The Widow

 Sometimes I can look at a drawing, a painting, or a photo of a person and wonder what their story is. My mind wanders and meanders down roads and trails, wondering how it must be to be somebody else. 

What is she seeing, the widow standing on the balcony? Is she seeing her future? Is she crying and drying her tears thinking of her future life without her love, without her strong, handsome prince by her side… Or perhaps she isn’t crying, perhaps she isn’t really, truly morning her loss of husband at all.

Her gown looks expensive, elegant but simple at the same time. In a way it makes her appear more appealing. It makes me wonder what her life has been like up to now. Does she have kids? Does she have a job? Does the toll of everyday life bring her down? Is she so weary when the night comes that she is unable to fall asleep? Lying awake wondering how on earth she’ll manage to get through the next day. Too worn out to think further ahead than the next day. Has she ever wondered how fast she can run to the daycare centre when her car broke down on her way home from work, and she just missed the bus?

Or is her life totally different? The kind of life I quite frankly know nothing about. What would that have been like? Perhaps she has been spending her days planning a huge household. Overseeing servants and gardeners and whatnot. Perhaps she’s been busy driving her children to private schools and picking them up to take them to ballet classes or golf. Who knows?

Perhaps she has a secret lover somewhere just waiting to court her or her husband’s younger brother. What is she seeing, the widow standing on the balcony?

A New Beginning

She had to go through with it. Somehow, some way she had to find the courage to do what was needed. What she was destined to do; what she was born to do.

“Ma’am? Madam…it is time.”

But how? How was she supposed to say goodbye to all of this? How was she supposed to say goodbye to Richard, Natalie, little Baby Em…oh, how her heart ached just thinking of sweet Baby Em. Those innocent violet eyes, so loving, so trusting…and that was why she was here, wasn't it? Why she had to go through with it. If she wanted to save Baby Em and all those she loved, if she wanted to save the lives of everybody, all those who had been and all those who will be. If she wanted this world to continue existing, she would have to do what she was destined to do all her life. And now it was time.

“Yes, Ronald dearest. It is time”

Jocelyn lifted her long, white, thin gown and walked towards the doors, stopping at the threshold she took a last glance at her room and out through the large domed windows at a dying world. A barren, brown world of sand and rock and dust. A world where volcanoes poisoned the air and coloured the sky dark, red and murky brown. There had been another downpour of ash-rain last week. The entire city had worked nonstop to clean it up for today's ceremony.

“Which balcony will I greet the people from, The Royal balcony or the temple one?”

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her mentor as she glided past him. Her features serene, a fixed half smile upon her lips. Large solemn green eyes scanning the hallway up and down, always alert and prepared for the unexpected. For those who didn’t know her as well as he, she seemed as usual; forever calm and serene, like a proper queen ought to appear.

“The one at the temple, my Lady,” Roland replied and held out his left arm to let her take the lead, then followed five paces behind, taking up the gown's train, surreptitiously scanning the surroundings for potential danger.

She was Roland’s beloved queen Jocelyn, had been his charge and student for almost three centuries. His heart bled for her, she knew. Even though others could not see it, it was there in his eyes. The pain, and the guilt. She knew he was able to see the telltales of her crying, because no amount of makeup could hide it from him. 

Through centuries of unrest, warfare and biological disasters, he had tried. He had always known; she believed he had known from the day he laid eyes on her, that she was different and in some ways special. That destiny - no, destinies - flowed around and about her. History waiting to happen, or never to happen at all. He had prepared her for this, although for 3 whole centuries now, he had worked very hard for this never to happen, for this day never to take place. He had failed. As he had told her he would. He never quite accepted it. He still couldn’t, but with this last development, there could be no other way. 

He did at last officially accept that he had failed. Deep down she knew he still firmly believed there was another way, but they had failed to find it. And for this reason, he had asked her to kill him, had begged her actually. He; the Master of History and his Queen’s Master of Protocols; the always correct and seemingly cold-hearted man of proper protocol, tradition and reason, he had begged on his knees, sniveling like a little boy who’d been caught stealing from the kitchens. Begged to be killed, to be allowed to die and never having to experience what was about to happen.

Jocelyn stood before the balcony entrance; she inhaled deeply, blew out air and stepped through. An avalanche of sound cascaded against her senses, people cheering and then as the deafening cacophony of cheers ebbed out, singing began. Softly at first until the song was all there was, all she heard, all anybody could hear. She was glad she didn’t have to speak; she doubted she was able of getting anything coherent past the lump in her throat. She let her gaze take it all in; her castle, her city - the last of her once so large peaceful, prosperous world. Her people. Her daughter.

