Snow+Hearts=Snarts:the bad ones.

If there are two things in this world that need professional counseling, it’s snow and Valentines Day. So, you can imagine my disgust when they were both magnified ten and a half times and conveniently placed on the same day. Valentine’s Day. The day that Lehi High School almost had a Snow Day. We never have Snow Days.
In the first place, Single’s Awareness Day shouldn’t even exist, let alone in high school. It should be banned until you’re old, decrepit, and married. Somewhere around thirty-two. Now, It’s not that I hate people—I do, but it isn’t the primary reason for my Valentines distaste—I just happen to be more alert and observant than others. Not to brag or anything, but I’m world-wide renowned for my labeling skills. Okay, just my friends and some old lady two blocks down from my house, but, still.
There are at least five things wrong with Valentines Day. First: It promotes stupidity in that little children are brain-washed into believing hearts actually look like two bug tumors glued together. They could look like something entirely different, but we won’t go there. Second: pink is ugly. Who honestly wears pink, except for the occasional “plastic little spastic”, in the infinite words of Amanda Bynes. Third: It attacks the weak and miserable, the lonely and depressed, making them more weak and more miserable, and aware of their loneliness. Of course, this lovely day doesn’t barrage the depression, because then teens would realize they are depressed and that they don’t have to be, and then there would be no purpose for high school. Fourth: Pink is still ugly, stop wearing it. Fifth: High schoolers know nothing of love, and therefore should be banned from celebrating it.
Snow also has its undesirables as well. It’s cold, wet, and manages to get everywhere, and I mean everywhere. My cousin from Hawaii/New York/Heber once asked me what I meant by this. I told her to think of snow as a high school jock. She gave me a befuddled look, so I continued.
“Think of snow as a high school jock’s mind, or hands, whichever you prefer.”
She nodded her approval.

Fairy Tale

My name is Winnafred Isabella Terra Christine Hernandez. However, under unfortunate circumstances of mental inadequacy, I have come to be known by my lovely neighbors as “The Witch”.
I had always wanted a child, so, naturally, when those petty thieves were stealing my precious rampien, (renowned at the state fair for their lusciousness and exuberant red coating) I leaped at the opportunity to swindle them out of their fast approaching child. A baby for a few rampien—not a bad deal, if you ask me.
I was unable to have children of my own, seeing as I was unmarried and have moral standards, but, as I said, I still wanted a child to care for, to bathe, to feed and love. Preferably a boy, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I have always tried to be a good mother to Rapunzel: Keeping her safe, locked away in a beautiful Grecian tower in the middle of an enchanted forest; I read her bedtime stories, talked to her a lot in order to make her grow; I fed her occasionally; I read all the books on parenting, and learned a lot through The “O” magazine, and I gave her all the talks Oprah told me to; I even refused to cut her hair when she wanted me to, just because she wanted it (the fact that all barbers are homocidals in the making probably influenced this a bit, along with the fact that they never have a any coupons!).After all is said and done, I was the ideal parent. What more could any one ask for?
A man.
Not just any man, but an acclaimed “prince”! Hah! He was probably a nerd with the screen name "Gallantprince_lv-41.cyberspaceforfreakystalkers.com" who was a little too acquainted with his twinkies.
Well, needless to say that the little perv had been stalking my precious child, and had managed to break our fool-proof code and climbed into her window! That’s not the least of it! My darling skank forgot she had hormones, and everything else I had taught her these past fourteen years, and—ohh! I may have gotten a little carried away.
Any way, the repulsive prince left her with child and ran off! I didn’t know what to do, so I thought to myself, “WWOD?” I may not have had enough money to hold a discriminating, all-white-men-are-pigs-and-the-women-too talk show, or supply some random orphans with photos of myself, but I was a rather good lecturer.
Rapunzel rolled her eyes as teenagers will as I conveyed to her the immature stage of her brain, and that it just couldn’t handle alcohol or children-bearing until the age of twenty-one. I must have gone too far, because she muttered something under her breath and began to pick up a knife.
Well, luckily for her, I had read all the books on teen suicide, and what to do in cases like this.
I screamed and launched myself bodily in her direction. She also screamed, and took a step backward. I caught the knife by the handle and wrenched it away from her seriously confused hands. Curse her flamboyant locks and Garnier’s great body-supplying supplements. Rapunzel’s blasted hair got in my way!
She was all a blubber, crying so much I was sure her tear ducts would burst! It was obviously that time of the month. I felt bad for her, and began to do a reparation spell to, well, repair her hair. Now, I’m not the best Wicca in the world, but surely a hair replacement spell couldn’t be muffed up so badly! I must’ve mixed up chutsup with ketchup. That always happens. Any way, the result was a repulsion spell. Psfeeewwwwwww. There goes Rapunzel. I think I hit a home run.
Just as Rapunzel was gracing the clouds with her rear, her lovely prince appeared.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down y”
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied, tossing her cut hair down.
I was pondering what to say to him, how we could resolve our differences and all that jazz, when a bothersome butterfly flew into my mouth. I coughed and sputtered for a while, and then I realized that I had let go of the hair. Peering down over the edge, I watched as the prince ran off, wailing like a little girl, “Ahh, my eyes, somebody help me.”
Pansy. With nothing better to do, I trudged back to my garden to water my rampien, which I now know are supposed to be green…

