Thursday, December 15, 2011


Warning: French translated in Babelfish, since I know as much about French as my character. No idea how accurate it is.

Lost. That’s where I was. Lost on the streets of Chantilly, a small French town near Paris. We had come for a vacation, a well-needed break from the large English cities, and I hardly knew a word of French. But my parents insisted.

It was well into the night now, and we had run out of milk. The shops were open now, but they wouldn’t be next morning, when we needed it. I decided to go out. How hard could buying a bottle of milk be, I thought?

I was wrong.

We were staying in a small hotel, barely recognisable by its flickering sign. I took two steps away from the nearest lamppost and was bathed in darkness. But from here, I could see the glowing light of the French convenience store. It was only a hundred meters or so away. An easy distance.

I started towards it, found my milk, and went to the counter. The shopkeeper was middle-aged, with a burly build, dark hair and a pleasant smile. He said something in French which I couldn’t understand, then tried again in English.

“Four dollars thirty. You a tourist?”

His accent made it hard to understand. “Yes,” I said, as I paid the money.

He gave me a toothy grin. “Are you enjoying Chantilly?”

“Oh yes, very much,” I said earnestly. I grabbed my milk and left the convenience store.

My eyes were peeled open for any sign of the hotel. I walked up the steep slope of the narrow, unfamiliar streets, past shops and houses with extinguished lights. It must be almost midnight. Through the gap of a curtain, I saw a large woman making some tea. She had a bedside lamp turned on. I quickly walked past, hoping she hadn’t seen me, before the realisation hit me.

I hadn’t seen her when I was going to the store. I was going the wrong way.

Panicked, I turned and started back down the street. The road sloped downwards at quite a sharp angle, and I had to force myself not to break into a run. The darkness pressed in around me, and the hairs at the back of my neck stood up. It was okay, I told myself. I had just walked past my small hotel.

I scanned both sides of the empty streets, but found nothing. Not a hotel, not a single soul. The only point to guide me was the convenience store, which was mercifully still open.

I had almost reached the convenience store once more when I met a boy, coming from the other direction. He was a teenager about my age, in torn jeans, a shirt and a black vest. His blond hair was messily cut, and he grinned at me as we passed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lift a hand, and mimicked me carrying my bottle of milk in an exaggerated, snobbish fashion like the posh Englishmen.

I laughed, loudly, because he was kind of cute. I heard him join in.

Instinctively, I turned around. He was the only person I had met all night, and I didn’t want him to go.
“Où allez-vous?” he asked me, cocking an eyebrow.

I blinked at him, so he tried again. “Êtes vous perdu?”

I cleared my throat. “I, um, don’t speak French.”

“Oh.” He frowned, gathering his thoughts. Then he pointed at me, mimicked walking, and then gave me a questioning look and shrugged his shoulders. Apparently he didn’t know much English either.

“Um,” I said again. I had some idea of what he was talking about.

The boy sighed, obviously irritated at my apparent lack of understanding. He pointed at himself. “Émile
I definitely knew what he was talking about now. “Janette,” I said, indicating myself.

He grinned. “Nice to meet you.” He paused, frowning. “Where are ... you ... going?”

I shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’m lost.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he was lost about my sentences as well. “I don’t know,” I said slowly.

“Perdu?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

Émile sauntered over to a street sign and pointed up at it.

I shook my head. “Hostellerie du Lys,” I said.

“Maintenant nous obtenons quelque part!” he exclaimed. Then he saw my frown, and grinned. Émile pointed down the road, held up two fingers, then pointed right. Then he gave me a thumbs up.

“Merci,” I breathed. I dug into my wallet for some money, but when I looked up again, he was gone.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

The Game of Lies

The Liar was getting bored. He didn't know who had come up with this brilliant idea of recruiting more Liars, but when he found out, he was going to strangle him. He had gone through fifteen people today, and it was five more minutes until the end of his shift. Those fifteen people had either been blatantly obnoxious, cracking very bad jokes or very, very bad liars.

But the Liar was very good at his job, and he made every one of them think they were going to be chosen.

Last one, the Liar sighed to himself, crossing another name off his clipboard. He read the last name there. "Come in, Visere," he called.

No one entered, and for a second the Liar thought 'Visere' had grown tired of waiting and gone home, which suited everyone perfectly well. But then, slowly, the door opened, and a boy peeked inside. He was barely into adolescence - probably ten years old or so - with a head of untidy brown hair. But the Liar was immediately drawn to his eyes, which were a steady, unwavering green.

"Come in," the Liar repeated, motioning to the chair facing him.

Visere darted in and sat himself down very gingerly on the chair, looking not at all comfortable. His gaze was locked firmly onto the Liar.

Confident, thought the Liar, scribbling the word down. Though the boy was giving some opposite signals... Either confident, or frightened out of his wits, he added. "Well, Visere," said the Liar with a smile, "so you want to join the Diplomats."

There was a brief silence. The boy was taking his time, and he knew it. The Liar crossed out the last phrase he had written on the sheet of paper. The kid wasn't frightened. He was supremely confident. He was just acting.

"I do want to join the Diplomats," Visere said, in a fairly neutral tone. His voice didn't waver. "But I don't just want to. I will join."

