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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 21, 2010 20:23:54 GMT 1
21st December 2010
Sintuklass, as the story goes, has elven slaves. Whenever mountain elves go too far north, they vanish. The hermit wizard, so the story goes, is responsible.
'So,' Andraste, the twelfth disciple, murmurs. 'He, uh. He brings gifts to little girls at Methrass time? He's starting to sound less evil than he used to...'
'Little HUMAN girls,' Sel'drath spits into the snow. She yanks her dagger from its sheath, boldly, accidentally cutting it open. 'Little human girls.'
'I don't... we can't justify killing this man,' Andraste says.
'I'm the chosen one,' Sel'drath growls. 'And I don't like humans. He dies tonight.'
22nd December 2010
Sintuklass lives in a brightly-painted house in the snow, with an orange glow behind the windows and smoke pouring from the big chimney. Outside, there are bigger buildings: red, gold, green, decorated in a way that makes Sel'drath smile and immediately feel guilty for it.
She shakes her head at the old snowman by her side.
The little girl who wanted the pony would have come from the nearby human town. They live in luxury, the stub-ears, like Sel'drath's old boarding school. Better. Like this place.
The elders said she could come home if she did this job.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 22, 2010 1:22:36 GMT 1
Nonfic day. I'm so not posting it here.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 23, 2010 0:21:44 GMT 1
23rd December 2010
Sintuklass is feet away and he doesn't even see his killer coming. He's reading, or re-reading, a long paper list of names by a fire and still wearing his bright green fur-trimmed snow suit.
Almost silently, a blade flies toward Sel'drath's neck. Almost. In seconds, the huntress has boken her attacker's leg and taken the blade for herself. Andraste tries to scream and groan at the same time, but Sel'drath shoves a swift elbow into her face, drawing blood.
'I don't really have a choice,' the victor breathes. 'I'm sorry. This isn't...'
Bizarrely, the traitor kisses Sel'drath's forehead.
EDIT: Son of a bitch! How many spelling mistakes must I make before I start proofreading these?!
It should say 'broken her attacker's leg', not 'boken'.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 23, 2010 4:59:53 GMT 1
22 December 2010
The other women mumble about how the men were taken while I watch the sky set itself to black, lit only by the stars and moon. I remember being a kid in an observatory with my friends one night and a boy in front of me set off one of those big old flash bulbs as the narrator discussed the brightness of a supernova. As everybody went blind for the next five minutes, the narrator said "Yeah, it's as bright as that." Years later, I look above and hope for something like that to distract me from the incessant thirst.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 24, 2010 2:35:06 GMT 1
24th December 2010
The morning turns. My pen is in my shirt pocket, waking next to the fabric, warmed by its hold.
I like this pen. It's by my bed most mornings, printed along the white skin with spiderweb tattoos, with some paper at its side.
When I wake I want to smile at it, wearily, share the aches of sleeping embraces, cut-short dreams and grown-up problems, bleary eyes and old wine kisses.
The cunt bleeds into my pocket and sleeve, dying a pen's death where my breast lay last night, when I wrote.
Ink trickles into my carpet and I hate it, that cheap fucking pen. Breaking after a month. I've got plenty waiting. That spiderweb design was ugly anyway.
Pro-tip: Don't try and write poetry, in a hurry, at 1AM on Christmas Eve, in one draft, whilst working out your life problems at the same time.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 24, 2010 5:09:58 GMT 1
I made an entry for today, but I completely BS'd the whole thing and I'm tired, ill and don't care!
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 25, 2010 1:06:46 GMT 1
25th December 2010 (Man this month has been hard - I am so not doing January.)
An angel watched over the spectacle of the messiah's birth, its expression unreadable.
This was not a handsome man with feathery wings and white clothes. Angels are indescribable. And I don't mean like you think that very lovely view you saw is indescribable, or the beauty of the girl you loved. I mean truly. It's not just that I can't describe it, either. I don't mean to use the word as an excuse for my poor vocabulary. Not this time, anyway. The angel was indescribable. Incredible.
The mother below held God incarnate in her arms and worried about a census.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 25, 2010 5:19:49 GMT 1
My Xmas Eve tradition involves little more than watching the miniseries version of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" since I have zero family nearby. It didn't help me come up with any story ideas, and since I had the following on my mind I figured I would just post it here anyway, even though it's yet another nonfic entry.
