED TO BE DOING???!
Had thoughts concerning C++, computer programming, and such. I was reading along in a writing manual when I came to a chart of...."WOW! Computer terms, defined! Ohmigoodness! Cool!" Who cares that they're ten years old....bits and bytes. Haha, nothing above a KB was mentioned. Oh, these are the days of 200 gig hard drives...
Made a fire. I <3 style="">
Am reading Great Expectations again. I tried to read it at the tender age of 11, and failed. It's quite good. Now I must just convince my mom to let me finish To Kill a Mockingbird on my own.....
Oh splendid, I get to be busy tomorrow! [In other words, out of the house...] Dance rehearsal, and then off to Eva's for the evening. :)
Woow I hate the telephone. Every time it rings I jump and sweat breaks out and my heartrate speeds up. I don't know why, I'm not waiting for a call or anything.
I am considering participating in NaNoWriMo. Hm. I do have a story started, does that count if I finish it off? I really don't want this story to wind up in Unfinished Stories, much as that blog needs fodder...I'm working on typing it up even as we speak. My tiny handwriting is a major pain to read. I really, really like this story. But it needs m a j o r work. For one thing the hero is being set up with the wrong girl. For another, there is a mystery/thriller aspect which intruded itself, all unwanted, into the plot. For another...oh why spoil it? ;)
Ah. I just looked up the website and found started stories don't count. :( Oh well, I shouldn't have much trouble coming up with something...after all, it's quantity not quality and I do have plenty of that lol.....
I am really really excited!!! :)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
a few updates
Fever gone [at least for now], appetite back [in FULL force! :P] etc.
And I had an idea, whilst getting all enthused over writing [and brainstorming for Kendra here, AND reading Pogo Possum comic books which always gets the creative juices flowing] eh..where was I? Yeah...I was thinking about unfinished beginnings to stories. We all have them: 2, 5, 20 pages maybe, and they never go anywhere. And yet they are so good, or we would never have started writing them now would we? ;)
And I was wondering if there might be interest from my beloved followers [;)] in my starting a blog just for unfinished beginnings of stories, and such. I know there are oodles of writing blogs out there but who knows maybe this would be something new :)
Let me know if you might be interested...
And I had an idea, whilst getting all enthused over writing [and brainstorming for Kendra here, AND reading Pogo Possum comic books which always gets the creative juices flowing] eh..where was I? Yeah...I was thinking about unfinished beginnings to stories. We all have them: 2, 5, 20 pages maybe, and they never go anywhere. And yet they are so good, or we would never have started writing them now would we? ;)
And I was wondering if there might be interest from my beloved followers [;)] in my starting a blog just for unfinished beginnings of stories, and such. I know there are oodles of writing blogs out there but who knows maybe this would be something new :)
Let me know if you might be interested...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
flippin' crepes
In culinary today we made crepes. Not the flaming Crepes Suzettes, just the ordinary, non-incendiary sort. They didn't really work that well. There was this dome-shaped pan which you dip into the batter and then invert over a hot stove. It was sort of....an epic fail. Our batter [as well as everyone else's] was dripping down into the burner, and getting the crepe off the pan involved a lot of scraping. We scrapped [or dare I say....scraped?? lol!] that idea and went for the skillet.
One of the other groups was exhibiting the proper flipping technique. One guy was demonstrating how "you want to catch it on the return loop", and another described a pleasing parabola with his hand, dramatizing the Escape of the Crepe ["There it goes! Incoming!"]
Meanwhile Nate [in our group, the math guy, you recall] made coffee as per the teacher's direction. However he didn't really measure it properly and the result was a remarkably weak brew [one might almost call it flaccid].
Then I raced off across town to bio. That was also fun. First lab--intro to microscope--viewing thread and cheek-cells. And definitions review. There are 27 definitions to know for this module. Mod. 6 [The Cell! Rejoice!] has over 40. Inhumane.
Micro-organisms: "Organisms that are micro" and Consumers: "Organisms that consume" were two of the jewels offered up at one point or another for our thirsty, knowledge-seeking ears. [It is, perhaps, superfluous to note that there are two guys in the class.]
One other girl and I have already done bio [or half a year thereof, in my case] and are sort of dominating the definition scene.
Then during lab we were using a Q-tip to take samples of our cheek-cells and Emily thought her mom [the teacher] said "smear the west side of the qtip on the slide" when of course she meant "wet". Yes, don't use the east side, use the west side! lol We also managed to break a couple of slide covers "Oh I'm going to see how long I can go without breaking one this year!" CRUNCH!
There were some adventures with the methylene-blue stain, too. Fortunately nothing too dramatic.
At the end of class our teacher was quizzing us on definitions. We were supposed to say "ding!" to replicate the sound of a buzzer when we knew the answer. At one point one of the girls received a comment: "That was a weak 'ding'" which made us all laugh.
I was slightly buzzing from the coffee, I think; despite the weakness of said stimulant.
Oh yes: I forgot to mention at the relevant time that in culinary we learned that the glass shields above buffet cases are called "sneezeguards". Is that not hilarious?
Let's talk sherpa. [Have we had this conversation before?] So yeah, I am pretty much a certified sherpa. Carrying oodles of stuff, balancing things, opening doors with my feet are all parts of daily life. My dad says I inherited it from him.....these awesome pliable toes.
During one shoot last spring I was carrying about 40 bags of camera equipment out to the car [prior to transfer to ANOTHER set] and had no hands free, and the other actors and such were lagging behind. Here's me, a heavy bag crossed over each shoulder [choking me--but Certified Sherpas care not for such trivialities], and a bag or costume in each hand. The trunk of the car demanded to be opened. I slipped off my shoe, stuck my foot in the handle, and [using my balletically strengthened muscles] hefted upwards. 'Twas quite a feat--the others were quite impressed.
We've got this tour book on England and we're poring over it....."Clovelly--perfect Devon village oozes charm as thick as clotted cream".....I kid you not. The book was, needless to say, written in Britain. I seize this opertunity to interject a bit of lucidity penned by myself a few months ago.
'Twas in regards to a hilarious bit forwarded to me on Britain taking charge of the affairs in The States. Amongst my suggestions were:
- remedy the peculiar American method of naming towns in words of two syllables or less. Towns deemed to be unsuitably named will be rechristened with such names as: Urswick-by-the-Tweed, the Firth of Forth (actually that's a body of water), Chipping Mutton (not to be confused with Chipping Norton), the Wallops (a pretty trio of towns, Upper, Middle and Nether), West Eastwick, Huddleston-in-the-Moor, Twiddlesbury, Wootton Plunkett, Thrushmutton-on-Rye (with caraway seeds) and Woolesley-Henworth. These names are particularly suitable for abbreviating on sign-posts--such as, M'finch, U'wk-by-Tweed, W'ly-H'wth.
