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Posts tagged “story

Things that should be published. Maybe.

Sooo… It’s still the third week of NaNoWriMo. My little colourful calendar there in the sidebar is starting to look increasingly like a game of Tetris and I’m still winning the word count. I haven’t been behind yet, except for the second day where I was technically a few hundred words behind when midnight came, but I continued writing beyond midnight and by the end of day 3 I was all caught up again. So, this is the week of the 30,000’s. And the great and scary thing at the moment? My week-threes haven’t turned up yet. You know how I said that other people suffer during week 2, they hit a block, etc., but that I suffer during week 3, because that is usually when I run out of steam? I did run out of steam a bit in week one. Well, actually I started low on steam, but now I’m pretty chilled chirpy. We’ll see what the rest of this week holds. I’m trying to study for English Lit and doing an assignment at the same time and it’s a bit stressful. I write English on Saturday (yes, Saturday, sometimes I hate my university) and I also have to hit 40,000 words that day. And the 3,000 word assignment is due next week. I just want to curl up on the couch and watch How to Train Your Dragon, but all of that will have to wait for December.

We’ll see. But that is not all that happened this week. I found a couple of things that are just yelling at me to hold on and keep writing and studying and creating. One of them was this tweet that appeared on my Twitter dashboard:

It came at the right time. I need to continue writing, even though the odds aren’t in my favour this week. Then… (more…)

Burning [Creative Writing]


I’m writing! I’m writing! Can you believe that?! When last have I written anything that was not non-fiction? Yes, indeed it was during NaNoWriMo, more than four months ago. That should be the new officially warning for Wrimos: You may be drained from all writing for four months after the challenge. *evil laugh* Just when you have completely recovered, it will be time for the next challenge! Hoho!

Anyway, I’ll stop rambling about the wonder of writing and get to the story. This started off as a story of hope and then did a 180 degree turn and went in the other direction. Then things got a bit political and I suspect it is laughing at things one should not laugh at. Please note: it is not speaking about any specific country. You can apply it wherever you like… or see it as completely fictional dystopia if that is the way you prefer it.

I’m rather unsure about this story. I’m not sure if it’s too fragmentary, too vague, too horrible. Opinions, please! That’s what the comment box is for!

I present to you… Burning.




It is a terrible thing when a country burns. All the people and creatures get scalded and that is not a nice thing to get, after all. Most of the plants die as well, except for those who learn to feed on the liquid raining from the sky. This liquid is no refreshment, for it is not old-fashioned water, but hot oil raining from the sky – and it does more than just make everything slippery. It feeds the fires burning in the earth and it banishes the water. Those two have an ancient feud, you know. In fact, both would have had massive chips on their shoulders if only they had chips. Or shoulders, for that matter.

Some of the people of the country fled before it all started. They were the most foresighted – or perhaps the most cowardly. Who knows? The foolishly heroic who remain behind roam the stricken countryside in packs. There are still a few areas where one can survive, where the wind-patterns turn away most of the oil-clouds. However, ferocious fights break out on the smallest patch of grass, over said patch of grass, of course. When it is done, not much grass is left. It is easy to start a fight in these days. Without society’s restraints, even a look can serve as catalyst. Luckily for the fights, there are not many looks: people prefer not to look at each other too much, no one being much of an oil painting what with all the oil, ash and smoke around.

What else is left in the country? In fact, what is there left for a burning country? There isn’t much feeling: neither mirth nor maudlin. Things just are, without any kind of descriptive adjective. People and creatures still draw breath and just about the most you can hope for is not getting burned today.

There is not much else to say about the burning country. Usually it is as silent as a mausoleum – which is more than a simile. Sometimes you can hear the laughter of hyenas echoing across the plains. But then, those things will mock anything before they tear it apart – alive.


PS. Random fun fact: This is my 50th blog post! Yay!

© 2012. Elana E. All rights reserved. Registered & Protected

Writing soundtrack

Welcome to the first post where I am not going to draw anything or share a short story with you, but rather write about how I write. Remember I said I wanted to start sharing more of this, something which I only got a taste of during NaNoWriMo?


This post was inspired by something that I read over on Bethie’s HASH. She is busy with a writing challenge on different questions (Check it out, it’s really interesting if you are a writer!). The one that matters now was the one about writing and music with the question:

Do you listen to music while you write? What kind? Are there any songs you like to relate/apply to your characters?


I was obviously all hugely excited by this post and eventually Bethie convinced me to make one too. So now I’m doing it. And probably blaming it on her as well.

(This is going to be long.)

Writing and music


Certainly I listen to music whilst I write. What would I be without the music I write to? That was a tad overdramatic perhaps, but it makes my point. I need music whilst I write – it is very seldom that I would write in silence.

I am also not the only one who feels this way, and neither am I the only one that begins to hear stories in music. One of my favourite authors, Diana Wynne Jones, said,

The Magicians of Caprona was odder than most, because I heard a piece of music and thought, ‘That ought to have words,’ and the story came into my head as I thought it.


I tend to pick what I listen to by need and theme, rather than any other reason. And I’ll admit it: I don’t like conventional, modern music. There will be the occasional pop song that I like and also the occasional rock number. But in general, I don’t like having to listen to those things. What I do like, is soundtracks. I’m crazy about the things actually. I believe that soundtrack-music plays such a large role in any theatre experience (it builds everything from emotion to tension) that it should get more recognition than it does. The only part of the Academy Awards that I am really interested in is the Oscar for Best Soundtrack. I remember being furious at the judges’ choice last year.

Thus, this means that the title of this post has a double meaning: not only does the music serve as a soundtrack to my writing, the music is also a soundtrack in its own right. And yes, before someone points this out to me in the comments, I do know that the correct term for the music to a film is “score”. I just don’t like that word. It’s not descriptive.