24 December 2010
You never know how what you do every day affects others. Oh sure, you may think you do, especially if your work days are full of routine (or at least as much as can be had in health care). I have cared for one Alzheimer's patient for two years and she is steadily declining. She has trouble chewing and swallowing, and will eventually stop when she forgets how. She is nonverbal and cannot recognize members of her own family. Today, however, for the first time in months, she spoke to me, saying "Thank you"-- all because I fixed a bandage.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 25, 2010 22:16:41 GMT 1
25 December 2010
I got a phone call this morning from Texas. She wondered if I would be willing to pack up my gelding and drive down there to give "pony rides" for the kids. I looked out at the window, saw the flurries floating by, and further ahead to where said gelding was happily stuffing his face with hay. "I, uh, don't think we'll be able to make it," I said simply. Sure, he'd tack up willingly enough, but sticking a cold metal bit in his mouth after spending three hours in a trailer didn't seem the thing to do on Xmas.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 26, 2010 2:29:42 GMT 1
26th December 2010
Sintuklass looks frightened, even though Sel'drath's blade is still out of sight.
'Oh...' he says in a deep voice somewhat muffled by thick, long pure-white whiskers. 'The young lady who... from the woods.'
'Yes. And you're the fabled wizard Ordin Sintuklass.'
'Hardly a wizard!' he laughs from his big belly. 'What can I do for you?'
'You enslave elves.'
He stops laughing. 'No, miss, I do not. I can't claim to be a friend of your people, much as I'd like to. No man truly can…' He sits her down.
'Some elves work for me. Here’s my story.'
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 26, 2010 6:47:22 GMT 1
I'm not doing January, either. I'll keep up my efforts on 750words.com, though.
26 December 2010
To take my mind off of the thirst, I begin tapping my left foot on the barricade and try a little game, where I try to remember everything that happened before Splashdown. The others don't want to, but one of us has to. Maybe, if we survive this, what I remember will help us survive out there. Assuming there even is an "out there" anymore. The last guy we sent out on the bridge towards the interior got shot before he made it halfway across. The last night we had a working radio, we heard DC government buildings burned down.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 27, 2010 1:13:27 GMT 1
The next two...
27th December 2010
Sintuklass clears his throat.
'I used to be a magician, of sorts, in town. I know a few... tricks. I met my wife in the summer and we gave up work to start a family. It never happened. I can't tell you how much I wanted to be a father, my... anyway.
'One Methrass, we stumbled upon a straw basket, abandoned in the chapel stable. There was a little girl. I... we gave her to an orphanage. She was an elf. Elves weren’t…'
The old man is still and silent.
'We're retired now. I give out toys, at Methrass.'
--
28th December 2010
Sintuklass is sitting in a workshop, telling his odd tale. Behind him is a freshly-made, pale wooden horse and buggy. Sel'drath has been staring at it the whole time, barely hearing the story.
'It's our tradition,' the old man says, 'for the holidays. And yes, my workers are elven. Humans don't live out here, of course.'
She gives her name and watches him brighten up behind a polite smile. 'Look. I used to be a carpenter's mate. Do you... need an extra hand?'
'Hm...' He motions toward the toy. 'Can you make something like this?'
'Yes. Exactly like that.'
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 27, 2010 23:57:01 GMT 1
27 December 2010
I look down at the callous on the inside of my index finger where pens and pencils used to rest. I haven't had to read or write in months; could I still do so once I make it out of here? What makes me think I could, anyway? Marie is the one who knows how to live out of a car. Everything I learned about surviving here, I learned from her. I used to think she would make it out of here before the rest of us, but she is struggling to breathe while she coughs bloody sputum again. Tuberculosis.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 28, 2010 23:44:26 GMT 1
28 December 2010
A foghorn sounds over the darkened water. We immediately crouch down, unsure of what is happening. I smell something strong and familiar over the rising tide before I recognize the odor: the fish-men. 'Why are they coming back?' I wonder. Marie stops coughing long enough to hear them too yet says nothing. We simply look in each other's direction before she quickly says, "Be ready to run." It would be great advice, if I had anywhere left to run to. Yet after the bridge out of the Wrecks is little more than a wasteland with more gangs and guns.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 29, 2010 5:04:40 GMT 1
The latest thrilling adventure from Buch:
29th December 2010
We decided to ring-in the new year with a Street Fighter 2 marathon. We were at that age when youth is to be clung to desperately, and you're still juuust in reach, and no-one's married yet. We watched the anime then moved on to the superior Van-Damme movie. Finally we played the game itself. I lost.
NINE!!
I thought about my ex (who dumped me at Halloween, hated videogames and was recently engaged) and hugged Charlie.
THREE!!
When the year ended the three of us were still, facing the TV. I remember it in black-and-white.
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