- re-institution of the noble sport of mangold-hurling
- elimination of the costly habit of making beds with two sheets. Only duvets are really sensible. [Warning: duvets may prove a hazard to uninformed American-types. The management of many British hotels have had to rescue a great many hapless tourists from the duvets [known familiarly as tourist-traps] on the hotel beds. Duvets are not sleeping bags!! ]
- prompt installation of surveillance-cameras at strategic points, for example in grocery-store parking-lots. Persons wishing to abscond without paying parking-fees for a full hour when they've only been there 20 minutes will need to resort to ploys such as: finding they do not have change while at the pay-station, meandering back to their auto to get it, rooting in the auto, being "horrified'' to then discover they don't have any change, and other sundry tactics intended to assure the British government they really are trying to pay up.
- treatment of national landmarks, historical sites and such in the British fashion. To wit; not swathing them in velvet ropes strung between poles and then hiring a lot of security guards to ensure that no-one (heaven forbid!) actually gets close to anything interesting. Outdoor-type attractions, such as ancient monuments, Stone Age earthworks and stone-circles (which, we are informed, the U. S. has a painful dearth of), will be open for the general public to walk up to and touch.
- signposts are another issue. Customary American standards of navigational signs tend to be confusing. It is not necessary, for instance, to change the mileage-to-destination notation with distance traveled. A typical British road (let us say, to Scorhill stone circle) would obviate this difficulty by continuing to state the same mileage, i. e. , "Scorhill--2 1/4 km". The next sign, a good mile later, would be marked thus: "Scorhill--2 1/4 km" and so on up until the destination which, we wish to emphasize, need not be marked at all.
- small roads, such as those exemplary ones to be found in England's South-west, are just as efficient as large ones. When traveling along a small, two-lane road, one does not worry about oncoming cars until one meets them--and one does not see them until one meets them. Then there is usually a little lay-by handy to pull into and politely let the other auto pass. Very civilised and polite, you understand.
Some (we would say over-anxious) drivers might feel it expedient to travel in the wake of other, larger (if slower) vehicles such as farm implements which act in the role of "brush-cutter" to ensure there are no obstructions (oncoming autos, pedestrians, projecting hedge-material etc.) in the path. A small auto, progressing in this way, may proceed without fear and even reach alarming speeds before overtaking the farm-implement. Still other drivers may wish to attach long slender "whiskers" to the fronts of their autos (in order to sound out the terrain), some models even coming equipped with little red warning flags at their tips.
Humourous, no? [That word has WAY too many U's!]
I forgot all about Reader Wednesday but better late than never. I want your thoughts on computers: Macs vs. PCs, Vista versus XP, html-coding, are you a comp-geek, how often do you de-frag, etc.
Hey, that's a good idea for a poll!
Poll has been added [two, actually] GO VOTE!!! All patriotic followers of the Republic of Varied Topics are encouraged to vote early and often!
One of the other groups was exhibiting the proper flipping technique. One guy was demonstrating how "you want to catch it on the return loop", and another described a pleasing parabola with his hand, dramatizing the Escape of the Crepe ["There it goes! Incoming!"]
Meanwhile Nate [in our group, the math guy, you recall] made coffee as per the teacher's direction. However he didn't really measure it properly and the result was a remarkably weak brew [one might almost call it flaccid].
Then I raced off across town to bio. That was also fun. First lab--intro to microscope--viewing thread and cheek-cells. And definitions review. There are 27 definitions to know for this module. Mod. 6 [The Cell! Rejoice!] has over 40. Inhumane.
Micro-organisms: "Organisms that are micro" and Consumers: "Organisms that consume" were two of the jewels offered up at one point or another for our thirsty, knowledge-seeking ears. [It is, perhaps, superfluous to note that there are two guys in the class.]
One other girl and I have already done bio [or half a year thereof, in my case] and are sort of dominating the definition scene.
Then during lab we were using a Q-tip to take samples of our cheek-cells and Emily thought her mom [the teacher] said "smear the west side of the qtip on the slide" when of course she meant "wet". Yes, don't use the east side, use the west side! lol We also managed to break a couple of slide covers "Oh I'm going to see how long I can go without breaking one this year!" CRUNCH!
There were some adventures with the methylene-blue stain, too. Fortunately nothing too dramatic.
At the end of class our teacher was quizzing us on definitions. We were supposed to say "ding!" to replicate the sound of a buzzer when we knew the answer. At one point one of the girls received a comment: "That was a weak 'ding'" which made us all laugh.
I was slightly buzzing from the coffee, I think; despite the weakness of said stimulant.
Oh yes: I forgot to mention at the relevant time that in culinary we learned that the glass shields above buffet cases are called "sneezeguards". Is that not hilarious?
Let's talk sherpa. [Have we had this conversation before?] So yeah, I am pretty much a certified sherpa. Carrying oodles of stuff, balancing things, opening doors with my feet are all parts of daily life. My dad says I inherited it from him.....these awesome pliable toes.
During one shoot last spring I was carrying about 40 bags of camera equipment out to the car [prior to transfer to ANOTHER set] and had no hands free, and the other actors and such were lagging behind. Here's me, a heavy bag crossed over each shoulder [choking me--but Certified Sherpas care not for such trivialities], and a bag or costume in each hand. The trunk of the car demanded to be opened. I slipped off my shoe, stuck my foot in the handle, and [using my balletically strengthened muscles] hefted upwards. 'Twas quite a feat--the others were quite impressed.
We've got this tour book on England and we're poring over it....."Clovelly--perfect Devon village oozes charm as thick as clotted cream".....I kid you not. The book was, needless to say, written in Britain. I seize this opertunity to interject a bit of lucidity penned by myself a few months ago.