The Liar's eyes narrowed. "How old are you?"

"Ten. Which is why I'm suitable."

Yes. Start training from a young age. The Liar made a note on his clipboard, then looked back up. "What if I told you there was hard work involved? It's not all fun and games."

Visere shrugged. "I know that."

Actually, thought the Liar, you have no idea. He grinned to himself. "What if I told you we're not serving the King?"

Visere's eyes widened. He realized his mistake a second too late. "Who are you serving, then?"

"The Queen."

"She's dead."

The Liar raised a patronising eyebrow. "I know that." He waited for a response, but the boy didn't speak. "Well then, Visere, what if I told you that we're not actually serving the Queen?"

"Who are you serving, then?"

The Liar allowed a smirk to play on his face. "The King."

Visere's face coloured. He made a move to stand up, but thought better of it at the last moment. "Two can play at this game," he hissed. "What if I told you I was an orphan?"

Good, thought the Liar, but not good enough. "Truth."

"What if I said my parents were killed in the almost-rebellion?"

Too easy. "Truth."

Visere's eyes narrowed. "What if I told you that my dream is to assassinate the King?"

The Liar's smirk turned into a grin. "Well then, my protege, we'd better hope that's a lie."

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Into Darkness [Silm|Feanor]

He knew he had died before he was dead, which was quite a strange notion. He had seen the horrified looks on his sons’ faces, had felt his strength leave him. He had known the exact moment when his heart stopped beating and when his body crumbled into ash, to be blown about by the wind.

And he had known the exact moment when he understood that Morgoth would never be defeated by the Noldor. The curse that had escaped from his lips was filled with all the hatred and anger from the depths of his heart.

And then he was gone.

Curufinwë Fëanáro stood on a raised platform, surveying the long line of dead Souls. The line was straight, leading directly into large chamber. That was, he knew, where Mandos resided. That was where they were all going.

And that was where he was not going to go.

He would not go there for the Vala to tell him of his mistakes. He will not go there to receive punishment for the deeds he had committed. He would not go there to be told that he was wrong, and his life had been wasted, and everything he had done was for nothing.

And he would not be treated like a child.

Looking around, Fëanáro saw red walls, red floors and red ceilings. He saw the lanterns that bathed everything in an eerie glow. He saw the red light encompass all that was not yet crimson and turn them into statues of blood. He knew Mandos was taunting him. He was not going to fall for it.

Ignoring the flight of stairs leading down to the dead, Fëanáro turned and exited through a corridor behind him. It was flanked by the same repulsive red lanterns and seemed to stretch on for eternity.

All he could see was blood. Blood of his father, blood of his kin, blood of the Elves who had followed him from Tírion that he had selfishly left to die.

Fëanáro gave a cry of fury and struck one of the lanterns on the wall, stifling the flames of the candle. It was satisfying to see that the redness of the corridor had dimmed, if only slightly. He kept walking, blowing out the fire as he went and leaving a trail of darkness.

One by one the lanterns went out, until Fëanáro suddenly stopped in his tracks. A dead end. One lantern yet remained undimmed, its light flickering like a desperate flame of life. He pushed on the wall that blocked his path, snarling with rage, and yet it remained there, resolute.

Cursing hopelessly, he turned around to go back the way he came.

Only to find a long passageway of darkness.

Friday, September 30, 2011

NaNoWriMo '11 - the Lying Division

So. NaNoWriMo is coming up. 50,000 words. 30 days. Consider yourself challenged.

I'll probably change this blog into one where I rant about the failures of my characters, why I can't write High Fantasy, and my plot holes big enough to drive a truck through them. So far I literally only have 3 named characters. Only 1 has a fully-formed personality. Altogether, including my named, unnamed and dead characters, I have 7. Small cast this year.

Let's give a small introduction.

King: Tyrant of the kingdom (of which I have no name). Sole ruler, his queen died of a reason I haven't thought of. Twelve years ago, there was a rebellion, which failed. Since then the king has made a Diplomatic Division, a group of people trained to negotiate and feed lies to the public.

Queen: Originally came up with the Diplomatic Division. As I said, she died.

Princess Aveline: Daughter of the king and queen...yeah okay, that was obvious. She's 17 now, very ditsy and spoilt, and totally in love with Visere.

Visere: The 'Diplomatic Leader'. The Diplomats call themselves the Lying Division as an inside joke. He's 20, handsome, a smooth Liar and an even better assassin. His parents were killed in the previous rebellion, so he will stop another rebellion by any means necessary. He's a mentor to Klyte.

Klyte: My main character. 16 and orphaned, he grew up on the streets. He was found by Visere (through a long-winded story you don't need to know) and brought into the castle to become a Liar.

Unnamed friend (possibly Nephele): Klyte's childhood friend, thrown out of her family for being a girl. Grew up on the streets with Klyte, but didn't go into the castle with him.

Unnamed vigilante (possibly Cyrin or Cyrene): One of the vigilantes of the kingdom who want a rebellion. They're sick and tired of the king's tyranny.

And that's all I've got xD Plus a long-winded, double-crossing, backstabbing plot involving lots of... plotting.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Lying Division [blurb]

In the style of a query, because I can no longer tell the difference.