The Tudor's Shadow

"Where were you last night?"
The words echoed in Kelli's head as she shoved the body bag off of the bridge, the murky Thames stealing it away, concealing the act, hiding the truth, as it had for the past ten years.
Kelli let out a heartfelt sigh and, just as she was wondering if there was anything for her in this world besides death, a cold, mirthless chuckle emitted from behind her.
"Well, well. My dear Anne, it looks as if you've regained your old spark."
She turned slowly, fully aware of who the voice belonged to, and yet, still shocked as her eyes were lain upon him.
"It's Kelli." Her voice was just as cold as his own, but sharper, edged with spite.
"Oh, come now, Anne, don't be like this. Not even a greeting? No, 'How are you, Henry?' 'Oh, it's YOU, Henry!' or perhaps a 'Henry! Your presence fills the caucles of my heart with every joy on the face of the earth!'"
"You forgot the 'Get the *H-swear* away from me Henry'," she replied with the wit that had won his obsession so long ago. Kelli/Anne turned away from him, and stared into the Thames, wishing its currents could sweep her away from here.
"Aren't you being just a teensy bit harsh?"
Kelli/Anne whipped around, the wind wildly tossing her hair, accenting the fury shown in her dark eyes.
"Harsh? Me? Harsh?! How dare you come here and insult me with your presence and then your filthy words. You have some nerve, your majesty." She said the last with a mocking tone, with a ridiculously low bow.

Is this normal enough, 'cuz I'm not sure...?