She turned her gaze slightly and there on the balcony next to the one she was standing in, was her Baby Em. The future Queen and protector of the world.

Emilie, whose violet eyes reminded Jocelyn of Em’s father, Luke - the love of her life. He had given his life so that Jocelyn could live and Em be born. She felt a shiver coming and swallowed hard to stop the tears threatening to start flowing.  She took another deep breath and quickly turned her gaze the other way, catching sight of Roland from the corner of her eye. Roland, her protector, mentor and the closest thing to a father she had ever known. She raised her hand in salute and turned towards her Master of Protocol. No words were necessary; they had already said all that was needed to be said. She knew this was just as hard for him as it was for her, if not worse. After all, he was the one who had to continue on after she was gone. He had told her he had failed, begged her to let him die, but she could not allow that. She needed him to continue living, to continue being for Baby Em, what he had been for her. Prepare her for what was to one day come. Continue searching for another way, another solution.

The crowd had turned silent now. Everybody waiting, some in terror and fear, some with hope, but nobody uttered a single word.

Jocelyn held her arms out slightly and two maids caught her gown as she let it slide off her shoulders, she rested her hand lightly on Roland’s shoulder as she slipped out of her golden slippers, then she walked up the steps to the dais built so that it looked as if it was hanging in the air above the people. On the dais was the huge bronze gate. She walked naked to the left side of the huge circular bronze sculpture to where two bronze arms nestled a crystal ball in their bronze hands. As she pressed her right hand over the ball, the sphere between the frames of the gate cracked as if thousands of lightning bolts were trapped within. She turned and faced them all one last time, and then with a bow she turned and walked through.

Roland watched and thought his heart would literally break apart. Then everything turned white. He could see nothing but white, there was nothing but white noise in his ears. Colors whirled past and with a loud “pop” he was back on the balcony. The dais with the gate was gone, his queen was gone. He turned around and with tears streaming down his face he looked out upon a world in full bloom, a new world in late spring. 

As he stood watching, the cheers from the people rose up again. Their Queen had done it; she had saved them all and given birth to a new world full of life and hope. No trace of volcanoes were left. The sky was blue and clear. He breathed in and sighed.  He looked down and there was Baby Em wobbling towards him, giggling in her usual way. Bending down catching her before she fell, he lifted her up in his arms

“There you are, My Queen,” he said solemnly pointing his finger towards the blooming new world “A new beginning, given to us all by your mother’s sacrifice. Let us do our best to prevent you from ever having to do the same, shall we?”

The otherwise giggling toddler watched him with big serious eyes, then nodded once and gave the kind old man a hug.

Story writing - A challenge

I am starting a new project. Or that is, I am restarting an old project. Writing down some of the many stories residing in my head.  As those of you who have known me for a while know, I love stories. I love reading them and I love making them. I just don't love writing them down. My written words seem to steal away all colour and magic from my stories.

I read an interesting blog the other day by the author of The Termite Queen; Lorinda J. Taylor http://termitewriter.blogspot.no/2013/04/some-thoughts-aimed-at-writer-with.html  Where she expresses her curiosity for those who are afraid, or lack the confidence to publish their stories. She never worried about this, she says. She writes stories for the love of doing it. Not caring much about the rest.

I saw this post on Neil Gaiman's site http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/47903123398/bigdamncalligraphy-so-i-did-this-pair-of-quotes Where he says to make art and not to worry about whether it is good or bad.

Maybe the reason I don't love actually writing down my stories, is because of fear. Fear of the stories being bad. Fear that my grammar and sentence structure is not up to par.

Maybe another reason for my writing being bad and stealing away all the magic and the colour is because I lack practice.

That just won't do.

I'm going to start posting some of my stories on this blog. I'm going to start writing down some of the stories that are still only existing in my head and posting them here. I'm going to stop caring about all the rest. That is probably a big lie, but I'm going to do it anyway.

You can read them, or not. I'll label them so you can choose to avoid them. You can comment on them and help me improve my writing, or not.  you can leave a link to your own stories if you like in the comment section. It's up to you. Just as it is up to me to write and post them. The beauty of blogs. I get to decide what gets posted and you get to decide what gets read.