Sixteen-year-old Klyte is the new recruit of the Diplomats. Their 'official' job is to negotiate peace with other kingdoms, but that hasn't happened for years.

Klyte's mentor, Visere, has a better idea. They call themselves professional Liars - an inside joke. Trained in negotiation also means they're trained in the art of lying. Their new job is to spread good rumours of the King, and silence political unrest by whatever means necessary.

Within days, Klyte sees just how good they are at lying. And killing.

There's one thing this Division isn't telling the King: they aren't serving him. Visere says they’re serving the Queen, but she’s been dead for almost a decade. Then who’s sending the orders?

Klyte doesn't care, until he is caught up in an assassination attempt. The King is angry. Visere is furious. He is convinced there are spies within their Division, working for outside sources.

Visere begins killing: left, right and centre, until his suspicions fall on Klyte.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Nirnaeth Arnoediad [Silmarillion]

Depicting the scene of Fingon before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad  (Battle of Unnumbered Tears) when he marches to war. Seen in eyes of young Turin son of Hurin. I may have gone overboard with the description a little, but it doesn't matter.

He saw tall lords upon majestic horses, mail glittering like the sun on rippling water. Heads held high, spirits soaring, they march upon their steeds, towards battle. The points of their spears glistened and shone, their shields dazzled when the sun's rays hit. Tall and proud were the Elves under the High King, and strong and brave and hopeful.

Spears they held, and banners too. Bright blue banners under a blue sky, banners of the High King, of the renewed hope of the Noldor. And so they march, eyes ahead, dark hair flowing freely under their shining helms. Bright smiles on their flawless faces: smiles of hope, of the future, of an end to this war.

The vanguard passed, their banners fluttering in the breeze. Then came the main escort of the High King, taller and sterner than the others. They drew themselves up, proud and cold, but their faces reflected light and kindness. Leading them was the fairest and tallest of all: the King himself, sword buckled in at his waist, sharpened spear thrusted into the air triumphantly. Then in one flowing motion, he lifted a hand and tore his helm off, his long hair flowing freely in the breeze. His eyes shone with a fiery light as he looked towards the horizon.

A new day had come. And with it came a new hope.

So I wanted to depict a scene where Elves were... well, very obviously Elves. Not humans. I wanted to show them almost as angels, something higher than Men. Because in all honesty... that's what I see them as xD Comparing them to us is a bit degrading. For them.

Friday, September 16, 2011


I am not skilled in the art of poetry...but I tried :)

When I was young,
I thought magic was real.
I sat on my broomstick, and soared into the skies.
I stirred the cauldron, and watched the liquid bubble.
I threw a cloak over my head, and turned invisible.
I waved a stick around, and uttered words of power.

But I am older now.
I have seen brilliant shows of light shine brighter than stars in the night sky
I have breathed underwater and waved hello to the fish
I have felt the world at my fingertips at the touch of a button
I have been on top of the world, looking down at the distant houses.
And I know that magic is real.


So. There is this very awesome site called Notebook in Hand ( promoting anything creative ^^ Writing, drawing, sculpting, whatever. As long as you're creative, it's for you! (And I do believe they're reading Game of Thrones right now)


Sunday, September 4, 2011

Alternate Query

This is a first-draft query for my novel Alternate. Any feedback/critiques are welcome ^^

Dear Agent,

Fifteen-year-old Damian Farrow has the ability to stop a speeding car in its tracks, and learns that while he may be unusually lucky, he isn’t the only one.

A single day is repeating over and over again, and the Key to restart time cannot be found. But what is impossible in this world may not be in another—a parallel universe full of malevolent enemies. Damian’s luck is a tool for him to use, and is the only thing which will save him from certain death, if only he knew how to use it.

As Damian slowly learns to control his power, a dark secret haunts their footsteps. The parallel universe is controlled and ruled by their enemies. To find the Key, they must infiltrate the headquarters of the world’s supreme dictator. Drastically outnumbered and outmatched, the chances of reaching that goal are slim. But if they fail, then the human race will be enslaved by the repetition of a single day for the rest of eternity.

ALTERNATE is a young adult fantasy novel at 73,000 words.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011


Experimenting with various possible plots, scenes, magic and characters in my next novel...
He drew a line of white fire across her neck with the tip of his finger. Then he began walking around her, drawing the line as he did so, so when he finished there was a circle around her neck - not big enough for her to move, but large enough so she wouldn't accidentally cut her throat.

"Tell me what I want," the man said, in a normal tone, "or I shall leave you standing here for as long as necessary."

The woman glared at him, defiantly. Her hands were tied behind her back and were hidden from his view, and she was frantically playing with what looked like a ball of black smoke. "I will not," she replied.

"Then you may stand, and you will die when you fall asleep. And I will watch you."

"If I die, the secret dies with me," she snapped.

But he was laughing and shaking his head. "I can get others," the man intoned. "Others easier to persuade, more willing to bend to my command. You are disposable, Linette."

"They will not," Linette said abstinantely. "They will never."

"You may believe it is so, but your hopes are foolish," said the man. "I have time on my side."

Behind her back, Linette's ball of smoke had expanded. It had crept down onto the floor and was lying exactly where her shadow was. The man hadn't noticed.

"They will come for me," she said. "And then they will kill you."