Jack lay down on the creaky-springed bed as the cheap hotel room was set ablaze by the swftly setting sun, its last rays tainting everything they touched with the red that was home to this part of the world.
If I can only get a few moments rest, he thought slowly beginning to drift off, despite the eternally honking horns of the eternally impatient drivers on the equally eternally crowded Egyptian streets below. Did they really think it did them any good? That honking their pitiful horns, which sounded more like a baby's rubber duck upon being squeezed, would suddenly force all others to go faster? Or perhaps just disappear? Jack shrugged off such thoughts and thoughts of the big day ahead of him and rolled over, provoking an eerie screeeeech to protrude from the vermin-infested twin bed.
Jack smiled. They probably just honk because everyone else honks, and its just what you do. What a sick habit to--
Four loud bangs prevented any further thought. However, that was not going to stop Jack from sleeping. They'd go away after a few minutes. They always do.
Jack began to submit himself to the refreshing blackness that was sleep. He would not dream. He never dreamed. Not in, what was it? Ten, twelve, twenty years? Who knows how long it'd been since he'd had his last dream. And he was grateful for it. Jack Nightengael was not one to be troubled with fantasies and dreams and wishes. Sleep was sleep; peaceful rest for the mind and body. Nothing more.
Bang, bang, bang.
Jack couldn't believe it. Either he was dreaming, or there was an impertinent pest who had one more chance before he got out of bed; the perpetrators worst case scenario. Jack decided to go with the more obvious. The vermin had one more chance. The ten abnoxious knocks that followed just about mutilated that chance.
With another screech and a vow never to return to this accursed country again, Jack rolled out of what these third worlders called a "bed", and proceeded to the only other piece of furnature in the room. A small wooden desk with a small wooden chair. Jack grabbed the chair and wrenched it from the desk, sending small screws and nails tumbling across the floor. Selecting the leg with the least amount of termite damage, he then proceeded to snap off one of the legs. A simple task for his well-trained arms.
Five more knocks. Patiently examining the leg, and finding that, though corroded, it was still thick, and had a jagged edge due to its recent removal, Jack carried his makeshift club to the door and opened it, prepared for anything.
All right. Prepared for almost anything. In the hallway, directly facing Jack's room, stood a young girl. She looked about fifteen or sixteen, but definitely no older than seventeen. Looking her up and down, Jack snarled and headed back inside.
The moment he turned around, however, he felt something hit him in the neck. It didn't seem very effective, but, just as he was turning around to give the girl a painful reprimand, the world careened about him, growing dim, and eventually blacked out altogether.
Jack awoke a few moments later dazed, with a slight headache, and angry. Casting a sweeping glance at the room, he calculated the damage: his suitcase zipper had slightly moved, the window was approximately an inch more open, his bed was tidier than before, and a couple of the screws and nails had been accidentally kicked to the other side of the room. In short, they had been looking for something, and they had found it. Whoever "they" was.
Jack walked over to his suitcase. Opening it, he found that his credit card was missing from one of the pockets on the inside flap. Great. Reaching into his hind pocket, he found his wallet. He pulled it out.
Oh lovely--they'd taken his I.D. That wasn't inconvenient at all. However, they had left his cash, so they obviously weren't common thieves.
Walking over to the window, Jack leaned against the sill and peered down at the just-as-busy-as-before streets, now shrouded in nights blankets of shadows. A smile crept over his face.
"So," he said to the bustling world, "It finally begins."

Life Goes On

Beatrix looked at the chaos around her. Her lifeless enemies strewn about the once peaceful meadow. She looked down at her hands, sticky with the hot blood. She knew, however, that it was not her own. The accursed flame in the heavens beat down on her armor as a cool northern breeze caused her cape to billow out behind her. Her lips parted, drinking in the breeze as if it were an elixir. Crystalline water for her parched soul.
What’s the use? She thought. I could slay a thousand, no, a thousand thousand more and still, your face would not gaze up at me from the bloodied ground. The whole world could instantaneously incinerate, and still, your face would haunt my dreams, my thoughts…
What’s the use?
Beatrix fell to her knees, head bowed, body as broken as her spirit, her heart. Twittering brought her attention to the skies. Two nightingales flittered about, soaring in and out of each other, all the while singing gaily the earth’s song. The same song that they had been singing centuries ago. The same song they would still be singing, long after her body had corroded and wasted away into dust. If there was peace, the nightingale sang. If the entire world were consumed in turmoil, still the nightingale sang the same sweet song that graced the wind and carried it into the souls of all those who would hear it.
You did this to me, Beatrix thought, turning her gaze, once again, to her gooey fingers. You did this to me, but no more. You may have controlled me once, but now, now it is my turn.
Beatrix threw her head back and laughed aloud. Her voice was not accustomed to being used, let alone in such a gleeful way as this, and cut her off in a half-choke, half-gurgle, but still, she had laughed.
"The willow can age and topple over, whether by menacing axe or of its own accord, and life goes on. The fox can consume all the chickens in the world, and still, the heron’s life goes on. You. You can destroy my love, my heart, my soul, my home, and still—still life goes on."
Beatrix stood. Stood taller than she had in years, and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Not shuddering with fear; not any more. Shuddering with exaltation and renewal. Extracting her sword from its embediment in the soil, Beatrix walked on. And life went on.