Though soundtracks do make up the majority of what I listen to at any time, not just when I’m writing, I do listen to other things as well. I like a bit of instrumental metal sometimes and also some folk (don’t judge). Also, I like to listen to trailer music, which is even more of a niche market than soundtracks. It is similar to soundtracks in that it is used in films (mostly only their trailers, hence the name) and commercials to create a mood, but different that they do not come in a series that, as a whole, tell an entire story. Trailer music is like a snippet out of a bigger story and I like it, because I can fill in the rest with my writing.

I listen a lot to the Lord of the Rings soundtracks (my favourite), How to Train Your Dragon, Harry Potter (especially the final soundtrack), the Tangled soundtrack and The Three Musketeers soundtrack.


Now… on to the specifics!


The first time that I actually started connecting certain tracks with writing and actually made a point of noticing that I did this, was during the first time that I did NaNoWriMo. That was when I set myself the challenge to do it at another time of year, because I could not make it in November: thus June/July 2010. The novel that I wrote during this time (and still have not finished) was dramatic, overly dramatic, satirical and verbose. I’ll tell you more about it someday, when it makes more sense to me.

Anyway, it was also during this time that I found an album by Two Steps From Hell, a production company that specializes in trailer music, Illumina. Then I went on and listened to it a lot.

Therefore there will always be a couple Illumina tracks that I will forever associate with writing:

Could’ve been…

I love you forever


The good news is… that that was not all that I listened to. There was one certain track that I used to write a death scene. What was it? Oh yes:

Remember When… This one is by Future World Music, another trailer music company. Future World Music actually became quite important to me during this time of my writing, because their track Dreamscapes and Wishes actually became the theme song to my novel.

But enough about this novel. There are quite a few more tracks that I associate with it, most notably Believe and Ashes of War, but let’s move on.


During one of my other novelling adventures, which I named Arcana for the lack of better ideas, I never realised how much I based the ending of my story off one of the songs that I listen to so much: Send Me a Song, by Celtic Woman. I believe it is sung by Lisa Kelly.

Without telling you the entire plot (which I still have not written the middle of), it was roughly a story about music and the awkward relationship between a girl and her boy friend (emphatically two words). There was lots of music and he broke the law. For which he was banished. So yes, if you listen to the lyrics of that song, you’ll hear another story very much like it. I only realised what I did much later! Smile with tongue out


My latest escapade into the world of music and writing was, of course, during NaNoWriMo 2011. This was certainly the story that was most influenced by music, of any of those that I had written. You see, I got my idea for the plot when listening to Now and Then by Blackmore’s Night. When I heard the lyrics, especially the bit that said “I’ll heal in time”, I knew I was going to write a cross between historical novel and science fiction, telling the story of a girl going time-travelling to make sense of the death of her husband. Snapshots of Time was born.

Whilst I was writing this novel, I listened to whatever was on hand and had a fast beat. I would do anything that could make me type faster, because I only had an hour each day to write, and I was trying to do 1,800 words every time. It was a challenge. I went through quite a lot of the Harry Potter soundtracks in that time. It kept me going. I have the complete collection, 1-8. I listened obsessively to Weasley Stomp, because it was the fastest track from it that I could find.


When things were a little calmer in NaNo land, I turned to Tuck Everlasting. I have never even watched this show, but the soundtrack reminds me of open fields and buttercups. Why buttercups I don’t know, because I’ve only ever seen a few in my life. I wouldn’t know why I have an association with the things!

When my novel turned sadder, I also had my go-to tracks. Schindler’s List of course remains one of the ultimate tracks, and then there were also things like Hymn to the Fallen, out of Saving Private Ryan.


I should really stop now with this post. It has gotten completely out of control! I won’t even get started on favourite composers!


I hope everyone who read this far enjoyed it in its pictureless-state. You’d better. You’ve no idea how long it took me to write this thing! Winking smile


The Village [creative writing]

Hey! I’m here! I’m still blogging!

Today’s fare is a snippet that I wrote on Sometimes when I just can’t decide what I could ramble on about for the length of 750 words (You should know by now that I’m good at rambling!), I look me up a picture somewhere on the internet, and then write a story based on that.

So one of them appears here today. The edited version of course! (I’m looking at you, Idiotphotographer! Winking smile) Keep in mind that it’s just a snippet of whatever I thought up when looking at the picture, that’s why is appears to be the middle part of something with no proper introduction or end. It also has a bit of a tense-identity crisis. But I thought it seems to work that way,


I’ll try my best to blog next week, firstly because it’s Hallowe’en, and I can’t not do something for it, can I? And secondly because I have some news to share! Stay tuned and see you then!

Enjoy! Nerd smile


Original artist: Lukas Jevcak. All copyrights belong to original artist.

The world glowed through the mouth of the cave. After the dead blackness I had grown used to inside, nothing had ever looked so bright to my eyes. As I looked at it, it seemed to positively glow in shades of blue and purple. I looked upwards towards the top of the cave mouth where the purple rays of the sun curled around the lip of rock – almost like a halo. Oh, the glorious sun! My eyes swept lower down and I saw that the sea beat against the rocks down there. The light fell and sparkled on the ripples, sending blue hues of light to dance against the cliff wall. How long had I been wandering in the darkness? Days, maybe? I really could not say. There was no definite way for me to tell the passage of time when I was lost in the dark. But all that I definitely could say is that this is certainly not the place where I went into the caves. Some transition of time and place had definitely taken place since last I saw the light. In fact, I had been wandering in the dark for so long that it was beginning to play tricks on my mind. I began to wonder if there really was something such as time, for if there was, I reasoned, I should not be able to lose track of it so easily and not be able to tell where in it I was, or how much of it has passed me by. But there is no explanation for Time really, I think. I went into a cave in some high sandstone cliffs, and there I wandered, lightless, foodless, hopeless… And now I stood over a village, looking down on it from high up on another cliff. It was winter. The ground was snowed over, the air freezing. It was most definitely not winter where I went in. Where was I? How far had I come to emerge into another world?