'Twas in regards to a hilarious bit forwarded to me on Britain taking charge of the affairs in The States. Amongst my suggestions were:
- remedy the peculiar American method of naming towns in words of two syllables or less. Towns deemed to be unsuitably named will be rechristened with such names as: Urswick-by-the-Tweed, the Firth of Forth (actually that's a body of water), Chipping Mutton (not to be confused with Chipping Norton), the Wallops (a pretty trio of towns, Upper, Middle and Nether), West Eastwick, Huddleston-in-the-Moor, Twiddlesbury, Wootton Plunkett, Thrushmutton-on-Rye (with caraway seeds) and Woolesley-Henworth. These names are particularly suitable for abbreviating on sign-posts--such as, M'finch, U'wk-by-Tweed, W'ly-H'wth.
- re-institution of the noble sport of mangold-hurling
- elimination of the costly habit of making beds with two sheets. Only duvets are really sensible. [Warning: duvets may prove a hazard to uninformed American-types. The management of many British hotels have had to rescue a great many hapless tourists from the duvets [known familiarly as tourist-traps] on the hotel beds. Duvets are not sleeping bags!! ]
- prompt installation of surveillance-cameras at strategic points, for example in grocery-store parking-lots. Persons wishing to abscond without paying parking-fees for a full hour when they've only been there 20 minutes will need to resort to ploys such as: finding they do not have change while at the pay-station, meandering back to their auto to get it, rooting in the auto, being "horrified'' to then discover they don't have any change, and other sundry tactics intended to assure the British government they really are trying to pay up.
- treatment of national landmarks, historical sites and such in the British fashion. To wit; not swathing them in velvet ropes strung between poles and then hiring a lot of security guards to ensure that no-one (heaven forbid!) actually gets close to anything interesting. Outdoor-type attractions, such as ancient monuments, Stone Age earthworks and stone-circles (which, we are informed, the U. S. has a painful dearth of), will be open for the general public to walk up to and touch.
- signposts are another issue. Customary American standards of navigational signs tend to be confusing. It is not necessary, for instance, to change the mileage-to-destination notation with distance traveled. A typical British road (let us say, to Scorhill stone circle) would obviate this difficulty by continuing to state the same mileage, i. e. , "Scorhill--2 1/4 km". The next sign, a good mile later, would be marked thus: "Scorhill--2 1/4 km" and so on up until the destination which, we wish to emphasize, need not be marked at all.
- small roads, such as those exemplary ones to be found in England's South-west, are just as efficient as large ones. When traveling along a small, two-lane road, one does not worry about oncoming cars until one meets them--and one does not see them until one meets them. Then there is usually a little lay-by handy to pull into and politely let the other auto pass. Very civilised and polite, you understand.
Some (we would say over-anxious) drivers might feel it expedient to travel in the wake of other, larger (if slower) vehicles such as farm implements which act in the role of "brush-cutter" to ensure there are no obstructions (oncoming autos, pedestrians, projecting hedge-material etc.) in the path. A small auto, progressing in this way, may proceed without fear and even reach alarming speeds before overtaking the farm-implement. Still other drivers may wish to attach long slender "whiskers" to the fronts of their autos (in order to sound out the terrain), some models even coming equipped with little red warning flags at their tips.
Humourous, no? [That word has WAY too many U's!]
I forgot all about Reader Wednesday but better late than never. I want your thoughts on computers: Macs vs. PCs, Vista versus XP, html-coding, are you a comp-geek, how often do you de-frag, etc.
Hey, that's a good idea for a poll!
Poll has been added [two, actually] GO VOTE!!! All patriotic followers of the Republic of Varied Topics are encouraged to vote early and often!
Friday, August 14, 2009
Bethie is sick :(
Awww.....come and feel sorry for me....[lol]....I believe I've got the flu. The dreaded Swine Flu, H1N1, no less.
My throat felt a wee bit funny last night before bed. I went to sleep hoping it wouldn't get worse. It did. Woke up at 3 and was sure I was influenzal. Came downstairs and took various remedies, homeopathic and other.
Slept in til 10 this morning, and I only just got out of bed. My throat hurts [classic swine flu symptom], my sinuses are congested and I've got a headache. No fever or joint-pains yet, but I'm sure those will come.
I haven't eaten anything all day...I think I'll haul myself upstairs and go back to bed.
Stay tuned, dear folks, for more breaking updates on Bethany's battle with the flu!! :)
and no, you needn't feel too sorry for me, I don't really feel all that sick.
Oh and the script is coming along very well!! A few new characters have walked onto the stage which is fortunate but unexpected.
My throat felt a wee bit funny last night before bed. I went to sleep hoping it wouldn't get worse. It did. Woke up at 3 and was sure I was influenzal. Came downstairs and took various remedies, homeopathic and other.
Slept in til 10 this morning, and I only just got out of bed. My throat hurts [classic swine flu symptom], my sinuses are congested and I've got a headache. No fever or joint-pains yet, but I'm sure those will come.
I haven't eaten anything all day...I think I'll haul myself upstairs and go back to bed.
Stay tuned, dear folks, for more breaking updates on Bethany's battle with the flu!! :)
and no, you needn't feel too sorry for me, I don't really feel all that sick.
Oh and the script is coming along very well!! A few new characters have walked onto the stage which is fortunate but unexpected.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Aaahh! Just finished a story!
I just put the finishing key-strokes on a short story prior to sending it off to Scotland for the monthly newsletter!! It's a retelling of the St. George and the Dragon story, inspired by the time I spent at White Horse Hill [the authentic Dragon locale] in the South of England.
It's a typical mushy romance [at least, as mushy as I ever get, haha]--a bit predictable, but oh well. 'Twas fun to write. Here 'tis. And the poem at the top, well, that was just a scrap unfinished verse I had lying about that seemed to fit with it tolerably. Copy and Paste ingnored the italics, and I'm not going ot go over it again.
I really would rather not have this blog cluttered up with a lot of writing, so this is probably the only sotry for a bit [to be honest, it's the only thing I have finished.]. If reading 6-page stories is not your thing, feel free to skip to the next post down :)
Sun.
And wind and grass and white-chalk horse.
The earthen ramparts of an ancient fort
Rise tall; on their steep sides the harebells thoughtless bloom,
Remembering not the conquerors
Who crushed their sky-blue bells beneath avenging feet.
The full moon shone over Uffington, shining white where the chalk road wound up towards the hill-fort, picking out glints on rustling beech-leaves, putting stark shadows behind the rises of the downs. A breeze, warm and laden with the dusty golden scent of cut hay-fields, stirred the long grass on the hill.