Legion (song inspired--we'll pretend it was by jason mraz)

The rain drizzled down on the battlefield; the two forces clashed. Black and white collided, hacked, and bled. Hours went by. The white force began to pull back, and were surprised to see their black-clad enemies act likewise. But, they knew better: they were giving them false hope; time to recover, then crush them later.
Leon entered his tent, his guards taking up immediate position outside. He took off his helmet, gazing at the intricate designs emblazened on it's sides.
So much work, he thought, so much planning...
He threw the helmet at the ground. Turning, he stabbed the maps, scattered across the makeshift table. Sitting down, he leaned his head against his folded arms, and his arms against the "table". Commotion from outside drew his attention away from inner thoughts. Growling and wondering what immature squabble his pathetic soldiers could possibly be commenced in at a time like this, Leon stormed out of his tent.
"What's the meaning of --"
"Sir," his second in command, Gerard, cut him off, "a stranger has entered the camp."
"A stranger, you say?" Leon asked. "Is it the King?"
"No, sir, it's--"
"Then get him out of my camp!" Turning on his heel, Leon headed back to his tent. There was a lot to be done if they were going to escape this with their lives, let alone their dignity.
"But, sir, she has an army."
This caused him pause. Sighing, Leon spun around and marched to deal with this meddlesome intruder, with full intentions of telling him exactly where he could put his army...
Alice ignored the gawking idiot soldiers, her long, determined strides carrying her quickly through the camp. She had thought of putting on a helmet, but it just would have gotten in her way. Finally, she arrived at the captain of the army; he looked as though he'd seen an apparition of some sort.
"Stand aside," Alice commanded him.
Leon couldn't move. His legs felt as if they were about to give out beneath his weight. Turning to Gerard, but keeping his gaze locked on this unexpected guest, he spoke, his throat only managing a whisper.
"The leader of the army is--"
"A woman, yes, sir. I tried to tell you, bu--
"No, not that! It's her?!?!"
"Stand aside," Alice repeated, louder, "or be removed forcefully." She spoke, not with content or malice, but calm assurance, merely stating the facts.
"How on earth did you-- and this army? This army? Where did you-- What have you-- How are you, Alice?" Leon finally managed to mumble. Alice made a swift motion with her hand; there was a flurry of movement, and Leon found himself on his back, looking up at a spectral being, his image shimmering in and out of existence.
"Alice--" he whispered, as her battle skirt brushed against his boots, and she walked past him without a look.
The Sal-Kirith had returned to the battle field, a black sea silently approaching the unaware camp, with death in their clenched fists and frozen hearts. The moment their archers were about to let loose their poison-tipped arrows, poised with such accuracy that they had come to be known as the rain of death, a silhouette appeared on top of the hill in which the enemy camp was stationed. The archers looked to their commander for instruction. He made a few swift hand motions, signaling five to redirect their arrows at the woman, and the rest to continue as planned.
Alice raised her hand above her head, then lowered it to point at the Sal-Kirith leader. He flinched. He had had three of his best mages cloak him in darkness. It was impossible for this human woman to have percieved him through such strong magic.
While pondering this phenomenon, the Sal-Kirith leader had forgotten to give the signal to his archers to fire. By that time, it was too late.
The air around the woman shivered, as if it, too, felt the cold that was speedily creeping over the Sal-Kirith. All at once, the Sal-Kirith saw what it was that caused them to feel this way, and they knew it would be useless to run.
Alice and her legion swept over the army, leaving death in their wake, covering the field in a blanket of black armored corpses.

A tiny voice asked, "Is he the one?"--writing prompt

The night was dark, the stars unusually dim. The cold, Nebraskan wind intruded through the small house's windows, a burglar in the night. It was not, however, unaccompanied. Five small, glowing orbs followed the wind, twisting, rising, and falling with the slight current, like one great, synchronized dance, eventually sweeping them through the open window.



Kade Finch was seven years old, and sleeping blessfully at the time of the breech.