I have never seen such colours before. Or maybe I just never noticed how bright the world is. Everything contrasts so beautifully with everything else. Far below my feet, the sea crashes against cliffs made from black rock. It foams and makes spray that flies up high into the air and turns to mist as it reaches its zenith and blows away in the icy breeze. I could see some frozen-over steps leading up from the tiny jetty, up the cliff and away from the dark ocean. There were lights burning in the windows of some of the rough houses that made up the village. These yellow splashes of colour bled to my exposed, bleary gaze and it fills my vision. It seemed to spread across the cold white snow and warms up everything around me. The largest of the houses is apparently an inn, to judge by its many windows. There are icicles hanging from its roof, and for a moment I wondered tiredly why they did not melt in the face of the fire, not thinking that the candles were all behind glass on the windowsills and that the air was bitterly cold compared to the power of the little heat generated by candles.


I studied the village. It was built up a slight slope, with a large building on its summit. This one was not built as crudely as the huts, but appeared to have been lovingly made to last. Just before this building, and framed by one of its great arches, burned a powerful flame on a pillar of stone. The pillar put me in mind of cenotaph monuments and at its peak this great flame pointed proudly towards the sky, burning away the ice and the cold, it seemed to me… it seemed as though it was growing rapidly in size… it expanded horizontally… and reached almost to my feet. I saw ice running into water, huge chunks of ice falling… falling into the sea with a splash. Then I blinked and snapped out of the vision. The flame returned to its normal size. It sent up a pillar of dark smoke that contrasted against the white mountains behind it and beyond the village. Yes, there was still true beauty in life, I thought. The frozen fir trees with their hard, white limbs. The houses with icicles hanging from the thatch. The glowing yellow windows contrasting against the white snow. The crashing, booming ocean. And, finally, the grand building up on the hill, with its impressive architecture and the harsh white mountains behind it, all framed by the edge of my dark cave mouth…

I took a deep breath before starting down.


The Horror [creative writing]

Hi guys! I thought it was time again for a new short story. I don’t know what it is that is lately happening to my writing, but everything that I write seems to turn out as these dark, surrealistic stories… I’ve definitely been studying and reading too much Modernism this year! Bleh. Sick smile

Oh yes, if you have read this little guy on my Goodreads shelf, you might recognize the title of the story. And maybe the end as well. And if you have read one of my all-time favourite Agatha Christie stories, Sleeping Murder, then you might just recognize the… claws…

Anyhow, I’m talking too much and not getting round to the story. Here you go! Hope you enjoy it and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! School


Library - L. Ménabé

All copyrights belong to original artist, Laurent Ménabé.



The Horror


The library was deathly quiet at this time of the evening. There were no other people, no other movements – only me… and the little noises. Just the little noises to break the dusty, deathly silence. You think I’m hearing the creaks from the bookshelves’ wood cooling down after the heat of the day? Let me tell you that this is not so. The noises do not come from the bookshelves, but I do not know where they come from. Sometimes it sounds like creaking and sometimes like rattling, and sometimes they seem to come from just about anywhere and sometimes they seem to come from overhead.

Outside, the golden light of the westering sun fell in standing pillars through the limbs of the trees. They were ancient trees with heavy, knotted trunks and twisted boughs which formed a canopy high overhead. As the light fell through them, the leaves glowed and sparkled: mostly green and brown, but also with hints of red, gold and silver.

Over the great double-volume main hall of the library, a glass dome stretched. It was inlaid with delicately carved frames of metal and panels of different coloured glass. The evening light also fell through this skylight and drew mandalas of coloured light all over the ground floor of the library. I stood on one of the first-floor balconies, looking down at the floor below. Then I saw another speck of light dancing in front of my eyes. I blinked and it shimmied off to one side. I squinted and tried to focus as it flickered closer to my nose again. It was a firefly – a little glowing ball of light with wings attached. When I opened my eyes after having blinked again, it was gone – this time for good. I sighed and turned back to the bookshelves behind me.

I picked up my bag and started walking through the shelves. It was narrow and dingy in there and the shelves were absolutely stuffed with books. The spines bristled like that of so many hedgehogs.

I was heading for the English Literature shelf. Which was right at the very back, of course. Right at the very back, where the lights were faulty and the little noises intensified in volume in the stillness. When I reached the correct shelf I started to browse down it, running my fingers along the dusty spines of the books.

Directly behind my back, the creaking noise started up. I thought it came from both behind my back and overhead at the same time. I spun round and looked up, but I didn’t see anything. Shrugging, I turned back to my shelf and then spotted the book I was looking for. As I dropped my bag and pulled the book out of the shelf, the overhead light started flickering and the creaking redoubled. This time it was definitely overhead. There was a sound as if someone was filling a paper bag with gravel and shaking it very hard. With the book in my hands, I looked up again and this time I saw a light bobbing across the ceiling.

It was a firefly again, though if it was the same one as previously I could not possibly tell. It was bobbing close to the base of that flickering lamp and by its light I could actually see the base of the lamp for the first time. The lamp was partly pulling out of the ceiling, leaving gaping holes around the base where the screws had torn out of the compressed wood. By the light of the firefly, I could just see inside one of these holes. There was a faint movement in there and I could see the edge of a shadowy shape that was just illuminated by the firefly. The shape was indistinct and at first it drew back out of the tiny circle of light, then it seemed to make up its mind and approached the hole.