Mysteries

Mysteries had a large part during my childhood years. I’m sure some of it is due to me having been read to from an early age, thus sparking an already vivid imagination, but the mystery of folklore and fairy tales was very much a part of my everyday as a child. For me magic was real and my logic for why it was real was simple. Magic is created by b...elief – as long as I believed, magic existed. The same applied to Santa, by the way.  We had an ironing board closet in the kitchen and inside it were also the chimney with a little hatch that could be pulled open far up under the ceiling. My father would gather us young kids and tell us he heard something and that if we truly watched closely, we might just barely catch a glimpse of his red topped cap as he scurried downwards, or a bit of his boots as he climbed upwards. I would solemnly swear I saw him and toasted toast, I firmly believed I did.

 In Norway there are more than one type of Santa. There is the American Coca Cola Santa, of course, but we also have our Norwegian type of little santas from our ancient folklore that we call *nisse’ or, if you live on a farm; the farm-nisse and it was this type of nisse that would reside in our chimney around Christmas time. He was there to check up on us kids, to make sure we’d behaved well.
The barn nisse was not necessarily a kind guy. Oh, no. The little nisse was of the fae people and could be both mischievous and downright mean if he felt he was not treated with the proper respect. There were stories of how farm animals would get sick, how the cows started milking blood instead of milk and all sorts of bad luck happening to both man and mouse on the unfortunate farm that’d insulted the farm nisse. On the other hand, he would also ensure healthy animals and good crops if he was pleased. I would always greet the nisse I believed lived in my grandpa’s barn when I entered. Nothing fancy, just a “hi, it’s me”, or a nod, if I was not alone – it was important to keep all knowledge of the barn nisses secret and not discuss their ways out loud, etc. For a curious girl constantly exploring in old barns and in the forests around my town and those surrounding our mountain farm, I figured it was best to be on the safe side and ensure that I had the faes’ aid should I ever need it, or be in danger.  From I was around 6 years old, until I was around 10-11 I would remember to bring a bowl of rice porridge to the barn santa in my grandpa’s barn. It’s an old tradition to eat rice porridge on the 23rd of December. We’d make twice as much as we’d need, because the left over porridge was made into Rice pudding, which is the traditional dessert served on Christmas Eve up here.
Grandpa’s farm was just across the road from our house and it didn’t take me more than 5 minutes to do it. Sometimes a friend came with me the next day to check if the nisse had accepted my gift and eaten up the porridge and thus would continue to guard the barn and watch out for the people and the animals. It never failed, the bowl was always empty and we never ceased being amazed that he was for real – In our minds this was more than proof enough for his existence.
The nisse could make himself invisible, or as my grandpa used to explain, he was such an expert at hiding in plain sight that he was near invisible.  I kept believing in the mystery of the nisse long after I stopped believing in Santa. I think having parents and grandparents, uncles and aunts all telling us “true” stories about him and  how and where they had spotted him, kept the mystery surrounding him alive.  I had relatively old parents and my grandpa was so old for us kids, that he was sort of considered a grandpa for half the neighborhood.

My friends and I would sit with eyes as round and wide as plates while he told us all the old fairy tales and the local folklore stories from our region. Stories about “nøkken” were especially frightening. Nøkken is a fae creature that lives in ponds in the deep forests. Those quiet black lakes you can’t see the bottom in, with water lilies and a myriad of life crawling and buzzing and swimming in and around them. There is always a mysterious ripple or several on the quiet surface, if you just have the patience to sit quiet and watch it for more than a minute.  Naturally, as I grew older I knew that it was just the natural creations of nature making the sounds and the ripples, but as a child, boy, were there a lot of fascinating and frightening mysterious creatures about. Magic was very much alive and not only that, but it could threaten of death and danger too. Nøkken was said to drown children who ventured alone near ponds and lakes. He could drown grownups too, if they were careless.

The marshes were filled with mysterious creatures working for nøkken, and then there was the “huldra” too. The beautiful female wood nymph with a cow’s tail, that was known to lure men of all ages with her and keeping them all captured among the people of the underground. We called them underjordiske, which translates directly into under-earthlings. They were greatly feared by everybody in the old days and I recall more than one old aunt who refused to walk home alone on paths through the forests in the dark.