He shook his head, once more.

"Do not deny it," said Linette, lips curving into a smile.

"I shall deny it all I want," the man sneered. "And if I were you, I would not make any useless plans to escape." He strode around behind her, and casually stepped in her shadow. The smoke disappated immediately.

Linette's eyes widened, and she struggled against the bonds on her hands. But the ropes were tight and glowed blue with specks of gold, and simply became tighter every time she pulled against them. "Please..." She begged him. "Let me go! Or at least, allow me the chance to escape so that you can capture me once more."

"I do not play such games," said the man calmly.

"It will keep you entertained in the long hours before I go to sleep," she pointed out.

"Do not tempt me to slit your throat here and now."

Linette fell silent.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


Experimenting for 'what if's for my next novel. Obviously it won't be as badly written as this, if it does happen.

A messenger arrived at the front steps of the palace. "I have a message," said the man, "for someone called Visere. I was told he could be found here." He held out a scroll.

The king looked at it suspiciously, but nodded. "Call Visere," he nodded to a servant. The servant turned tail and disappeared, to be followed a second later by a handsome man in his twenties, a politely curious smile on his face.

"There was a message for me, your highness?" said Visere. His voice was controlled, and pleasant. He caught sight of the messenger. "Is that him?"


The scroll was quickly passed over, and the messenger left. Visere, after a moment's hesitation, also turned around and went back the way he came, through marble corridors and up a staircase before reaching his own room. He locked the door then sat on the bed, carefully unfurling the letter.

To Visere, Sorcerer of  ____,

We are sorry to inform you of the deaths of your mother Acacia and your sister Myssie. They were found dead inside their home on the 20th of August. Please accept our sincerest apologies.


Visere stared at the letter, stunned, after he had finished. He sat there, eyes staring, completely immobile. Then he read it again. And again. Then he stood up and, hands shaking, ripped the letter into tiny little pieces. He let them fall to the floor, and took several deep breaths, closed his eyes, and screamed. With a thud, his knees hit the floor. His head was tilted up towards the sky, his eyes were scrunched closed, and his scream echoed throughout the palace. It was one long sound: horrible, piteous, and filled with anguish.

His hands hit the floor too, and dry, wracked sobs shook through his body. He dugs his nails into his palm so hard that they began to draw blood.

The door of his room was suddenly thrown open, a girl standing there in the doorway. "Is everything alright? I heard a scream--"

"NO!" he roared, suddenly on his feet again. The girl was jerked back, hit the corridor wall, and crumpled. She didn't get up.

"No..." Visere whispered. "Nothing's alright. Nothing. NOTHING!"

He ran. Out of his room, out of the corridor, pushing past stunned people then into the sun, then he kept running, stumbling down the stairs into the courtyard. There was a horse - he swung into its saddle and began to ride. His hands were bleeding, and so was his lip, from the effort of keeping the tears from leaking out. They did so anyway as he rode towards the horizon, only gaining speed and never losing it.

He screamed again, then let go of the horse's reins and made a furious motion with his hands. Everything fifty feet from him rippled as if it had been struck by a wind, then collapsed into a junk heap.

By now, people have begun chasing after him. They began calling his name, straining their horses for extra speed. They yelled at him to come back, to tell them what was wrong.

Visere heard their voices and, amidst his tears, smiled mockingly. It was a painful and icy smile, and only flickered for a moment before a spasm of pain crossed his face. "Come back?" he breathed. "Come back? I'm not going back, you pathetic ragdolls. You're never going to see me ever again."

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Tuesday's Times [KttK]

So I just finished reading Grim Tuesday...again...and it's really sad what happened to Tuesday's poor, poor Times. Especially at the end where Yan was getting excited. *sobs* So this is inspired by them, I guess. (I can only remember like, 4 of them.) I own nothing.

Grim Tuesday, Lord of the Far Reaches, Wielder of the Second Key to the Kingdom and the Architect and one of the Seven Trustees of the Will, nodded to his Dawn, Noon and Dusk. They were inside his Treasure Tower, which wasn't yet encased by the glass pyramid, but already was built. In fact, they were not so much inside as 'underneath', miles beneath the surface, accessible only by an elevator.

This place was built for only one purpose and would, very soon, cease to exist. It was a large room, separated in half with immaterial glass. Tuesday stood on one side of the room, and his Dawn, Noon and Dusk on the other. The Trustee was wielding the Second Key, as usual, which took the shape of silver gloves on both his hands.

"Stand closer together!" Tuesday barked, as his Times quickly complied.

Noon opened his mouth to speak. Tuesday snapped at him. "Problem, Noon?"

"Yes, sir," said Noon respectfully, inclining his head. "Well, no sir," he added as an afterthought. His voice was smooth and persuasive, but held no power over his master nor his siblings. "It is not so much of a problem as a difficulty."

"And what is that?" Tuesday asked.

"Well, sir," began Noon reluctantly. "Meaning no disrespect, Lord Tuesday, but I cannot see how splitting us into seven will increase the amount of work being done. Surely we shall command less power, not to mention the uncomfortable experience and all the potential disasters which are possible--"

"They are not possible!" said Tuesday. "I have wielded the Second Key for millenia. There will be no mistakes."