Not enough light to see the flowers by, the harebell and scabious, but enough to show the girl's dark shape against the grass in a fold of the hill. Frolicking as a lamb might caper in new pasture in the spring-time, recking not who might be watching and indeed not caring. Small she was, a little under average height and slender. A cloud of dark red hair floated around her shoulders, crowned by a wreath of harebells. Barefoot, she danced on, taken by the mad joy of a summertime moon.
At last Myrna threw herself down on the grass, and lay back looking at the stars, breathless, with hair wild and harebell-crown askew. As abruptly she sat up again; a noise had come from behind her. Oh, it would be too bad to have been watched by someone! The clan's herbalist and healer had her dignity to consider, after all!
She turned and looked straight into the eyes of the person who had been watching her. Tall (he seemed still taller by the fact that he was standing above her on the slope), clad in a worn tunic and leather jerkin with a staff in his hand. Myrna quickly took in the sun-browned skin and blond hair, lighter than was common in the downlands. He was not as old as she had at first thought, indeed not much more than her own age; and injured, to judge from the stained rags wrapped about his sword-arm. There was a peculiar expression on his face. Doubtless he thought her ridiculous for doing such a childish thing as dancing about with flowers in her hair. Well, let him! She did not care.
"Greetings to you," she said warily, and then, as he did not reply, "Do you seek shelter with our people?"
"Aye. I would be grateful." His voice sounded strange, an unfamiliar accent (and perhaps feverish. Mayhap the wound was worse than it seemed.)
Myrna turned and walked swiftly up the hill—the young man followed, somewhat slower and with halting step. She waited, then, and asked, for courtesy's sake and not from real interest, "Have you come far?"
"I have. From far to the south-west." Indeed, he sounded ill. And now he stumbled, and only his staff kept him from falling.
"My lord, you are injured. Let me help you." Such was the healer's task, to help even when she did not wish to! Myrna put her shoulder under the stranger's good arm, and they got in the gate without more trouble. She could feel the heat of his skin through the rough tunic—clearly, a bad fever. Probably the wound had gone bad, and travel and lack of food (for he was thin as a reed) had made it worse. She supposed she would have to deal with him!
First to the chieftain, sitting by his fire with his hound like a rug over his feet—"My lord, this traveler is injured. Have I your leave to treat his wounds?"—and then, acquiescence gained, to the turf-roofed building where she prepared her salves and other herbal brews. The clan healer had always a sleeping-place apart from the others, to keep an eye on her patients.
"What is your name?" she asked, gathering water, bandages and a light.
"It is Finn, my lady," he said, voice weak.
"Well then, Finn, you need not call me lady. I am only the healer of the clan. Myrna is my name."
Myrna had been removing the clumsy bandage as she spoke—evidently he had tried to dress the injury himself. The wound was a clean sword-slash, but it had not healed properly. She washed the wound, paying no heed to his obvious discomfort, and put on a compress of yarrow, and bandaged all neatly. Finn still seemed to be burning with fever. Well, many cups of yarrow and pennyroyal tea would settle that.
But indeed it took more than one brew of tea, and much cold water, before his fever broke. Myrna sat up with him through the night, mopping his brow and forcing him to drink still more tea. At times he was positively delirious. Before dawn he awoke again, and cried out "Nay! Don't send me away—" in such agony that she was at last moved to pity, despite her vague irritation with this strange visitor, and curiosity as to what had befallen him. His fever subsided soon after.
With the passage of a few days, and careful nursing and good feeding, Myrna pronounced Finn well enough to leave the infirmary. She would have insisted on his sleeping with the men in the chieftain's hall, but he suggested it himself, and indeed seemed eager to oblige her.
The truth was that Finn had fallen instantly and madly in love with Myrna, and now could think of nothing but her. His first sight of her, dancing in the moonlight, had seemed, in his fevered state, to be that of an elf or fay, not altogether of this world. On closer view she seemed no less beautiful. Others might not think her so, face too pale and hair too red, but there was something in her that called out to him, that seemed akin to the wildness of the moors near his home, and yet somehow also like primroses flowering under the beech-trees in spring, like a dove-call in the woods.
He could not recall the dark fields and fevered valleys where he had wandered in his fever; he only remembered rising through shadows, at last to Myrna's face white in he firelight, and her hand wiping his forehead, and her eyes looking into his.
It was quite clear that she only felt compassion for him, as she might for any wounded creature. Finn supposed he would soon have to leave the fort; he ought not to overstay his welcome. The road north was long, and waited for no man. And then, with a stab of pain, he realized he would in all likelihood never see Myrna again. A lonely road was before him, and no prospect of home-coming beyond.
The other folk of the clan had been curious enough about this stranger, for few enough ever came to the fortress, but Finn, who had been merry and ever ready to talk at his home, now presented such a forbidding aspect that they did not get much out of him.
It was at this time, as the summer waned and a few beech-leaves turned yellow and drifted down, and the swallows went south, that the people of Uffington began to hear to hear rumors of fear stirring. First there was a story told by a traveler from the western mountains, of a shepherd whose flock had been decimated by some unknown thing. The bodies of his sheep were found in the morning with the flesh picked from their bones.
Then a few days in which people talked late around their fires, and finally decided there was nothing to fear—and then there came another traveler, but this time from nearer the downs, who had heard a tale of a child wandering lost outside a settlement at night who was found next morning—but not alive. He had perished in the same manner as the sheep.
Finn had not paid much attention to these stories, and Myrna was inclined to discount them; but the clan became uneasy, and spoke of wolves, though it was still summer.
Myrna was kept busy with her herbs, treating the occasional wound from a scythe or such. She sometimes found Finn's sharp-boned face and fierce grey eyes intruding into her memory. Indeed, though, why she should be thinking of him she didn't know! He was a chance-met stranger from the south, who would undoubtedly soon depart; but her mind shied away from that thought.
It was night when the tidings came. All day the sun shone strongly, but the wind had been rising, and by dark there was positively a gale blowing from the west. The stars were bright, and the waning moon just rising from behind the swell of the down, showed the dark figure running up to the gate. It was the shepherd Cradoc, who in summer slept with his flock on the open down. Myrna was close enough to hear him gasping out his story to the guard at the gate.
"At the foot of the down—there's something terrible! The sheep were frightened, I couldn't see anything but there was a hissing sort of sound and something must have grabbed hold of one of the sheep, she was bleating so. I saw it then—it was huge—the size of a cow—two cows—but with a skin like a snake. It was tearing with it's teeth at the ewe—all the others were panicked, I couldn't do anything with them."