The mysterious creatures and superstitious beliefs were numerous. I can’t mention them all, but two creatures that particularly haunted my childhood were “fjellgeita” (mountain goat) and “harekjetta” (slang for hare). My father and grandpa loved scaring us kids with those. I have to admit that today, I can’t quite understand how they could scare me into hysteria with two animals as innocent as a goat and a rabbit, but they sure did. Up at the mountain farm, we didn’t have an indoor toilette, but used an outhouse in the barn instead. There were no streetlights up there. I’m not sure you can truly understand how utterly dark the night is away from city lights, etc, unless you have experienced a night in the forest or up on the mountains far away from civilization. The nights were pitch black, unless there was a full moon casting an eerie dim light in open spaces. A somewhat odd thing happens when you are outdoors in utter darkness. Every sound becomes that much louder.  The hooting of owls sounds otherworldly. The barking of foxes, the grunting of larger animals like deer and moose sounds quite frightening to a young child. And let me assure you, the sounds of a hare’s death-cries will freeze the blood to ice in your veins. I kid you not!

There were no lights in the barn and we’d have to use a torch light or a candle light with us if we had to visit the outhouse at nights. I would hear noises nearby that I was certain came from murderous creatures. I would see movements and shadows just outside the limit of the lights from my torch/candle. It was a mystery to me, that my heart didn’t beat itself right out of my body. Even when I forced my dad to stand on the steps waiting for me, I would have Goosebumps and be a shivering wreck barely able to breathe when I finally reached the safety of his side on the steps or closed the door to the realm of darkness outside. Not that he would make matters better by chanting “Ooooo, the “fjellgeita” and “harekjetta” are coming, hurry!” And for some irrational reason, it didn’t help either, that I was well aware of him and the others just pulling my leg with these two creatures, nor that they would laugh their heads off of me. I could not let go of the fear. To me, the darkness was a completely different realm from the daylight.

Even after I married, there would be nights where I pleaded with my hubby to stand watch at the steps while I visited the outhouse. We didn’t get an indoor toilette until my youngest were 5. It still remains a mystery to hubby how it is possible to be afraid of a goat and a rabbit when I am grown up and fully aware of what they are. Honestly, I don’t think it is those two creatures I was afraid of as an adult, it was more the eerie feeling of having utter darkness behind me, a darkness that could hide all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable monsters ready to devour me with hair and bone and skin.  Rational logic simply does not abide with one who’s afraid of the dark.

Still, I wouldn’t be without the many frightening mysteries of my childhood. Even the scary ones were exhilaratingly fun to discuss with my friends on lazy hot summer days while hiding in the fields to avoid all the chores we knew we’d have to help with if we were spotted. 

Even if I utterly failed in making a mystery story for this assignment, I firmly believe that I owe my creative imagination to my early childhood mysteries. All my crazy stories that have been created in my mind and all those who have yet to be created, have been born in some sense through the magic and mysteries of my childhood.

Musings of a seed potato

A story is better than complaints. I'm not doing so well, whether I'm paying the price for 2 weeks of constant typing, or the temps going back and forth between just above to just below freezing, or something else entirely, I don't know. It makes for boring whiny blogging, so instead I'll give you a story made for my WA group.


“Everything has a scent, boy. It’s own unique trail in the air. Not, perhaps, noticeable to everyone, but there all the same. Do you understand what I’m telling you, son?” The young seed potato was silent for a while, deep in thought and concentration. “Maybe, I don’t know… how can things like snow have a scent? Nobody can smell snow, can they? Can you smell snow, Master Pimpernel?” 

The elder seed potato looked disappointed for the shortest span of time, before his expression again turned blank, void of all emotions. “No.” He said, in a barely audible voice. “But even if I cannot smell it, it doesn’t mean it is scentless, boy.” He suddenly looked stern. “Not everything in this universe relates directly to you, Seddic. You are less than a speck on the pages of history, barely a thought on a god’s mind.”

Seddic felt oddly offended by the old man’s words. He didn’t quite know how that could be; as he didn’t understand half of what the elder conspesific vegetable spoke of. He shivered from cold and tried to huddle closer to the other seed cousins and family members above and below and around him on all sides. “But, I mean, how can it have a scent if I can’t smell it? Besides, how can you know it has a scent if you can’t smell it? Who told you it has one?”