"I did not mean mistakes, but rather unforeseen circumstances."

Next to Noon, dressed in all black with silver buttons, was Dusk. It was he who know spoke. "Lord Tuesday," Dusk said quietly, yet his voice seemed to carry. "I agree with Noon. It would be too hasty and dangerous for such an experiment. We shall be weaker when separated, and it will be painful and time-consuming. It is against the natural order the Architect--"

"The Architect!" laughed Tuesday disdainfully. "She is gone, and her Will hidden where no one will find it. I disobeyed the Architect the moment the Will was split into seven pieces. Now, if there are no more protests--"

"Lord Tuesday!" cried Dawn. "I cannot fathom why you are doing this!"

"I, also, object," said Dusk.

"Perhaps we should consider another possible alternative," said Noon.

"It is too dangerous--"

"And painful--"

"We shall become weaker--"

"It would be more difficult to serve you--"

"I cannot see how--"

"QUIET!" Tuesday roared. His Times ceased immediately, and silence filled the room. "You shall not speak," he told them. "Your opinion matters not. Seven shall be able to mine more Nothing than three. Now, stand closer together, while I meld you into one being, and then into seven--"

"Please, Lord Tuesday!" cried Noon.

"I command you to become silent immediately!" Tuesday barked. Once again, there was utter silence. "Now. As Lord of the Far Reaches and wielder of the Second Key, the Times of Grim Tuesday, Dawn, Noon and Dusk, are to become one Denizen."

The three Times began to glow witih a silvery white light, too bright for lesser Denizens to look upon. Grim Tuesday kept his attention completely focused as the three of them began to meld into one figure. When the light faded, Dawn, Noon and Dusk had become one person, easily nine feet tall, with perfect features.

They--that is to say, he bowed. "Lord Tuesday." Their voices were combined, too, creating a harmony of smooth sound.

Tuesday nodded with approval. He raised the Second Key again and muttered another few words. The figure glowed with a light brighter than before, then began separating into seven indistinct shapes. At first, there were sounds of mild discomfort, then gasps, groans and then screams. The person screamed as their essence was torn apart, a sound which seemed to shatter the heavens. It was the sound of the ultimate torture - of a body split into seven, of a soul torn, battered and broken.

Then the light faded, and the sound suddenly cut off, and seven Grotesques stood in a line.

"Lord Tuesday."

Grim Tuesday nodded. His job was well done.

Monday, August 22, 2011


(True story of what's happening right now.)


That was what she saw in front of her. A blank screen, a list of responsibilities and a wide internet with as much procrastination as one could want. She stared at the screen. Responsibilities. Internet. Responsibilities. Internet.

I deserve a break, she told herself. I've done maths homework for the last hour. Then she looks at the clock and almost dies of horror. There's no time - no time to waste, at least. She could finish everything on that list in half an hour. Or, she could wait until tomorrow, and have fun for half an hour.

Or, she could do neither, and just shut the computer down for the rest of the night.



She looked back at the list, and tried writing down a few words. She got as far as the first word - no, not even that far. She merely switched to the tab which had the information she wanted, then stared at it. I'm wasting time, she told herself. Yes, she knew that, she wasn't stupid. She wanted to do work. She had no excuse, even when she tried to tell herself that her muse wasn't here. Because if her muse wasn't here, she wouldn't be able to be writing this right now.

She was just a procrastinator.

One story, she told herself, to warm up my muse. Well, one story's gone. She had run out of things to say. She wanted to keep writing, if only to delay the inevitable for a little while longer.

She pauses, now, and stares at the screen. She breathes in and out and wonders what else she could possibly write. She wonders whether she should go on youtube. Or twitter. Facebook seems good right about now. She flicks to the twitter tab. She begins typing things such as 'My muse is gone' or 'I'm a procrastinator', but she's trying to fight the procrastination so turns back to her blogspot tab without doing anything.

One song, she promises herself. One song, and then to work.

Friday, August 19, 2011

The Failed Test Subject

Her father led her into the elevator, then pressed a button. Down they went, lower than the ground floor, the car park, lower than she had ever gone before. Her whole body tingled with a mixture of excitement and fear, and she shivered.

"Are you sure about this, Lynette?" her father asked, for the third time in five minutes.

"Yes, yes, of course!" she replied immediately, eyes shining. "I want to see him! Just one look, dad, you promised! Please?"

Her father sighed. "Alright. I know I've told you already, but--"

"Yes, I know there's a bulletproof glass wall between us! He'll be nice, I just know it."

Down and down the elevator descended until, with a final ding, arrived at its destination. The doors opened. Her father stepped out warily. Lynette practically bounced out with excitement.

The one long corridor was lit with white electric lights on the ceiling, giving the atmosphere an artificial glow. At the end of the corridor was a lone door - made of steel and kept locked at all times, expect when the person on the other side was fed - three times a day, every day. Other times, he was kept confined, alone, and his actions were monitored ceaselessly.

Lynette's father opened the door, and they stepped into a small compartment. Another door blocked their way. He locked the first door behind them, then thrust the key into the next, which slid open noiselessly. She stepped into the room.