Cradoc had been speaking loudly; the commotion had roused some other of the clan members, and they came crowding from the chieftain's hall, firelight spilling out and casting their shadows across the courtyard. Some carried torches which streamed in the wind, displacing the moonlight. Myrna saw Finn's fair head among the others.
She was not much frightened—surely the shepherd's fright had magnified what he had seen. But Cradoc was not one to leave his flock.
Now he was answering the chieftain's questions. Myrna heard him say "...as big as a house..."—oh surely he was exaggerating now! First it was as big as a cow—but he must have seen something. Now she remembered the tales of the travelers from the west; and were there not rumors of great dragons in the hills of Cymru; might this not be one of the same?
Myrna turned to Finn, who must have come up to her from the press of men at the gate, and exclaimed in alarm, "Oh Finn! What shall we do?"—but if he replied it was lost in the chieftain's voice, now raised above the clamor of the crowd.
"Hear me, my people! Cradoc has told me of some unknown peril outside our gates. No one may leave the enclosure without my leave. Tomorrow my swordsmen will go forth and rid us of this creature. Go now about your business."
Myrna began to walk back towards her sleeping-house and noticed Finn still beside her. Still not knowing why she turned to him for reassurance, she asked, "Do you think there can be such a beast? Surely Cradoc was mistaken."
"I do not know. In my home land there are tales of monstrous creatures, some that breathe fire, but I have never spoken to anyone who has seen them. I do not think you need be afraid."
Strangely comforted, less by his words than by his tall presence at her side, Myrna paused at the door to her cottage. "Good night, Finn."
"Good night—Myrna," he said, then turned and walked away. As she ducked her head beneath the thatched door-lintel, Myrna realized that it had always been "My lady"—this was the first time he had said her name.
* * *
Next morning the unseasonable wind had died down. At first light a band of the clan's men, Finn among them, searched the downs and surrounding woodlands but found no sign of the beast, save for the unhappy remains of the sheep. Cradoc went with them, and gathered in his scattered flock. Not a few had hidden themselves in various places, and were not brought in until noon; but the armed men returned before then, having found nothing. The chieftain decreed that no-one was to leave the fort. The sheep and few milch-cows kept by the clan were brought into the enclosure that they did not usually occupy until winter, when prowling wolves and deep snows threatened their safety at night. Food both for them and for the people of the clan presented no problem, for the hay had already been cut and the barley was in.
Myrna however was distraught, for her stock of herbs needed replenishing. Indeed that very day she had planned to gather yarrow and mugwort for drying, and the round fury leaves of lady's mantle from the stream a mile or two from Uffington.
A day passed, and two more; the clansmen became less nervous as parties went out to search for the mysterious beast and returned empty-handed. Still no-one was allowed out; but the guard at the gates was relaxed in the daytime.
Myrna became increasingly restive. At last, early n the morning of the fourth day, she came to a decision. She was milking her small shaggy cow, behind the turf hut. Most of the milch-cows were kept in the wattle stock enclosure, but Myrna kept hers close at hand, for the beast had been injured by one of the other cows' horns. Myrna cleaned the wound and reflected that what was really needed was a poultice of comfrey leaves—which she did not have on hand. Really she had to do something, she needed other herbs, no sign had been seen of anything unusual outside since Cradoc's story. She went to fetch a basket.
* * *
A few minutes later, having made the cow comfortable, armed with basket, staff and cloak (for it was not much past dawn and still cold on the high downs), Myrna crept out through the gate. The guard had just gone away after his night-duty. Autumn was at hand; the beeches at the foot of the down were beginning to yellow, cobwebs dotted the grass, grey with dew. There was a heavy covering of mist near the stream, but the down was clear. The low sunlight lay pale on the hills.
Myrna was more nervous than she would have liked to admit as she neared the bottom of the down. She went under the shadow of the beech trees, gold leaves crackling under her feet. The faint smell of dry leaves hung sweet in the air.
There was a noise behind her. Myrna jumped, uncontrollably afraid, but her fear turned to irritation upon seeing that it was Finn.
"Finn! Where have you sprung from!" she said, almost angry with him, and angry with herself for having startled like a panicky sheep.
"I—saw you leave. Myrna, where are you going?"
"Herbs are needed. I am going to get them," she said curtly.
"May I come with you?" he asked. "The beast—" Myrna cut him off. "You need not come. I will be quite safe." And turning, she walked swiftly away from him, at the same time wondering how she could have been so rude—and perhaps foolish.
When, a few minutes later, she risked a glance backward, Finn was no longer in sight.
Myrna was relieved, but still regretful and trying to think what had gone wrong between them. After half an hour's brisk walk she was at the stream. By now the mist had nearly burned away. The sun, still low, glanced through the leaves and grey branches of the alder trees that lined the water. Comfrey, lady's mantle and dock grew rankly by the damp stream-side. As Myrna bent to gather the leaves from a thick clump of comfrey, she sniffed—was there an unpleasant smell in the air, vaguely dry and musty yet somehow sickening? But no, she must have been mistaken. She straightened and moved towards the water—and as she did so, at last her eye caught that of the creature that had been watching her, from behind a large alder to her right.
It was the most horrible thing Myrna had ever seen. Somewhat like one of the tiny lizards that scuttle over warm rocks in the sun, but monstrously overgrown. From behind the numbness of terror she thought, "Cradoc was wrong—it is much bigger than a cow." Great claws, and leathery sides—surely this creature was undefeatable! But it was the eyes that fascinated her; nothing else could keep her body from bolting, from running from the danger. As big as her hand, unblinking, cold and emotionless, they stared at her. A forked tongue whipped snakelike from the mouth. The creature moved towards her and the smell became stronger, dizzying.
Myrna felt her senses leaving her. If only she had listened to him! Oh Finn. It was too late now. She fell heavily, striking her head against a tree-branch; whispered his name before the blackness took her.
* * *
After the quarrel, Finn strode away from Myrna, hurt and anger contending in his heart. Oh, that he had never laid eyes on the girl! Obviously she cared nothing for him. That was very well—there were plenty of other things in the world besides that red-haired vixen!
And then he could not help thinking about how she had looked up at him the night the alarm had been raised, her hair turned the colour of flame in the torchlight, the fear evident in her voice; and he forgot to be angry. By this time he had come to a halt, and turned and looked back the way she had gone.
Finn never knew afterwards why he went after her—he did not recall the feeling he had at that moment, that he was needed at the foot of the hill. Running the way Myrna had gone, heart pounding, he came at last to the stream-bank, and stopped short at what he saw.