The elder Pimpernel sighed. He ignored most of what the youngster asked him – as he always did, as was proper for an elder to do -  “The snow has a scent. Sometimes it is a scent that stings. Sometimes it stings all the way down to the lungs, depending on how cold it is. Sometimes it is but a ghost lingering on the waves of ether, a harbinger of things to come. Sometimes a human will stop what they’re doing, look up, draw in a deep breath and utter: “I can smell snow in the air, a blizzard is coming!” …and sometimes, when the snow is old, when spring has yet to whisper her comings; when the sun’s rays have barely begun to offer from her vast source of warmth, then the snow has a different kind of scent. One that cannot be adequately described. One that is slightly wet, slightly old; still, filled with wistfulness and the seeds of hope…” He fell silent for a long time, then shrugged “Or, so I’ve been told.”His face crunched up as if suddenly amused by some private bitter joke and spoke in a cracked voice “Who? Who told you?” You ask, The elder cackled, “Well, son, the gods told me. That’s who.”

He patted the confused specimen of the younger generation Pimpernels on the back of his shoulders. “I’ll tell you another thing, son. Something your immature mind will understand. That time I told you about, the time when the snow smells of hope. It is now, son.” He smiled as recognition dawned on the young face and lit it up. “Really? Spring is almost here? Seddic asked? “We’ll be cut in half and planted in rich black soil soon?” The elder returned the smile “Just so.”

And in his mind he hoped this would be the last winter he’d spend here in storage. He had worked hard for the position he now held and he’d been lucky, he was in the second layer of seed potatoes and the chances of being left behind on the floor of the storage bin again, was slim. He wondered briefly how many new potatoes he’d give new life and nourishment to. His thoughts trailed off. Seddic didn’t interrupt or disturb the elder further; instead he was left to ponder on much the same things, although that was unbeknownst to them both.

Crazies

That should be my family name. It would fit nicely and scare away good people...
what a weekend!
I was awoken Saturday morning by a phone, my niece was scared out of her mind.

Niece; "Auntie, come save us! Come get us now! He's a bonefide madman, he's nuts, he'll kill someone!" 
Me: "Huh? Hang on, I'm still half asleep, what's going on? Where are you?"
Niece: "We're at my friends house, H., T. and me, we were out on the town yesterday and were going to sleep here, but he's gone badass crazy on us, I'm scared, he's not safe...etc"
Me: "Call the police, if he's freaking out, you need to call the police, because I'm an hour's drive away....wait, why are you calling me instead of your parents(my older sister) who live 10 min away?"
Niece: "Ehh...well kid-sister doesn't want to bother any of the family and...ehhh...'
Me: Call the police!

My kid sister - the one I more or less forced to get an abortion earlier this fall - remember her? Well, even with the things that happened to her with her loverboy - he's 50 something btw - this summer AND regardless that she had to escape from her northern hometown to get away from him alive, yes that sister,  she decided in her less than apt logic, to give this guy yet another chance and have him come south for a visit. They were supposed to stay at our cabin, as she lives at my parents house for the time being until she manages to get a job. This man who had told her that he had quit his drug use and gone clean and had full control of himself and his mental issues (He is bipolar and has ADHD), was not only still using speed, he was on his 4th day without sleep when he came down.


All the while my niece was screaming over the phoneline, I could hear my kid sister and her bf shouting in the background while things were being thrown about and broken by the sound of it.

I hung up and called my older sister(my niece's mom) and told her what was going on and she went to pick up the girls taking some cash with her to hand to Mr Loverboy for the fare home up north. Then I sent a text to my sister: "I am not driving an hour to pick you guys up because Mr Loverboy is drunk, grumpy and being a foul mouth. If he is worse off than that,  you need the police, not a p'ed off big sister with a bat." (I hadn't heard a word from anyone yet about his druguse and his, by now, 6th day without sleep speed trip, but I had listened to her going on about all the things he had done to her this summer and I was ready to kill. My older sister hadn't heard any of his earlier doings and were more calm and thus better suited to pick them up without murder happening)

When my older sister reached the place the police was already there and had taken care of the spun freak. Two very subdued, ashamed and suddenly dead sober girls got taken home. ...I should perhaps have minded their feelings, but hells bells! They are 30 and 35 years old. Screw their dignity! They ought to know better, well, my niece is diagnosed borderline and is excused for freaking out. She's on strong meds and she also sent me a very sweet text message apologizing for freaking out on me, but my kid sister...ARGH! My sister...she later admitted that not only did he come down here spun, but he had smuggled along two bags full of speed, which she apparently fought him for, got hold of one and emptied the contents out on the cabin floor - yes, my cabin floor, covered in white powder, how groovy     NOT!