All this time I had been standing with the dusty old book in my hands, staring upwards at the hole in cold, frozen horror. I don’t think I would have been able to make myself move at that moment, even if I had thought about it. My brain was so occupied with trying to keep my imagination – which had leapt into overdrive as soon as it saw that firefly – under control that it had basically shut down all other functions, including breathing.

I stared at the approaching shape; I watched it grow distinct. I saw it become a pinkish-grey, hairless paw. I saw its digits curl into spastic claws. I saw it trying to squeeze through the hole in the ceiling, felt my legs finally regain the power and I ran. I dropped the dusty old book and heard it clatter on the floor behind me as I scooped up my bag and took off.

I flew out from between the shelves, through the – suddenly very quiet – library and clattered down the stairs. I raced across the dark main hall and wrenched open the great entrance doors. And moonlight spilled into the library.

During my time inside it had grown dark and the stars glittered and flickered in the sky – like little fireflies. The cool night air washed over me and calmed my racing heart. But then I looked down at the trees – those beautiful trees of this evening – and saw, to my horror, that they had grown faces. Huge, knobbly faces, with shadows dancing between them. And their branches creaked like that sound inside the library and their leaves whispered in the wind. Once again I stood frozen in horror – caught between the horror inside and the horror outside.

That was when I knew I was having a nightmare. And all I wanted to do was wake up. But the problem with this nightmare was that it was reality. The world was the nightmare and the nightmare was the world. And I was wide awake – there was no waking up from this. As I stood there, cornered on the steps of the library, I knew that I had to face at least one of these horrors to find escape. I could go back inside and face the horrible claws. Or I could get off these steps and face the horrors of the dark night. But I could not make myself move. I could not face up to these horrors and so escape from them.

I was in reality and reality was a nightmare. I could not overcome it. I remained on the dark steps.

The advantage of having strange things happening to you…

Status update: My feet hurt. I didn’t even know you could get blisters on your foot soles. Well, until I got them, obviously.
Eating: Nothin’.
Drinking: Nothin’!
Listening: “The Last Dragon Slayer” – DragonHeart soundtrack ~ Randy Edelman
Reading: “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” ~ James Joyce. Yes, still this one. Actually I’m reading several books at the same time at the moment – such is your fate if you wish to study literature.


… is that you then have more interesting things to blog about!


Hello, readers. Now that the threat of Traitor Bill has successfully been averted, perhaps I can again do the kinds of posts that I signed up to do.

I was planning to make this a complicated post with an intricate plot and lots of drawings, but then I decided, why not keep it simple?


This happened to me at school, when I was probably about 16 years old…


I was walking along next to the building. Over my head was the science-floor and next to me the biology-classes. The corridors were open, which meant that there were like railings on the open sides of the corridors to keep people from jumping. Okay. So, I was on the ground-floor, and there was one of these balcony-corridors just over my head:

Milk carton


Then, suddenly…

Milk carton2

A carton of milk came flying over the railings from the floor above!


Milk carton3

Splat! Yeah. It narrowly missed me, only to splat on the ground. Now, argue: isn’t that the most random thing ever to seen thrown about at school?!


I swear honest-to-goodness that this really happened. Would I lie to make up for lack of things to blog about? Well, maybe I would. But I’m not making things up now! Promise!

And I still don’t know what anyone was doing with a carton of milk on the science floor, much less throwing it over the railings.


What kind of unexpected, memorable things happened to you at school? No, your boyfriend does not count as unexpected. Winking smile


I hope I never run of these kind of anecdotes to blog about! Well, I do have quite a store, luckily. And I could always tell you about that time I fell off the hand railing…


I hope y’all have a great week, and check back next week!




PS. This made me laugh so much just now! Nerd smile

The Self-Conscious Folktale [creative writing]

So… here it is: the previously mentioned short story. Later than I thought, as usual. And if it is later than planned, but that is usual, doesn’t that make it normal? Or is it still abnormal? And I am rambling again, as usual! Winking smile

Anyway, one or two (or three) things before we start: this story is my normal style of writing. The previous story that I published on here was more like an experiment in modernism/surrealism. And I don’t even like Modernism in general! Sometimes I don’t understand myself…

The second thing is, this is an late and random entry to Mara’s Weekly Writing Challenge. Do you know how long back I started this story? When she first published the challenge. Yes, that’s right. That’s how bad I can procrastinate.

The third thing is, if you are familiar with the stories of the Old World, you will perhaps recognize some of their elements in this story. The reoccurrence of “three”, for example, and also the importance of “a year and a day”.

I’m not all that sure about this story. I’m not sure if it hangs together, and I’m not sure how much sense it makes. Ah well. Tell me what you think!


Now, to the grand reveal!


The Self-Conscious Folktale




I am Emory. My father is king of Asharnia. But I am not a prince. For most of the time I refuse to be a prince. Although sometimes it does have its advantages, I must admit. Like all the free plumes I get to put in my hat. And the perk of skipping a queue and go right to the front. But most of the time I just ignore it and refuse to be royal.

But Fate had one more cruel trick to play on me. She made it so that I have two older brothers. And we have no sisters. That means that my father is a king with just three sons. Now this is as good as laying down bait for folktales. And all folktales focus on me, as the youngest prince.

There will be a quest… And my father will send each of us in turn to complete it… Both my brothers will fail and come home in disgrace… Then it will fall to me to complete the narrative true to stereotype. Now is the time.