At first, she couldn't see anything. It was dark, lit by a silver light in the shape of a crescent. She could clearly see the glass separating the room into two. The side she was standing in was empty, painted black, and devoid of any furniture or colour of any kind. The other side was much bigger - many trees, but not enough to be a forest, a small pond, vines, and a house. It was a large house for one person, painted brown, and stood ominously in the darkness.

Her father let out a low whistle, then paused and waited. He whistled again. "Come on out, Visere!  You have a visitor! A visitor is someone who comes to see you. Isn't it exciting?"

Nothing happened for a few moments, then the front door of the house opened. A tall man walked out - sixteen years of age, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt, baggy pants and no shoes. His dark hair was down to his waist and immensely tangled, his eyes were too big for any human, and gleamed with savagery. When he opened his mouth, Lynette could see that his teeth ended in points.

"Lynette, say hello to Visere," said her father.

She took a breath, but the words caught in her throat. Her eyes were glued to this strange spectacle. She tried to speak, choked, then cleared her throat and tried again. "H...H-Hello..." Desperately, she turned to her father. "Does he understand me?" she whispered.

His father didn't answer - the person did. "Yes," he said quietly. "I do." His voice was hoarse from lack of use. His large, dark eyes stared into her soul.

"Oh," Lynette squealed. "Well, um, hello." Once again, she looked to her father for help, but he smiled and prodded her forward. Hesitantly, she took half a step towards the pane of glass. "My name's Lynette. Um... my father said your  name was Visere. Is that right?"

The person nodded almost robotically, face devoid of expression.

"It's nice to meet you," she said, blurting out the only thing she could think of. "Um... it's... nice weather, isn't it?" Lynette blushed. Obviously in this dark underground room, he couldn't see the weather outside.

"I don't know," said Visere, still in his quiet tone. He switched his gaze to her father. "What is a 'weather'?"

Her father cleared his throat. "It's the, uh, conditions of the sky."

Visere swung his head up, looking at the black ceiling many meters high, then turned back to Lynette. "Yes," he said conversationally. "Very nice weather. What did you say your name was?"


"I'm sorry." Visere inclined his head, half-bowing. "I do not... remember things well. I do not need to remember anything here."

A pang of pity stabbed through Lynette's heart. "Oh, um," she said timidly, completely lost for words.

"I do not, of course," continued Visere slowly, "usually have visitors. I am to be kept in solitary confinement for the rest of my life."

Her father looked uncomfortable. Lynette ignored him. "D-Do you like that?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "Not really. But I cannot do anything about it. I understand that this is for my own safety, and the safety of others. I do not want to... to..." He struggled for a word. "I do not want to make everyone else feel unsafe."

"I don't think that's fair," said Lynette quietly. "I think you should have a chance to live a normal life, too. Even if you are a bit... different."

"I am not different. I am a failed test subject."

"Well, did you volunteer to be tested on?" she demanded.

He frowned and closed his eyes, as if trying to understand what she was saying. A few seconds later, his eyes opened again, and his face was a mask once more. "No, but I do not mind. Not really."

"Yes you do!" Lynette cried. "Of course you mind! Who wouldn't mind being trapped down here by themselves for the rest of their lives, just because they were tested on and found to be 'dangerous'? It's a horrible thing to do to someone!" She gasped, and suddenly clamped a hand over her mouth. Had she gone too far? Lynette glanced sideways at her father, but he was looking away from her, and she couldn't see his expression.

"I am told," said Visere, "that the other... option... is death. I do not know what death is. I have asked everyone, but nobody can tell me. I do not want something that I do not know. Do you know what death is?" he asked.

"I-It's," she began, then seemed to choke on her words again. Lynette fell silent and shook her head, as she tried to prevent tears from leaking out from the corners of her eyes.

Visere nodded sadly, as if he had expected this. His large eyes seemed to be drawn on something. He blinked curiously. "You have water on your face," he said. "Where did it come from?"

Lynette supressed a sob, then wiped the tears out of her eyes. It didn't work, because they just kept flowing. "I... I'm just... I..." She had to stop as a sob wracked through her body. The tears didn't stop.

He seemed to realize what was going on, and adopted a calmer tone. "If you are upset with me, you do not have to stay here."

She shook her head so quickly that her vision blurred. "I'm not upset," she hiccupped. "Not with you, anyway. But I do have to go now." She hesitated. "You're a really nice person, Visere. You know that? I'll come back for sure, to talk to you. I'll be your friend."

Her father put an arm around Lynette's shoulder, and walked her out. The door closed and locked behind them. Visere was left standing, watching silently through the wall of glass. At last, he said to himself, "I do not understand what a friend is."

Then he shook his head, and went back inside his house.

Friday, August 5, 2011


Inspired by Touchstone from Sabriel. 

He stared up at the dusty photograph, left on a broken shelf in a home abandoned long ago. His hand moved upwards, instinctively, brushing the dust off, and took the picture off the shelf. A beautiful woman, with a three-year-old daughter. Both were laughing, the light was bouncing off the woman's black hair like it shone of mirrors. The light shone in the young girl's face.

The man closed his eyes and allowed tears to flow. He didn't wipe them away as they dropped onto the picture. He took several deep breaths then, with an effort, put the picture back on the shelf, and walked out of the room. The tears remained on the glass, glistening in the dim light.