I managed to not yell and tell her "I told you so!" But she could probably read it in my eyes. She swears solemnly that she is now completely over the douche-bag and that him having verbally abused her friends and family member and acting threateningly towards them was an eye-opener because it was totally unacceptable behavior. I told her she ought to have the same standards regarding herself and stop bringing a shovel when  she was out searching for a man. There are plenty men out there, no need to dig the bastards up.

Hubby has his usual brilliant logic about it all. "Her ovaries overheated, because she was hungry for his co*k and it stopped her blood from reaching all the way to her brains."

 My dad told me yesterday when I was home making moose sausage with him, that her talents for finding men sucked major A$$. We were alone at the time. Oh, right, I should perhaps mention that my mom, after the doctors told her that her brain tumor hasn't changed and isn't pressing on anything and that she is actually quite healthy under the circumstances, declared herself well enough to attend the annual Christmas dance with her line-dance club and had me fix her up with makeup etc to look gorgeous(her words), then spent 30 min teasing my dad with questions of the kind: "Do you really dare letting me out alone looking as hot as this?!?"

She was a bit miffed that the two of us wanted her out of the house while we were sewing up the sausage and wanting to embarrass him a bit. She can't help boss us around even if she isn't taking part of the work and it drives everybody nuts. He asserted her that of the men in her line dance club, he ACED them all and that he had nothing to fear. I added that if he wasn't such a self-assured man-catch himself, he'd lock her up and sit on top of her guarding her all day long, which pleased her immensely and her 76 years old feet danced out of the house.  ...there is something very odd and quite a bit disturbing having your 76 and 80 years old parents flirting around like teenagers, I tell yah!

Oh, there was a nice surprise greeting me when I arrived at their house. In the way of a 340 $ gift certificate at a hardware store with regards from my older sister. Payment for my last piece of translation work for my sister's company. Turns out they agreed to my terms and will pay me in gift certificates until my disablement case has been settled, when I'll be getting a contract giving me the same or better payment as their central translation firm gets for translation jobs for the local GE Health facility. I might add that the central translation firm is situated in Oslo where the wages are way above the wages we have here in this small town region. Guess who's getting herself a new coffee machine maker for Christmas -happy grin-

There is much more family drama going on, but I'll put a lid on it for now. I'm sure you're traumatized enough for one day as it is already...

Story-time

A new beginning

She had to go through with it. Somehow, some way she had to find the courage to do what was needed. What she was destined to do; what she was born to do.

“Ma’am? Madam…it is time.”

But how? How was she supposed to say goodbye to all of this? How was she supposed to say goodbye to Richard, Natalie, little Baby Em…oh, how her heart ached just thinking of sweet Baby Em. Those innocent violet eyes, so loving, so trusting…and that was why she was here, why she had to go through with it. If she wanted to save Baby Em and all those she loved, if she wanted to save the lives of everybody, all those who have been and all those who will be. If she wanted this world to continue existing, she would have to do what she was destined to do all her life. And now it was time.

“Yes, Ronald dearest. It is time”

Jocelyn lifted her long white thin gown and walked towards the doors, stopping at the threshold she took a last glance at her room and out through the large domed windows at a dying world.

“Which balcony will I greet the people from, The Royal balcony or the temple one?”

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her mentor as she glided past him. Her features serene, a fixed half smile upon her lips, large solemn green eyes scanning the hallway up and down, always alert and prepared for the unexpected, but for those who didn’t know her as well as he, forever calm and serene, like a proper queen ought to appear.

“The one at the temple, my Lady,” Roland replied and held out his left arm to let her take the lead down the hallway, then followed five paces behind, taking up his queen’s suit scanning the surroundings for potential danger.

She was Roland’s beloved queen Jocelyn, had been his charge and student for almost three centuries, oh how his heart bled for her, she knew. Even though others could not see it, it was there in his eyes, the pain, and the guilt. She knew he was able to see the telltales of her crying, because no amount of makeup could hide it from him. For centuries of unrest, warfare and biological disasters, he had tried. He had always known; she believed he had known from the day he laid eyes on her, that she was different and in some ways special. That destiny, no, destinies, flowed around and about her. History waiting to happen, or never to happen at all. He had prepared her for this, although for 3 whole centuries now, he had worked for this never to happen, for this day never to take place. He had failed. As he had told her he would, but just could not accept. He still couldn’t, but with this last development, there could be no other way. He at least did accept that he had failed. Deep down she knew he still firmly believed there was another way, but they had failed to find it. And for this reason, he had asked her to kill him, had begged her actually. He, the Master of History and his Queen’s Master of Protocols, the always correct and seemingly cold hearted man of proper protocol, traditions and reason, had begged on his knees, sniveling like a little boy who’d been caught stealing from the kitchens. Begged to be killed, to be allowed to die and never having to experience what was about to happen.