They say that every person has at least one day in their life that they will never forget. Well, I know what mine is. It was the day that my tutor was giving me a lesson in folklore and happened to touch on the topic of… let’s say… three. The three witches, the three stars, the three heroes, the three princesses, the three rings, the three riddles, the three wishes… the three princes… And I remember immediately asking my tutor whether these things still happened, because my brothers and I made up three princes, and I was thinking that I was the youngest of the three, therefore it all fell to me… My tutor simply laughed and told me that no, these things only happened in the age of legends but that that was long past. I needn’t worry.

A large part of my existence was indeed then spent not worrying about folktales and the Power of Three anymore. I spent more time worrying about how to appear princely, and how I did not really like my position of birth. However, recently my mystical position in the family again entered my consciousness. This was because an old crone happened to turn up at my father’s gates and demand to see the king. As is custom and practise in these situations, my father granted her an audience. And she told him a fantastical tale: about a girl living in a high tower a thousand miles away, of how the crevices of the stones were infested with dragons of all shapes and sizes to about knee-height. The old crone told my father how she had once been a great lady in this kingdom a thousand miles away, but the journey to our palace had worn away everything she had. She had been travelling for a year and a day to reach the kingdom with three princes, for it had been prophesied that only one of these three princes would be able to break into the tower and save the girl and return her to her father. This girl was, of course, also a princess and her father was a very wealthy and powerful king.

Now, I was not intended to hear all these things that the old crone spoke about. But I knew my way about the inner politics of the palace – that is, I knew my way about the secret passages very well. And I also knew where all the spy-holes into the throne room were and I could therefore easily eavesdrop on the conversation. My blood ran cold several times during the course of that afternoon. The first time was when I heard the tale of the prophesy about the three princes, because I was remembering the tales that my tutor told me and I was acutely aware of my status as the youngest prince – the one fated to succeed where his brothers had failed. The second time was when I realized that my father was agreeing to the “quest”. He considered it his traditional duty to agree to this. And the third time was when I realised that the quest would likely first claim the lives of my brothers, before it could lead to my success. How could my father agree to this?! He knew full well where it was leading! But it was Fate leading his hand there, not his own thought. It was the inexorable and irresistible drag of the fairy-tale that would not allow him to make any other choice.

At least I would have grace for a few years. It would take a year and a day to travel towards this distant kingdom, therefore that would already be more than two years for each of my older brothers to at least travel there, not reckoning in time spent there, and time spent returning, if they were lucky. I was only eighteen years old at the time when the crone brought the fairy-tale to us.

Well, in the end I had more than 4 years before my turn came. And both my brothers survived their quest, though they returned rather battered and with bruised egos. Both had taken a year and a day on the going trip and a year and a day on the return trip. Then they had also spent some weeks at this tower. Therefore, by the time my Fate had come I was twenty-three years old. I have to admit that during this time I wondered about the girl locked in the distant tower. Was she aging as well? Did she get impatient, waiting for her saviour to come? Did she know that both these men who had already been there were doomed to fail simply because they were not the third and youngest prince? Sometimes I wondered whether my brothers knew they were doomed to fail due to their birth, or whether maybe they believed they could change Fate and, for the first time in history, win out against the weight of fairy-tale. But if I thought this, I would inevitably begin to wonder whether I was really fated to succeed, or if maybe I was imagining things about the folktales being weaved around our families. Then I wondered if this was really the predictable Power of Three working, or if it all was just coincidence.

I was certainly not excited about my turn. Me? Definitely not! No, I seriously. Not a day of my life has gone by since finding out about the quest that I have not resented being born the third and youngest prince of a country. But as I sit here now at the top of the highest tower in my father’s palace, looking at the stars, it has also come to my mind that I should thank my fate spinning up there with the stars that all large dragons have died centuries ago. Otherwise there could have been only one way that this encroaching tale could have ended: me and a huge dragon. Maybe I would have had to slay it, or perhaps I would have found it necessary to sneak past it to its treasure hoard. No wait, worst of all: I would have had to fly it! What would my vertigo have had to say about that?! No, the little ones you could deal with, but not with more than, say, three at once. They were quite vicious.

Shortly after my second brother returned dejectedly from his quest, it was my turn to embrace Fate. I have to be truthful, but I have to admit that I would rather have had something a little more material to embrace. Ah well, we cannot have everything in life, I suppose. The day before I was due to leave, my father called me into the throne room. When I entered, my father was standing in front of the window, looking out towards the mountains. He heard me and turned around. Then I saw what he was holding in his hands. It was a sword – a beautifully engraved sword, topped off by an engraved crown inlaid with gold on its hilt. My father spun it in his hands, making a few swipes at invisible enemies before grasping it by the blade and holding it out to me. I took it gingerly, feeling the balance and the weight of the sword. I had, of course, had sword-fighting instruction under one of my many tutors and it may have been the one part of my education that I actually enjoyed, but I had never felt a sword like that. It was so sharp, so smooth and it radiated a feeling of power.

“This is a sword with a history,” my father said. “It was mine. And your grandfather’s. It is the swords of the kings of this country. I hope that it may now save a princess – that would be something to add to its pedigree, eh?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Thank you, Father. I will look after it.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, father. I guess so.”

“Well then. Here’s one thing more.” He felt inside his pockets and drew out a small drawstring bag. For a moment he weighed it in his palm. Then he handed it to me. “It’s three wishing stones, son. I hope they will be useful to you.”

“Thank you, father.”

“This is it then.”

“Yes. The farewell for quite a while, probably.”

He shook my hand. “I hope you make the kingdom proud, son. Good luck.”

“Thank you, father.”

And with that I took my leave. I left early the next morning. I was just me, my horse, the sword and the direction. At least I could not miss that. A wide road ran all the way from Asharnia to this kingdom far away.