She was lying by the side of the stream, hair tumbled about her pale face, a basket on the ground where she had evidently let it fall. The creature of Cradoc's story crouched a few feet away from her. But Finn scarcely heeded that, his only thought was with Myrna; he knew only that he loved her, and she was dead—killed—
Filled with a sudden fury he drew his sword and ran at the monster. Disturbed while at its prey, the creature's jaws snapped, ripping Finn's sleeve and missing his wrist by a fraction. His sword-arm was still maddeningly stiff from the old wound; but with every ounce of strength he drove his heavy sword deep into the foul gaping mouth. The beast gave a harsh tearing scream. Finn was unprepared for the violent death-spasms of the creature, indeed he did not at first believe he had killed it. He was hit by the thrashing of the massive tail and knocked to the ground. Fouled by the creature's blood, sweating, breath aching in his throat, he rose to his knees and bent over Myrna.
Her face seemed even more beautiful in death, though it was very pale and there were tear-stains under her eyes.
Finn had been hopeful even when he had been forced to leave his clan; he had thought that he would make a new life for himself. And what, he thought bitterly, had happened? He had met an elf-fair wisp of a girl who had all but spurned him—and he had been too late even to tell her he loved her. If he had come a moment sooner she would still be alive, if he had kept her from coming, not gone away in a selfish rage...he had only himself to blame.
There was nothing now to keep him from taking her in his arms and touching her still lips, yet he felt that it would be as much a violation of her spirit as if she were alive. He took her hand in his and kissed it.
No, no her hand is not still warm, she is not moving, not opening her eyes....this is a dream. She moans, touches the wound on her head. It is a dream. Let me never wake.
I have not wept since I was a child. The tears fall from my eyes, onto her hair. She is in my arms, saying my name, weeping also. There is blood from the wound on her head, and tears from the dream I am dreaming. Our lips meet, in this dream. I shall never wake.
I am not dreaming.
It's a typical mushy romance [at least, as mushy as I ever get, haha]--a bit predictable, but oh well. 'Twas fun to write. Here 'tis. And the poem at the top, well, that was just a scrap unfinished verse I had lying about that seemed to fit with it tolerably. Copy and Paste ingnored the italics, and I'm not going ot go over it again.
I really would rather not have this blog cluttered up with a lot of writing, so this is probably the only sotry for a bit [to be honest, it's the only thing I have finished.]. If reading 6-page stories is not your thing, feel free to skip to the next post down :)
Sun.
And wind and grass and white-chalk horse.
The earthen ramparts of an ancient fort
Rise tall; on their steep sides the harebells thoughtless bloom,
Remembering not the conquerors
Who crushed their sky-blue bells beneath avenging feet.
The full moon shone over Uffington, shining white where the chalk road wound up towards the hill-fort, picking out glints on rustling beech-leaves, putting stark shadows behind the rises of the downs. A breeze, warm and laden with the dusty golden scent of cut hay-fields, stirred the long grass on the hill.
Not enough light to see the flowers by, the harebell and scabious, but enough to show the girl's dark shape against the grass in a fold of the hill. Frolicking as a lamb might caper in new pasture in the spring-time, recking not who might be watching and indeed not caring. Small she was, a little under average height and slender. A cloud of dark red hair floated around her shoulders, crowned by a wreath of harebells. Barefoot, she danced on, taken by the mad joy of a summertime moon.
At last Myrna threw herself down on the grass, and lay back looking at the stars, breathless, with hair wild and harebell-crown askew. As abruptly she sat up again; a noise had come from behind her. Oh, it would be too bad to have been watched by someone! The clan's herbalist and healer had her dignity to consider, after all!
She turned and looked straight into the eyes of the person who had been watching her. Tall (he seemed still taller by the fact that he was standing above her on the slope), clad in a worn tunic and leather jerkin with a staff in his hand. Myrna quickly took in the sun-browned skin and blond hair, lighter than was common in the downlands. He was not as old as she had at first thought, indeed not much more than her own age; and injured, to judge from the stained rags wrapped about his sword-arm. There was a peculiar expression on his face. Doubtless he thought her ridiculous for doing such a childish thing as dancing about with flowers in her hair. Well, let him! She did not care.
"Greetings to you," she said warily, and then, as he did not reply, "Do you seek shelter with our people?"
"Aye. I would be grateful." His voice sounded strange, an unfamiliar accent (and perhaps feverish. Mayhap the wound was worse than it seemed.)
Myrna turned and walked swiftly up the hill—the young man followed, somewhat slower and with halting step. She waited, then, and asked, for courtesy's sake and not from real interest, "Have you come far?"
"I have. From far to the south-west." Indeed, he sounded ill. And now he stumbled, and only his staff kept him from falling.
"My lord, you are injured. Let me help you." Such was the healer's task, to help even when she did not wish to! Myrna put her shoulder under the stranger's good arm, and they got in the gate without more trouble. She could feel the heat of his skin through the rough tunic—clearly, a bad fever. Probably the wound had gone bad, and travel and lack of food (for he was thin as a reed) had made it worse. She supposed she would have to deal with him!
First to the chieftain, sitting by his fire with his hound like a rug over his feet—"My lord, this traveler is injured. Have I your leave to treat his wounds?"—and then, acquiescence gained, to the turf-roofed building where she prepared her salves and other herbal brews. The clan healer had always a sleeping-place apart from the others, to keep an eye on her patients.
"What is your name?" she asked, gathering water, bandages and a light.
"It is Finn, my lady," he said, voice weak.
"Well then, Finn, you need not call me lady. I am only the healer of the clan. Myrna is my name."
Myrna had been removing the clumsy bandage as she spoke—evidently he had tried to dress the injury himself. The wound was a clean sword-slash, but it had not healed properly. She washed the wound, paying no heed to his obvious discomfort, and put on a compress of yarrow, and bandaged all neatly. Finn still seemed to be burning with fever. Well, many cups of yarrow and pennyroyal tea would settle that.
But indeed it took more than one brew of tea, and much cold water, before his fever broke. Myrna sat up with him through the night, mopping his brow and forcing him to drink still more tea. At times he was positively delirious. Before dawn he awoke again, and cried out "Nay! Don't send me away—" in such agony that she was at last moved to pity, despite her vague irritation with this strange visitor, and curiosity as to what had befallen him. His fever subsided soon after.