Saturday, July 30, 2011


Firstly, belated happy birthday to Nathanial Reyes, MC of (the unpublished) Civilisation's Cycle written by Maxy.

Chris Baty is leaving OLL D: I'm sad. But good luck, Chris!

And there's lots of work for me this Tuesday...IPT Trial HSC coming up! Wish me luck :) I'm going to die...

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Noldorin Units

Noldorin units cost...
'They generally cost 10% of your payroll, 50 acts of random kindness, a hundred times of honesty, and 2 hundred times of love! (What the...) Spread the love! After all, all of us are children of Eru are we not? Consider these Units as Timeless-Halls sent! :XD:' - My wonderful nephew Ereinion
Therefore! I shall be keeping track of how many acts of random kindness, honesty, love, etc.etc. I do! I will fail epically! ...Who cares. 

Sunday, July 17, 2011

An argument

"I said no already!" Visere whipped around, eyes furious. He shot the girl opposite him a menacing glare. "I told you, I'm not going to die!"

There was a wooden table between the man and the girl, who was on a plush leather chair, and looked a little too comfortable. She sighed and took a breath. "You have to, Vis!"

"Look, Therese, I have everything planned out. I have a whole group of Sorcerers from both kingdoms. I have a huge political influence, more than enough money, and an army at my disposal. Who's going to kill me?"

"You'll get killed before you get the money and army."

"I already have them."

The girl called Therese quickly backtracked. "I mean, before you get to them."

Visere's eyes flashed. "I thought you wanted this," he said accusingly, standing up. His intimidating figure was towering over her. "I thought it was your idea to have a four-way battle! To frame two innocents! Why do you want me dead now, at the crux of things?"

"I don't want you dead!" snapped Therese. "There are certain ... sarcifices ... which need to be made. You'll just have to be one of them."


"Why? For God's sake, Visere! You're evil! You're the villain! Villains have to die!"

"So this is for the sake of the plot?"

"Everything is for the sake of the plot!"


"Stop calling me Therese!" The girl cut across him. "I'm your Authoress! I feel like you're insulting me every time you call me Therese."

"Therese stems from Authoress," Visere explained innocently. "I can't exactly go around calling you Thoress."

"Then explain why it sounds insulting."

Visere smiled playfully. "Obviously I'm degrading your title of Authoress into a name which can be given to any lowly character."

"Obviously." The Authoress smiled painfully. She thought that she should pull this back on track. "But I am the Authoress, and I move the plot. Without the plot, the book is nothing! Nothing, you hear me?"

"Aren't I your favourite?" Visere complained. "Don't I get a chance to live? Can't the evil guys win, for once?"

"Well, I planned that until my Muse came up with another idea," mused the Authoress. "Besides, that wasn't High Fantasy enough. That was running away and Eragon-y."

"I can't believe this," said Visere icily. "You're throwing me away because you have to let your main character win?"

The Authoress gave him a nervous smile. "Yes?"

Visere was silent for a moment. Then his lips curved into a vicious smile. "I understand," he said, turning around. He began marching out of the room. "I understand completely."

"Where are you going?" cried the Authoress. The door from which he entered vanished just before his hands touched it.

"Why Therese," said Visere pleasantly, "haven't you realized already? I'm going to kill your precious main character!" He clicked his fingers, and vanished from the room.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


Visére wasn't a person with a good sense of justice. He didn't struggle with morality. He never wondered whether his actions were for the greater good. He only ever wondered about a few things, and one of them was himself. The other was how much money he had. The third was how long he was going to survive for.

So even he surprised himself when he volunteered to become a spy. Yes, he would be pleasing his own lure of danger. Yes, there would be enough money for him to spend the rest of his life. But no, he wasn't going to survive very long. Not at all. Definitely not if he was caught.

Persuading a young, naive, arrogant sorcerer to become a spy was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn't foresee the reaction. If Klyte said no--and he had every reason to say no--then Visére was dead by morning. On the off chance Klyte agreed, Visére could still be killed later. Klyte could double-cross him. He could be killed in battle. He could be assassinated.

On the other hand, if he didn't get killed, he would spend the rest of his life in the palace, servants flocking to do his bidding. He would be in the greatest honour of the king. That is, unless the king backstabbed him. Visére frowned. That was possible. What use would he be when the war was over, when they had won? The king would have no need for a spy; especially someone who was so good at hiding secrets.

Visére made up his mind, and nodded to himself. Oh, he would play along being a spy for now. But when the time came, he will take his own section of the army, hopefully allied with Klyte's sorcerers, and forge a new empire for himself.

Oh yes, and then Klyte would have to die.

Saturday, July 9, 2011


They were kids once, too. Playing in the park, drawing in the dirt with sticks, shrieking with laughter as the swing brought them one step closer to heaven.

Klyte lifted his head and looked up at the pouring sky. The dark clouds rumbled overhead; it was probably time to go inside. He took a breath and walked forward, away from the house he had lived in for sixteen years. Every step leant him the courage to walk further, and eventually there was nothing but a trail of muddy footprints leading from the silent house.

His feet led him in a straight line, just walking. His tousled hair stuck to his scalp, his muddy shirt was drenched. He kept walking, until the remnants of civilisation gradually started to appear. He kept walking, dark eyes cold and silent, acknowledging and accepting the curious stares that came his way. He nodded towards a child who ran for his mother. He tossed a coin to the homeless man lying in the street. And always, he kept walking.