For a year and a day I travelled. The scenery around me slowly changed, but not much else did. For most of this time I tried not to think. I tried not to think about the dragon infesting the tower. I tried not to think of how I would go about any rescue attempts. I tried not to think about the princess, most of all. I tried not to think what she would be like, what her personality would be like. But this was hardest of all. I could not seem to stop trying to picture her in my mind.

On the first day of the new year, I came within sight of the tower. For a few days past I had been travelling in inhabited country again, but I had not seen much life about. The tower was however living up to its name and towering high above the rest of the scenery, outlined against the horizon. I reined my horse in and slowed down to a walk as we neared the tower. It was looking suspiciously devoid of life. But then I got close enough to see the stones. There were dragons everywhere! Most were no bigger than the regular lizards that you would find back home in Asharnia, sunbathing on rocks. They squirmed and crawled over the stones, and into the crevices. However, there were also some larger dragons that climbed over all the little ones, sometimes stepping on top of them. These circled around and around the tower, almost like guards on patrol. My heart went cold at the sight of all those dragons. I had been expecting a lot of dragons. But I had not been expecting an infestation on this scale – where they sat on top of each other in the mortar and crawled over each other.

I stepped back and looked at the window at the very top of the tower. I could not see anyone in there, but that did not mean much.

“Ahoy!” I shouted.

There was some movement up there. Then a face leaned out of the window. A very pretty face surrounded by a mess of frizzy blond hair.

I waved and shouted “Hello!”

She waved back. “Are you the third of the three princes?” she shouted back.

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is! Do you want to come down from there?”

“Isn’t that obvious too?”

“Sorry! Silly question! You wouldn’t know how to come down from there, would you?”

“Don’t you think I would have, long ago, if I had?”

“Sorry! Another silly question!”

“You are full of silly questions, Mister Prince!”

“Yes, yes, I know. Well, could you maybe tell me what my brothers did when they came here?”

“They both jumped in and started slaying dragons until they became overpowered and had to back off.”

“Well then. I will have to think of something a little more intellectual.”

I led my horse away from the tower and sat down on a smallish rock. I stared unseeing at the ground as I tried to think how I could get rid of the dragons. I thought of distractions, of explosions, and of being invisible. Oh, and of returning back home. But none of these ideas helped at all with a really good idea. Then my fingers touched the three wishing stones still in my pocket. As I fingered them absentmindedly, an idea slowly began to form. Hmm… creating a distraction…

As it was getting dark, I set up camp for the night, and then went to sleep.

The following morning, I was all set to make a start on my plan. I would use one of my wishing stones to create a large, inviting, animal carcass about a mile from the tower. Then all the dragons would flock there at the invitation of the meat. And that would leave the tower unprotected. But before I started using the wishing stones, I decided to first check how hostile this infestation of dragons really was. Maybe it was all just a lie. Maybe they would just let me walk in the door. I guess I was hoping to get this over and done with, without going to a lot of trouble. So I went and circled the tower until I could see the front door underneath all the writhing bodies. So far, none of the dragons were batting an eye at me. I carefully stepped forward and put my hand in between the dragons onto the doorknob. The closest little dragon lifted up its head to glare balefully at me. As I turned the doorknob, more of the dragons in the vicinity turned to look at me and bared their teeth, growling at me. One or two of them started to move closer, and the closest one bunched their muscles to spring. When I did not remove my hand from the doorknob, one of them sprung onto my wrist and dug in its claws. Needless to say, I hurriedly let go of the knob, sprang back, shaking my hand frantically in an attempt to dislodge the little dragon. I started running – just running to get away, still hopping and twirling to get rid of the dragon. Then, after I had gone a little way, I heard laughter from up in the tower. I turned to look up and saw it was the princess, leaning out of her window and laughing at my predicament. This made me freeze. She seemed so joyful about my failure. At that moment, I finally manage to dislodge the dragon and tossed it away, stalking off in the other direction.

The wounds on my wrist were not nearly as important to me as my hurt feelings. Now was the time to do something and fast. I had to get that condescending princess out of that tower as fast as possible and away at the speed of light. I continued marching, kicking at the tufts of grass. Then I drew the bag with the wishing stones out of my pocket and poured them out of my palm. I knew, of course, how to use wishing stones, but I had never actually used them before. What you did was stand with the stone held in your right palm, then you turned round clockwise 3 three times, and then 3 times widdershins. Then you threw the stone over your left shoulder and made your wish. When I had walked far enough from the tower, I performed this ritual. And said, “I wish for some food source that will be attractive to the dragons from yon tower.” Afterwards, I put myself some distance away rather speedily. And waited. And waited.

Finally I risked a look to see whether the dragons were coming. But no. Far away, I could still see the tower – the tower which was still covered in a writing mass of bodies. They did not seem to have any ideas to inspect the heap of rotting meat behind me. They still clung to the tower. I took the other two stones out of my pocket and deliberated. Had my wish been specific enough? Probably not. I had not wished that the dragons would find the food more enticing than that tower. As I looked at the tower, I could see the princess at her window again. No way! I would not fail!

I dumped the second wishing stone into my palm and repeated the ritual, this time saying “I wish that the dragons would be highly attracted to that meat, come to feed on it, and stay there for a long time.”

Scarcely had I said that or I could see a cloud rising from the distant tower. I could hear the snap of thousands of wings. And then the dragons were at the meat. It was not a pretty sight and not something that I will venture to describe. I started running back towards the tower for I was not sure how long the decoy would keep the dragons occupied. I wrenched open the front door and ran up the spiral stairs two at a time. Before I knew it, I was in the princess’s room. She was backed up against the window, staring at me.

“How did you manage that?” she stammered.

“Come, we have no time,” I snapped brusquely. I was not feeling very friendly towards her.