A tiny voice asked, "Is he the one?"



"Hmmmm...he looks annoying," was the reply.



"Oh stop it," rataliated the first, emphasizing the point with a swift blow to the head.



"It'll take a lot of work, "continued the secomd, unfazed, "and will most probably fail, but, yes, he's the one they've chosen." He concluded with a deep sigh. "Just look at him, though, Aris; it's revolting, "he said, his face twisting in sincere agony.

"I'll admit, he is a gooddeal uglier than we'd hoped."

The two tilted their heads to one side, thinking that pergaps a different angle would improve his looks. It didn't.

"we can always make him wear a mask. Or a helmet. Or even wear a paper bag with eye holes! Either way, it matters not. Our orders are to bring this, this--thing back to the Queen. If they decide to behead him there, that's his problem. Come on, the twilight hours are beginning again."

With an exasperated and heartfelt sigh, the two faeries began to weave the treads of reality around the creature, encasing him in a casket of magic. They then proceeded to make the long journey home, stopping only to ask the guards how everything went. Seeing that all was well, they proceeded through the twilight forest, through the webs of existence, onward. Home.

Mersam Navem II

The last rays of the sun fought their way through atmosphere and clouds, alighting on a few of the elegant buildings of Mersam Navem, drenching them in red, and leaving the rest to be swallowed up by the shadows. The citizens of the wealthy city began to make their way home, exhausted from a full day's worth of work, and a half day's worth of pay. Boats pulled into the harbor for the night. Among them, was a boat with unique, red, triangular sails, that could be seen from the higest room in the King's castle.

Isabella put down her quill. Picking up the wax and emblem, she sealed the two enchanted letters together, one within the other. Then, elegantly stringing her bow, she knocked the black-feathered, onyx-tipped arrows, used only by the shadow demons that lived in the southern marshes. Pulling it back, Isabella aimed, and let it fly. Not checking to see the arrow hit her mark, Isabella turned to look out of her crimson sunlit room at the quickly growing shadows. Soon, the entire city would be consumed. It was almost time.

Recalling the spell she had worked on for months, she began to string together the arcane words, agily forming symbols with her hands. A few minutes later, the casting began to take its toll. She breathed deeply, and for a moment she wished she could speed up her training. But, only for a moment. With the trap in place, time was of the essence.



Sweeping over to the window, Isabella placed her cloak over her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head, concealing her face, and leaped over the window sill. With a twist mid-air, she grasped silently to the vines that inhabited her wall.

Eternal Sleep-found poem from Margaret Weis' "Amber and Ashes"

Bracing herself for death,

Mina gave the knife a sharp thrust.

Death watched with amusement.

Lifting her eyes,

Her legs trembled

Her strength failed her;

She met the eyes of the God.

She heard his footsteps come nearer

Nearer

His shadow fell over her

Blotting out the sun

She shivered

Let me die

Please

I only want rest

He smelled of myrrh

Reminding Mina of

Perfumed oils

Poured onto funeral pyres

To mask the stench

Of burning flesh

Mingled

With the musky fragrance;

The faint, sweet odor of

Lily and Rose,

Faded

And fragile as

The petals of youth

Pressed between two pages of life's book

His touch was cool

On her sunburned skin

Sleep is what you need

Sleep

Not death

Only poets confuse the two

She could no longer see the God

Remember by Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Song by Christina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

My Delilah-Inspired by Christina Rossetti's "A Daughter of Eve"

I gave no thought to what I know,
Of apples now turned rotten,
For all the plants I used to grow
And all the seeds I used to sew,
Lie cold and dead, forgotten.

The sun was there to warm my face;
Its rays shone down so freely,
But they are gone in my disgrace,
Their warmth forgotten in this place;
I miss the summer dearly.

But lo, behold, I do not feel
The Snow Queen on her chariot,
She swept in and my heart ded steal;
The pain that I could not conceal
My shoulders couldn't carry it.

The Cleanest Love-Sonnet

Standing there across the way,
I saw her staring back.
And ashamed, I must say,
I saw and loved her rack.