He walked to the castle gate and gazed at the towers he had once lived in. It was still raining. There were dozens of soldiers on the battlements, and every single arrow was trained on him. Klyte allowed them to take his interest for a few seconds, then stepped forward once more. The bridge of the moat came down silently.

He walked through the courtyard, through corridors of gold and silver. The incredulous soldiers moved out of the way as he slowly but surely walked into the throne room.

He looked up at the newly coronated king.

"Hello, Klyte."

Klyte nodded, as a vague greeting.

"I said hello, Klyte," the king said forcefully.

The boy's eyes showed no sign of interest.

"Not going to greet your king?"

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke. "I already have."

"That nod was not a greeting."

"It was greeting enough."

"I am the king!" thundered the man on the throne. "I will have the respect I deserve. I know you are here on a mission to assassinate me, Klyte. I want to know why you simply walked into the castle, in plain sight."

"You let me."

"I made your job easier because I did not want to humiliate you."

Klyte reached into his bag and pulled out a dagger. "This is what I'm supposed to assassinate you with."

The king chuckled. "Well, aren't you going to do it?"

His cold eyes glinted with new-found interest. "Of course."

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Ranting about work

"It's not fair!" said a teenage girl, sulking in the corner of her room which she had deemed the 'Emo CornerTM'. One would only retreat to the Emo CornerTM when one was feeling quite emo, except this girl didn't quite know what emo meant apart from cutting yourself, wearing all black and looking sad all day. As she fulfilled one of these criteria (looking sad), she decided it was enough for her to retreat to said corner.

"It's not fair!" she said again, pouting. "Holidays means holidays! A break from s...sch...sch...the S word! It doesn't mean do more work! If they wanted us to do more work they wouldn't give us holidays! And giving us tests in the 2nd week back means we have to study in the holidays or fail, which undermines the point of the holidays!"

She took a breath and began writing down an essay on why work should be banned from holidays. She tried using as many big words as she could, but it didn't work.

Holidays is defined as 'a period of relaxation away from the dreaded school' and should be exactly as stated by the Dictionary Of Awesome, which means that all activities created by, made by, invented by, distributed by or intensified by school should be banned, shreded, burnt and thrown into the depths of the sea never to be seen by anyone again, except maybe a fish or two. This means that activities such as homework, essays, assignments, study, thinking, writing or mathematics should cease in the time of holidays and should not be allowed to continue lest the subject breaks down from stress, anxiety, depression, tension or more stress.

Happy with her essay, she smiled and photocopied fifty copies, then began mailing them to all the schools in her area.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Fire [Alex Rider]

Julius fanfiction again.
It was a remarkable sight, to see sixteen boys lying on their stomachs, eyes screwed up in deep concentration, aiming their sniper guns at a red and white target. It would have been less remarkable if these boys did not move as one, think as one, look as one and act as one. In their eyes—and in the eyes of their father—they were one.

The same one. They were all Hugo Grief, carbon copied sixteen times.

Sixteen shots ran out simultaneously, cracking the air like a whip of electricity. Fifteen bullets hit the bullseye of the target. The last bullet hit half an inch to the right.

“Adolf!” barked a man who was standing to the side, watching with cold, dark eyes. Even from his position on the opposite side of the field, he could tell that the bullet had missed its mark.

“I know you have joined us later than your brothers,” Hugo Grief said icily, “but that does not mean you will be exempt from punishment. I expect you to be at whatever level everyone else is, even if it means training more in your spare time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” said Adolf Grief.

Hugo strode over to his son and, raising his cane, brought it down three times onto his back. Adolf winced, but bit his tongue and made no sound.

“Again!” Hugo shouted. He walked back to his place on the sidelines, watching as another sixteen bullets shot out from the guns. This time, all sixteen hit their mark. They reloaded simultaneously, they all aimed at the same time, and their hands pressed the trigger with the same motion. Except one.

One of the boys had missed the invisible cue, had fired it a millisecond after all his brothers. Hugo noticed, and scowled.

“You fired late, Julius.”

Julius Grief looked up at his father and bit his lip. “I’m sorry, father. I was distracted.”

“I do not want you to be distracted!” Hugo snapped. “In an assassination, distraction means failure. Fire at the time you planned, no matter what happens. If someone shouts, fire anyway. If someone enters the room, fire anyway. If someone points a gun at your head, fire the damn bullet!”

Julius nodded, and remembered those words until the day he didn’t heed them.

He received three strokes of the cane, gasping in pain but refusing to make another sound. He and his brothers reloaded once more, and fired, and this time they were perfect. Like they should be.


“We all know which country I’m referring to...”

Britain! Britain! Say the word, woman! Say it!

There were no distractions this time. He was completely focused, his body filled with adrenaline, his fingers shaking as he waited for that fateful word.

Then someone shouted, and entered the room, and pointed a gun at him.

Everything he had ever learnt was thrown out the window at the most crucial time. Julius swung around. He fired, missed, reloaded, and then aimed once more, ready to kill the person who had ruined his life.

I’m sorry, father. Revenge is too sweet.