In retrospect, I wish that I had been less hasty, and had spent more time just looking at her. She was just the kind of beautiful woman that you would like to lock up in a tower so that you always just stay to appreciate her. But at that time, all of her charm just went past me.

“But then I will have to pack a few things!” She was still stammering. “I mean, I mean, I wasn’t ready for this!”

“Then just come!”

She scurried around, grabbing here, leaving there. Then she was at my side. “You wanted to get out, my lady?” I made an attempt to be gallant.

“Yes, I want to get out. I want to go with you to your kingdom.”

“Alright, but I warn you: I am no prince.”

“No prince?” she gasped.

“Oh, my blood is princely, but I do not wish for the lifestyle of a prince.”

“Oh.” She looked at me doubtfully.

Once again, I moved fast. I helped her down the spiral stairs as fast as possible and over the tufts of grass to where my horse was tethered.

“You can ride on the horse,” I said, helping her up. “I will walk.”

She slid onto the horse’s back in her blue dress, almost lying flat against the creature’s neck, and worked her hands into its mane. “It feels so good to be out of that tower,” she whispered. “You have no idea how good it is to feel a living creature again. You just have no idea.” She rallied a little. “But are you going to walk all the way back to your kingdom?”

“No,” I said. “I have another idea.” This idea had come to me when I took her down the tower. “I think this is why my father gave me the wishing stones. And I still have one left.”

Then, keeping one hand on the horse’s bridle, and performing the – by now – familiar ritual, I wished to go home.

Well. There you have it. My story, of how Fate took me on a quest, and how I cheated my way through it by using wishing stones, where my brothers attempted it with brute force and egos. I am still Emory. My father is still king of Asharnia. I still refuse to be a prince, except for the plumes allowance. I never even unsheathed my sword. I think that should go down in the record books – it’s an achievement for a quest of this nature, I should say.

Oh? You are asking what happened when I got home with my princess? Well, firstly, she wasn’t my princess. And, secondly, in answer to the question, well, we surprised everyone with our early return. And everybody was happy at my success and at making her acquaintance. Her name was Jessica, by the way.

And then? Well, she and I – Well, we decided to call it a truce. And she went home on a trip to see her family again. And I went on with my life – trying to both avoid being a prince and also to avoid real work. And I gave my historical sword back, and my father hung it up in the throne room where it still hangs, gathering history.

Yes? And next? Between Jessica and me—well, we’ll have to see what develops there…



There you have it then! I think the story kind of ran away with me. Over three-and-a-half thousand words, and 7 pages – What can I say? It is not really the kind of scope that I planned! Smile with tongue out


Rainbow ~ Elana

Lord Voldemort, the shower and yours truly

Status update: Elana is back on duty!
Eating: What is this stuff? *pokes it, peering into the bowl*
Drinking: Hot Chocolate. Mmm!
Listening: “Someday” ~ John Legend
Reading: This interesting blog post on a blog named Cartoons and Creative Writing. You should read it too! Winking smile


First off, Readers: Y’all should appreciate this post muchly.

Why? Well, because this week I, being my usual foolish self, managed to tear the tip of my left thumbnail completely off, and then into the nail bed. It hurts like— like— something that you can imagine that hurts in incredible amounts. If only there was an interesting story behind my little accident it might have been better in some way (more ideas for blog posts for one thing), but unfortunately it must be the lamest story you have every heard about a wound like this. I was sitting in the library, being academic, tried to take my diary out of my bag, it got stuck, I yanked at it, my fingers slipped, and when I looked again the front part of my nail was hanging like a flap. Ouch!

But I still haven’t explained why you should appreciate the appearance of this post. Well, that would be because, with a finger like this, it hurts to do basically everything that I need to do. It hurts to write with a pen (I write with my left hand), it hurts to type, it hurts to pick up my bag (yes, the guilty party in my wound), it hurts to take a bath and it hurts to put on my clothes. Therefore you should have appreciation right now, because I still bath (not that you care), I still wear clothes, I still write and, most important of all, I am still typing this blog post at the time that I had said I would do it.

Now. Without further ado, let us proceed to the long-awaited (not!), new, long cartoon!


The following anecdote happened when I was about 12 or 13 years old. I think… Well? Are you going to check?


Cue… the incident of Lord Voldemort, the shower, and… yours truly!


Voldemort 1Voldemort 2Voldemort 3Voldemort 4Voldemort 5Voldemort 6Voldemort 7Voldemort 8


Yep. I was a stupid kid. I still am actually, sometimes. (Think torn-off thumbnail! Winking smile) And this was just sooooooo embarrassing!

But in all seriousness, for quite some time, I was truly scared of reading Harry Potter because I so scared of Lord Voldemort. But, when reading the later books, this fear was replaced by an irrational fear of that pet snake of old Voldy. Nagini, I think? Seriously, for years, when I was blow-drying my hair in front of the mirror, I would be continually checking behind me, and under the bed because I was scared there would be a huge snake there. The reasoning behind that being, if the hairdryer was making such a noise, I would not hear the snake sneak up behind me! Embarrassed smile I know, I know… Therefore, thinking of my childhood fear, I was very gratified to watch that snake getting killed in the final Harry Potter-movie. As I watched it, I thought that if my childhood had to die along with this movie, then my phobia might as well go as well. Hah! I truly hated that snake!

And this post just made me look like the hugest Harry Potter fan! I’m not actually. I liked it whilst it lasted; the final movie made me extremely melancholy and nostalgic; sometimes it annoyed me greatly… but I can’t say that I was ever a Harry Potter fan-girl! *ahem* Rambling off-topic again… (And now I have an addiction to ellipses!)