With the passage of a few days, and careful nursing and good feeding, Myrna pronounced Finn well enough to leave the infirmary. She would have insisted on his sleeping with the men in the chieftain's hall, but he suggested it himself, and indeed seemed eager to oblige her.
The truth was that Finn had fallen instantly and madly in love with Myrna, and now could think of nothing but her. His first sight of her, dancing in the moonlight, had seemed, in his fevered state, to be that of an elf or fay, not altogether of this world. On closer view she seemed no less beautiful. Others might not think her so, face too pale and hair too red, but there was something in her that called out to him, that seemed akin to the wildness of the moors near his home, and yet somehow also like primroses flowering under the beech-trees in spring, like a dove-call in the woods.
He could not recall the dark fields and fevered valleys where he had wandered in his fever; he only remembered rising through shadows, at last to Myrna's face white in he firelight, and her hand wiping his forehead, and her eyes looking into his.
It was quite clear that she only felt compassion for him, as she might for any wounded creature. Finn supposed he would soon have to leave the fort; he ought not to overstay his welcome. The road north was long, and waited for no man. And then, with a stab of pain, he realized he would in all likelihood never see Myrna again. A lonely road was before him, and no prospect of home-coming beyond.
The other folk of the clan had been curious enough about this stranger, for few enough ever came to the fortress, but Finn, who had been merry and ever ready to talk at his home, now presented such a forbidding aspect that they did not get much out of him.
It was at this time, as the summer waned and a few beech-leaves turned yellow and drifted down, and the swallows went south, that the people of Uffington began to hear to hear rumors of fear stirring. First there was a story told by a traveler from the western mountains, of a shepherd whose flock had been decimated by some unknown thing. The bodies of his sheep were found in the morning with the flesh picked from their bones.
Then a few days in which people talked late around their fires, and finally decided there was nothing to fear—and then there came another traveler, but this time from nearer the downs, who had heard a tale of a child wandering lost outside a settlement at night who was found next morning—but not alive. He had perished in the same manner as the sheep.
Finn had not paid much attention to these stories, and Myrna was inclined to discount them; but the clan became uneasy, and spoke of wolves, though it was still summer.
Myrna was kept busy with her herbs, treating the occasional wound from a scythe or such. She sometimes found Finn's sharp-boned face and fierce grey eyes intruding into her memory. Indeed, though, why she should be thinking of him she didn't know! He was a chance-met stranger from the south, who would undoubtedly soon depart; but her mind shied away from that thought.
It was night when the tidings came. All day the sun shone strongly, but the wind had been rising, and by dark there was positively a gale blowing from the west. The stars were bright, and the waning moon just rising from behind the swell of the down, showed the dark figure running up to the gate. It was the shepherd Cradoc, who in summer slept with his flock on the open down. Myrna was close enough to hear him gasping out his story to the guard at the gate.
"At the foot of the down—there's something terrible! The sheep were frightened, I couldn't see anything but there was a hissing sort of sound and something must have grabbed hold of one of the sheep, she was bleating so. I saw it then—it was huge—the size of a cow—two cows—but with a skin like a snake. It was tearing with it's teeth at the ewe—all the others were panicked, I couldn't do anything with them."
Cradoc had been speaking loudly; the commotion had roused some other of the clan members, and they came crowding from the chieftain's hall, firelight spilling out and casting their shadows across the courtyard. Some carried torches which streamed in the wind, displacing the moonlight. Myrna saw Finn's fair head among the others.
She was not much frightened—surely the shepherd's fright had magnified what he had seen. But Cradoc was not one to leave his flock.
Now he was answering the chieftain's questions. Myrna heard him say "...as big as a house..."—oh surely he was exaggerating now! First it was as big as a cow—but he must have seen something. Now she remembered the tales of the travelers from the west; and were there not rumors of great dragons in the hills of Cymru; might this not be one of the same?
Myrna turned to Finn, who must have come up to her from the press of men at the gate, and exclaimed in alarm, "Oh Finn! What shall we do?"—but if he replied it was lost in the chieftain's voice, now raised above the clamor of the crowd.
"Hear me, my people! Cradoc has told me of some unknown peril outside our gates. No one may leave the enclosure without my leave. Tomorrow my swordsmen will go forth and rid us of this creature. Go now about your business."
Myrna began to walk back towards her sleeping-house and noticed Finn still beside her. Still not knowing why she turned to him for reassurance, she asked, "Do you think there can be such a beast? Surely Cradoc was mistaken."
"I do not know. In my home land there are tales of monstrous creatures, some that breathe fire, but I have never spoken to anyone who has seen them. I do not think you need be afraid."
Strangely comforted, less by his words than by his tall presence at her side, Myrna paused at the door to her cottage. "Good night, Finn."
"Good night—Myrna," he said, then turned and walked away. As she ducked her head beneath the thatched door-lintel, Myrna realized that it had always been "My lady"—this was the first time he had said her name.
* * *
Next morning the unseasonable wind had died down. At first light a band of the clan's men, Finn among them, searched the downs and surrounding woodlands but found no sign of the beast, save for the unhappy remains of the sheep. Cradoc went with them, and gathered in his scattered flock. Not a few had hidden themselves in various places, and were not brought in until noon; but the armed men returned before then, having found nothing. The chieftain decreed that no-one was to leave the fort. The sheep and few milch-cows kept by the clan were brought into the enclosure that they did not usually occupy until winter, when prowling wolves and deep snows threatened their safety at night. Food both for them and for the people of the clan presented no problem, for the hay had already been cut and the barley was in.
Myrna however was distraught, for her stock of herbs needed replenishing. Indeed that very day she had planned to gather yarrow and mugwort for drying, and the round fury leaves of lady's mantle from the stream a mile or two from Uffington.
A day passed, and two more; the clansmen became less nervous as parties went out to search for the mysterious beast and returned empty-handed. Still no-one was allowed out; but the guard at the gates was relaxed in the daytime.
Myrna became increasingly restive. At last, early n the morning of the fourth day, she came to a decision. She was milking her small shaggy cow, behind the turf hut. Most of the milch-cows were kept in the wattle stock enclosure, but Myrna kept hers close at hand, for the beast had been injured by one of the other cows' horns. Myrna cleaned the wound and reflected that what was really needed was a poultice of comfrey leaves—which she did not have on hand. Really she had to do something, she needed other herbs, no sign had been seen of anything unusual outside since Cradoc's story. She went to fetch a basket.