Jocelyn stood before the balcony entrance; she inhaled deeply, blew out air and stepped through. An avalanche of sound cascaded against her senses, people cheering and then as the deafening cacophony of cheers ebbed out, singing began. Softly at first until the song was all there was, all she heard, all anybody could hear. She was glad she didn’t have to speak; she doubted she was able to get anything coherent past the lump in her throat. She let her gaze take it all in; her castle, her city - the last of her once so large peaceful, prosperous world, her people, her daughter. She turned her gaze slightly and there on the balcony next to the one she was standing in was her Baby Em, the future Queen and protector of the world. Emilie, whose violet eyes reminded Jocelyn of Em’s father, Luke - the love of her life. He had given his life so that Jocelyn could live and Em be born. She felt a shiver coming and swallowed hard to stop the tears threatening to start flowing. She took another deep breath and quickly turned her gaze the other way, catching sight of Roland from the corner of her eye. Roland, her protector, mentor and the closest thing to a father she had ever known. She raised her hand in salute and turned towards her Master of Protocol. No words were necessary; they had already said all that was needed to be said. She knew this was just as hard for him as it was for her, if not worse. After all, he was the one who had to continue on after she was gone. He had told her he had failed, begged her to let him die, but she could not allow that. She needed him to continue living, to continue being for Baby Em, what he had been to her. Prepare her for what was to one day come. Continue searching for another way, another solution.
The crowd had turned silent now. Everybody waiting, some in terror and fear, some with hope, but nobody uttered a single word.

Jocelyn held her arms out slightly and two maids caught her gown as she let it slide off her shoulders, she rested her hand lightly on Roland’s shoulder as she slipped out of her golden slippers, then she walked up the steps to the dais built so that it looked as if it was hanging in the air above the people. On the dais was the huge bronze gate. She walked naked to the left side of the huge circular bronze sculpture to where two bronze arms nestled a crystal ball in their bronze hands. As she pressed her right hand over the ball, the sphere between the frames of the gate cracked as if thousands of lightning bolts were trapped within. She turned and faced them all one last time, and then with a bow she turned and walked through.

Roland watched and thought his heart would literally break apart. Then everything turned white. He could see nothing but white, there was nothing but white noise in his ears, then colors whirled past and with a loud “pop” he was back on the balcony. The dais with the gate was gone, his queen was gone. He turned around and with tears streaming down his face he looked out upon a world in full bloom, a new world in late spring. As he stood watching, the cheers from the people around rose up again. Their Queen had done it; she had saved them all and given birth to a new world full of life and hope. He looked down and there was Baby Em wobbling towards him, giggling in her usual way. Bending down catching her before she fell, he lifted her up in his arms

“There you are, My Queen,” he said solemnly pointing his finger towards the blooming new world “A new beginning, given to us all by your mother’s sacrifice. Let us do our best to prevent you from ever having to do the same, shall we?”

The otherwise giggling toddler watched him with big serious eyes, then nodded once and gave the kind old man a hug.

The Story Line...

I'm in with one of my RP characters, is a tricky one. She's pure evil and I need to dig down into my darker sides to get my story down. Goddamn how difficult that can be. Don't get me wrong, it's a fascinating character. I love playing around with various topics and mentalities. Des is a halfbreed, I'm doing a memory SL going back in time to a period where the demon side of her was in control. I love the creative funness of writing, but I am no writer, I don't have a clue about the different writing styles and what not. I like to make up stories and I have a vivid imagination. period.

My present favorite is my demonic little Imp. I love her, she's so much fun to play with and she gotz a potato ultrazapper (Eli - and yes, I call her that - has a love for fancy names)Basically a very primitive miniature potato gun that shoots small potatoes at a rapid speed – harmless to most creatures, painful for the little ones and annoying for all).
Maybe I can give you a story with her if you'd like to, or I feel like it... hmm...I still need to dig out some pretty nasty bad stuff and you know, that can be a lot harder then you'd think it would be, but at the same time a terrifying and fascinating journey.

here's to creativity and the world of imagination XD -cheers-