She holds everything I need,
Who truly is the Knight?
My rose petals that have no weed,
She helps me, day and night.

I love the way that she adorns
That black and silver dress.
And when she's done, she toots her horn,
Who's to say that I'm possessed?

Yes it's true, I do love her,
My own beloved dish washer.

Mersam Navem--The Sinking (Deserted) Ship

The city of Mersam Navem was a prosperous port city, containing everything a respectable prosperous city has: wealth, stature, a temple or two, nobles, dames, crime, poverty, and, of course, the man behind it all, the king. King Ivan Drakenhardt had always been of royal blood. Disputations over the rule of the Kingdom Astal had thrown the entire continent into turmoil, and, eventually, a civil war.


Ivan's mother, Driselle, was gifted with visions, though her husband misunderstood them, deeming her mentally unsound. The after-effects of the visions, which left her sickly and bed ridden, didn't improve his attitude, either. It was during one such vision that Driselle saw the shadows of war looming over Astal, and, more importantly, her son. Upon awakening, she took Ivan, then only three years old, and stole away into the night, collapsing in a nearby farming village. There, she was helped by a dark elf named Tenebras. Leading them to an even nearerby forest, Tenebras helped tend for the young child. Little more than a year later, Driselle had another vision. Grasping him by the arm, Driselle stared fiercely into her son's frightened eyes.


"Ten years, my son," she gasped. "Wait ten more years for the wars to subside, leaving the country in a weak state. They will be in need of a strong leader. You must be ready, Ivan. There is one by the name of Harold the Mighty. Do not laugh my son. He poses a threat to your aspiration to the throne, and your existence. Slay this pretender, take your rightful place as king, restore our family's honor. Do not forget, Ivan. Do not forget..." Driselle trailed off, closing her eyes to the pain. Slipping the family crest into his small fingers, Driselle took a final look at her young boy; a smile found her lips. Her body gave one last shudder before her soul was put to rest, dying in Ivan's four-year-old arms.

From that moment on, Ivan was raised by Tenebras, who, unbeknownst to Ivan, had been the commander of the Valos Elves' army, exceeding at both armed combat and magical. Tenebras realized the potential in the young boy; the only thing more fierce than his potential was his determination. At times it nearly scared Tenebras, and he was quick to assume the position of his right-hand man and patiently bode his time playing the part of his "endearing servant".

In the following years, Ivan grew powerful, and, in his fourteenth year, left the confines of the forest for his date with destiny. Seeking out Harold, the Mighty, Ivan found him in a small crevice, with a large army. Speaking from the shadows, Ivan addressed this would-be-obstacle.

"Your time is at an end. Step down peacefully, and you shall be spared."


Harold had never known fear, did not understand it, and so did not know that this would be a good time to feel it. "Who are you?" he challenged, arrogantly casting his head back and forth. "Show yourself!"


"Huh. You dare?" the voice reverberated off of the walls. *(A cackle arose from all around the army, causing the well-trained war horses to shuffle, whinny, and snort.)*


Something clenched Harold's throat, something caused his hairs of his neck to stand on end. "You have no business here! Do you know who you're talking to?*(Coward! The shadows won't shelter you forever! Show yourself!)*" he raged. When no reply came, he continued, "It is not I whose time is to end in this gourge, swine!" As the last echoes of his voice reverberated off of the canyon walls, he heard a whisper come to him from the darkness.


"Let's see if the fates agree! *(I'm afraid I have to disagree!)*"


From behind Harold, a green flash erupted simultaneously with the screams of his men. Before he could turn to see, however, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He turned in time to see the face of this strange feeling, the face of fear.


**********************************************************************************

Ivan gave a final twist, putting an end to the soldiers writhings, and yanked out his double-bladed sword. After cleaning the blade on a fallen soldier's relatively clean tunic, he moved to Tenebras's side. Tenebras released his hold on the magic, letting the corpse crumple to the ground, and dousing the emerald flames.


"Where to, my liege?" he enquired.

Ivan smiled.

"Mersam Navem."