* * *
A few minutes later, having made the cow comfortable, armed with basket, staff and cloak (for it was not much past dawn and still cold on the high downs), Myrna crept out through the gate. The guard had just gone away after his night-duty. Autumn was at hand; the beeches at the foot of the down were beginning to yellow, cobwebs dotted the grass, grey with dew. There was a heavy covering of mist near the stream, but the down was clear. The low sunlight lay pale on the hills.
Myrna was more nervous than she would have liked to admit as she neared the bottom of the down. She went under the shadow of the beech trees, gold leaves crackling under her feet. The faint smell of dry leaves hung sweet in the air.
There was a noise behind her. Myrna jumped, uncontrollably afraid, but her fear turned to irritation upon seeing that it was Finn.
"Finn! Where have you sprung from!" she said, almost angry with him, and angry with herself for having startled like a panicky sheep.
"I—saw you leave. Myrna, where are you going?"
"Herbs are needed. I am going to get them," she said curtly.
"May I come with you?" he asked. "The beast—" Myrna cut him off. "You need not come. I will be quite safe." And turning, she walked swiftly away from him, at the same time wondering how she could have been so rude—and perhaps foolish.
When, a few minutes later, she risked a glance backward, Finn was no longer in sight.
Myrna was relieved, but still regretful and trying to think what had gone wrong between them. After half an hour's brisk walk she was at the stream. By now the mist had nearly burned away. The sun, still low, glanced through the leaves and grey branches of the alder trees that lined the water. Comfrey, lady's mantle and dock grew rankly by the damp stream-side. As Myrna bent to gather the leaves from a thick clump of comfrey, she sniffed—was there an unpleasant smell in the air, vaguely dry and musty yet somehow sickening? But no, she must have been mistaken. She straightened and moved towards the water—and as she did so, at last her eye caught that of the creature that had been watching her, from behind a large alder to her right.
It was the most horrible thing Myrna had ever seen. Somewhat like one of the tiny lizards that scuttle over warm rocks in the sun, but monstrously overgrown. From behind the numbness of terror she thought, "Cradoc was wrong—it is much bigger than a cow." Great claws, and leathery sides—surely this creature was undefeatable! But it was the eyes that fascinated her; nothing else could keep her body from bolting, from running from the danger. As big as her hand, unblinking, cold and emotionless, they stared at her. A forked tongue whipped snakelike from the mouth. The creature moved towards her and the smell became stronger, dizzying.
Myrna felt her senses leaving her. If only she had listened to him! Oh Finn. It was too late now. She fell heavily, striking her head against a tree-branch; whispered his name before the blackness took her.
* * *
After the quarrel, Finn strode away from Myrna, hurt and anger contending in his heart. Oh, that he had never laid eyes on the girl! Obviously she cared nothing for him. That was very well—there were plenty of other things in the world besides that red-haired vixen!
And then he could not help thinking about how she had looked up at him the night the alarm had been raised, her hair turned the colour of flame in the torchlight, the fear evident in her voice; and he forgot to be angry. By this time he had come to a halt, and turned and looked back the way she had gone.
Finn never knew afterwards why he went after her—he did not recall the feeling he had at that moment, that he was needed at the foot of the hill. Running the way Myrna had gone, heart pounding, he came at last to the stream-bank, and stopped short at what he saw.
She was lying by the side of the stream, hair tumbled about her pale face, a basket on the ground where she had evidently let it fall. The creature of Cradoc's story crouched a few feet away from her. But Finn scarcely heeded that, his only thought was with Myrna; he knew only that he loved her, and she was dead—killed—
Filled with a sudden fury he drew his sword and ran at the monster. Disturbed while at its prey, the creature's jaws snapped, ripping Finn's sleeve and missing his wrist by a fraction. His sword-arm was still maddeningly stiff from the old wound; but with every ounce of strength he drove his heavy sword deep into the foul gaping mouth. The beast gave a harsh tearing scream. Finn was unprepared for the violent death-spasms of the creature, indeed he did not at first believe he had killed it. He was hit by the thrashing of the massive tail and knocked to the ground. Fouled by the creature's blood, sweating, breath aching in his throat, he rose to his knees and bent over Myrna.
Her face seemed even more beautiful in death, though it was very pale and there were tear-stains under her eyes.
Finn had been hopeful even when he had been forced to leave his clan; he had thought that he would make a new life for himself. And what, he thought bitterly, had happened? He had met an elf-fair wisp of a girl who had all but spurned him—and he had been too late even to tell her he loved her. If he had come a moment sooner she would still be alive, if he had kept her from coming, not gone away in a selfish rage...he had only himself to blame.
There was nothing now to keep him from taking her in his arms and touching her still lips, yet he felt that it would be as much a violation of her spirit as if she were alive. He took her hand in his and kissed it.
No, no her hand is not still warm, she is not moving, not opening her eyes....this is a dream. She moans, touches the wound on her head. It is a dream. Let me never wake.
I have not wept since I was a child. The tears fall from my eyes, onto her hair. She is in my arms, saying my name, weeping also. There is blood from the wound on her head, and tears from the dream I am dreaming. Our lips meet, in this dream. I shall never wake.
I am not dreaming.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
writing again!
Yay! I've started writing again...after an unfulfilling, dry expanse of a month or two.
A story set in a town we went through on our trip. I've gotten several pages done [in my tiny handwriting, so that's rather a lot], which I must admit is just about the farthest I've ever gotten on a story. And I like the premise, but it's hard to keep the characters from too much resembling the people they are based on in real life...you see I know people that are placed so interestingly, they're just begging to have a book written about them! And I keep getting ideas for other novels, but I'm going to stick with this one....D.V.
On a different note, I may not be spending as much time posting here--my parents are not keen on my long computer hours--and there is a lot of farm and other stuff to be done--and writing!
I will try to post every day or so, though.
*heart*
Bethany
A story set in a town we went through on our trip. I've gotten several pages done [in my tiny handwriting, so that's rather a lot], which I must admit is just about the farthest I've ever gotten on a story. And I like the premise, but it's hard to keep the characters from too much resembling the people they are based on in real life...you see I know people that are placed so interestingly, they're just begging to have a book written about them! And I keep getting ideas for other novels, but I'm going to stick with this one....D.V.
On a different note, I may not be spending as much time posting here--my parents are not keen on my long computer hours--and there is a lot of farm and other stuff to be done--and writing!
I will try to post every day or so, though.
*heart*
Bethany
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