Lastly a special announcement: to my very special Impish friend, the professional geek, the Serverus Snape of our world, and sayer of really strange things Such as…


Here’s a big internet hug for you!  *hug* Hope you enjoyed your

birthday! Birthday cake



Up next (that means next week some time, hopefully!): A new short story! A fairy-tale — Elana-style.


Rainbow ~ Elana

The Manor [just creative writing – no cartoon]

The manor


The voices— again, as always. It always comes again… Then the flight— the running away and the door slamming. Running and more running… And always: darkness, blackness—



This is what my life had been like until a year or so ago. When I was little, it was not quite so bad. But as I grew up, things slowly built up to a climax. That was a year or so ago. Because, you see, “a year or so ago” is the crux of the story I am about to tell you.

My room was dark and the wooden floorboards creaked. I knelt on the floor with my forehead pressed again my closet door. Floating up the stairs, I could hear the voices of my family. I pressed my forehead harder against the wood, hoping that if I did it hard enough, I would never have to hear such voices again. Voices raised in anger, hatred, and, more and more often, fear. Then came a sound that I had never heard before. But this sound also I never wanted to hear again. The sound was innocent enough in itself – just a bland “bump” – but I immediately knew it was the sound of someone hitting someone else. Suddenly it was as though my legs were controlled by someone else – without thinking about it at all I just started running. I had run before when I heard the voices, but then I had always run into the garden, or other times I had jumped right into my closet and closed the door. This time I did not stop at the garden.

Down the stairs, clinging to the banister… out through the front door – slamming the door to the wall in the process – and across the front lawn. Here is the edge of the garden— the edge— the edge…

I teetered on the garden’s border, debating. Then I barged through the hedge marking the border and plunged into the forest beyond. It was a pine forest, and my feet scuffled up the needles as I landed among them. The trees were planted in scientifically precise rows, as it was a forest specifically planted for harvesting wood sustainably. That forest had always bothered me, ever since we had moved to this house. It felt to me that trees should not be planted in rows, but just grow any way – the way nature had intended it. But that day I was grateful for it – for its trees that were planted so straight – because this meant that I could run down one of these aisles between the trees, without having to dodge and weave or bother about any undergrowth. I ran and ran. Then the forest ended. There was no petering out for this forest – no, it ended with a line so straight that it could have done an architect proud. I saw that I stood at the end of an estate. There was a gravel driveway which gracefully curved up to the front door. There seemed to be miles of grass and flowerbeds. It was still gloomy, dark and forbidding. It was the most wonderful place that I have ever seen.

Today I look back on this moment as a moment critical to the direction my life has taken. Had I been the kind of person to use symbolic imagery, I might have said that this moment was a crossroads in my life path and in this moment I had chosen to take one way or the other. But I’m not the kind of person who says these romantic things. I just say that this moment shaped my life.

Reverentially I walked across the lawn in the direction of the manor house. There were bees buzzing in the flower beds and a butterfly or two flew past. But except for the background noise of the bees, the entire place was deathly quiet. There were no birds chirruping. There weren’t even any trees – the entire place was flat and smooth. I reached the driveway, and wandered up it. I had forgotten what I had run from. I had forgotten the voices down the stairs and the bumping sound. All I saw was this manor that was strangely attractive and repelling at the same time.

Eventually, I reached the front door. At first I just stood staring at it: it had a lot to stare at. There was a polished, upside-down horseshoe as a knocker, in between fretwork that ran in elegant scrolls down the length of the door. Then, I reached up, grasped the knocker and let it fall against the door – twice. In the deathly quiet that hung about the vicinity I could hear the knock reverberate on the inside. After I had knocked, I turned to leave. I did not expect any answer to the door. Not even in my craziest moment would I have thought that a butler in a black suit with golden epaulettes and a white cloth over his arm would open the door. And he did not. But I did hear footsteps. So I lingered on the front step. Then I knocked again. The footsteps got nearer. I could hear a key being scraped against a lock, and then a bolt slid back. As the hinges squeaked and the door swung inwards, I could get a glimpse of the resident of the manor. In instalments I could see more and more of it. At first I could only see darkness with a vague shape inside. Then I picked up a definite hint of feeler. Then wing. Then pointiness. The door swung back completely and the tenant stood revealed. There was thorax. There were black leather and black leathery wings. There were pincers. And through the clicking of pincers, its voice came: slowly, without a hint of aggression, but still threatening.

“What do you want?”

I was gasping and gaping at this monstrosity far too much to be able to answer.

“What do you want, knocking at my door?”

“I— I wanted—” I did not even know what I had wanted when I knocked on the door, so I could not answer.

“You wanted to find out who lived here.” The voice made it a statement, not a question.

I managed to get it out. “Yes.”

“You were running away from something when you came here.”

I was dumbfounded. Firstly, I suddenly remembered again what had happened at home, and secondly, I was wondering if it could read my mind. Again, I did not answer.

“No,” it said. “I know because I saw you come here through the woods. I saw you running.”

“I was running… from home,” I stammered.

The wings snapped open behind it, and the darkness in the vicinity seemed to grow even blacker. “Running does not help. I can see you are getting ready to run again. You are edging away from my countenance. Face up to me!”

I stood still. Actually I froze. I was too scared to move. Then it spoke again, with even more authority than before. “You! Girl in the black dress with the mousey-coloured hair! Never run! Never hide! Face your fears and learn from me!”

The door slammed shut and I heard the bolt slide into place. My knees were too shaky for me to lift my feet, so I sat down carefully on the step. I sat there a long time.

Today I look back on this determining moment in my life. My name is Nirneth. I looked into the Black. And I survived.

This is my entry to Mara’s Weekly Writing Challenge.