Hello Again Uber: A Sample of Recent Work (579 hits)
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Submitted by TaK (View user info) at 2006-11-25 03:55:24 EST
~Well hello Ubersite.
This is Tak. Don't know if you remember me, but if either you do or you don't, I'm still going to post some recent fiction work. I don't know how this site has been in the past 2 years, and I don't know how receptive it has remained or become, but I hope someone will read this and offer an opinion.
Thank you, letterHeads.
~TaK~
Working Title: Talon's Tears
1
Once upon a time, in the land of Annabreah, there lived a great dragon named Talon, whose conflicting desires caused her life to be more trying, and therefore richer, than that of any human.
She was a beautiful dragon, thought to be the last of her breed, clothed and armored in great firebrick red scales from the tip of her nose to the end of her tail. Each fin of her back was positioned just as a dragon's should be; her teeth were long and sharp with a tongue split down the middle between, and the point of each of her claws ended in a different color of the rainbow. Her eyes were a brilliant shade of emerald, and were adorned with long lashes the width of tree branches. Upon her chest she wore a crest of yellow in the vague shape of a bird with its wings in the air.
Talon had had only one friend in all the world, and he had gone on to the Next Place only one moon earlier. His name had been Pree, and he had been a strong willed but wily phoenix, one of the last of his kind. All of the other animals, and not to mention humans, would have nothing to do with Talon because she appeared to be so vicious with her teeth like broadswords and her breath like the fire of the gods. But Pree had been different. Pree had come to visit, sit and talk with her for centuries. Perhaps because he dealt in flame as well, although Talon liked to believe that it was because Pree thought she was a good dragon.
Pree had sworn to her before his departure that one day in the not so very distant future he would rise again from his ashes, having fulfilled his calling in the Next Place, to come and visit her again; to return and give her an ear to speak into and a tongue to hear flapping. But this did nothing to calm Talon's easily broken heart, and so she sits now in her mountain top cave upon her pile of gold and silver jewels and swords and shields and armour, far below the surface of the peaks, shedding tears large enough to fill a human lake that would be the envy of any man since dragon salt promises long life and good health to any who drink it.
This is not the first or second time in her life, but the six hundred thousand million and twenty-second time she has cried alone in her cave. She cries often because she thinks herself un-pretty, which is why each piece of armor and every bit of jewelry in her den is perfect and untouched, while every mirror she has collected is smashed and scorched. She cries because she feels ugly, but for most crying spells she moans for her lack of ferocity. Any great dragon the size and might of herself should be ferocious, cold, and calculating she thinks. But Talon is truly none of these things; she is softhearted and compassionate, passive and loving. She does not enjoy pillaging the towns and farmlands of Annabreah, but she does so because she can no more help her yearning for shiny treasures and her need to feed her gigantic belly than she can stop herself from feeling horrible afterwards. She desperately wishes in her many chambered heart for a child, but knows it will never be so, for during the long battles of the Drachen Reign was she born, forged eternal so that she may never know death, her egg like cast iron and set with strange runic inscriptions the likes of which Jahmian had never known; and during that same war were her father, mother, and all other dragons of the land overtaken and slain at the hands of the Men from the south. The Dark Men had found a way to make Talon's invincible kind, the Drachule, fall like mortal dragons.
She sits alone in her lair, weeping, and her tears run down the slanted floor of her den, out a small crack in the wall, and down the side of the mountain, creating a modest river that runs to the foothills. Talon cries alone, unaware that as they have for generations, right now at the foot of the mountain a small group of men from the Dark Lands are gathering her tears from the flowing river they form, and that those very men are building a stronger, healthier army than any the land has seen, and that this army, if not stopped, will live to destroy the land for centuries because of the product of her misery.
~
But for now the Dark Men are not our concerns, and Talon we should probably leave be for a bit; it must be awfully embarrassing for such a magnificently monstrous creature to be so consumed by the shade of grief. Instead, let us turn our attention to the courtyard in the small town of Waxen, which lies only five miles as the crow flies from Talon's lair, where a most interesting and peculiar occurrence is taking place...
~
"...drop of intelligence in your heads you would hear me now if you have never subdued your ears to my words before!" the crazy man upon the shaky soapbox screams.
"The gods have bless'd me with a sight unseen by the eyes of man or the days of earth I tell you! They have afforded me the belief and the bravery to prove what I have seen to you all!"
"Sure, sure, if only ye' had the coin to do so..." someone in the crowd mutters, creating a ripple of chuckles.
"I heard that Milligan," the soapbox preacher responds, before continuing much in the same vein.
Around the soapbox stand roughly twenty men, women, and children, and although they believe the man on the soapbox to be crazy, they are also interested enough in his shouting to stay and listen; except for the children, who are only waiting to see the man's soapbox give way beneath his weight and spill him into the dust of the street.
"The great and infallible Jah-man has come to me in my sleep and spoken to me of the world as it is, and my friends it is not as we have believed for so long!" the man continues, "It is true that serpents dwell beneath the surface of the seas, and it is true that the weather is controlled by hands we cannot lay eyes on. But lads and lasses...
"It...is...not...true...that the land of the world ends at a taper and that the ocean falls over it into a void from which none return! The world is round I tell you! The world is round!"
Unsteady silence meets the end of the man's proclamation for five long seconds, and then the whole of the crowd explodes into raucous laughter. The children roll on the ground holding their stomachs and the women cover their mouths politely with the backs of their hands. The men only chuckle and shake their heads, believing the soapbox man to be crazy, and feeling embarrassed for him.
Our soapbox preacher is in fact not crazy, nor is he in the least dimwitted. He is Christoph Alain Cook, father of Delany and wife to Viviam. He is a family man and he is much less than rich, but he is not out of his mind, although he is wrong about the earth as a globe. Everyone knows the world is as flat as a year old keg of ale.
"Laugh if it is the only avenue of reaction your pale minds can take, but know that one day it will be I laughing at you!" Cook yells at them, stepping down from his soapbox and hefting it over his shoulder. He gives them the eye, challenging them, and then walks away towards his home with his head hanging like a scolded puppy.
Before he can so much as leave the circle of faces he has drawn near with his words, a voice speaks from behind him; a voice he knows well.
"And exactly how do you intend to prove your ridiculous fantasy to us, the people of Waxen, young Master Cook? Having no money and no ship?"
"Hello Malise." Cook nearly whispers.
"Hello, yes, and salutations and g'day and many moons to you and hello and hello again Master Cook, but what exactly is your answer? Or do you have none?" Malise teases.
He stands in the spot Cook inhabited moments earlier, center of the crowd and proud to be at attentions head. His long gray hair is washed and perfumed and the buttons of his coat shine in the afternoon sun. He is a portrait of the upper class, a man truly made of money. From the ends of his fine hair to the shiny tips of his boots he is exquisite, tailored and polished to sheen like the king of some great empire. He wears short pants that end just before the hem of his boots, which are themselves a stamp of wealth. They are gold lined and silver adorned, more jewelry than footwear. Above the sleek blue trousers is a cummerbund of immense size, threaded with gold as well, and above the cummerbund a shirt the likes of which Cristoph Cook has never nor will ever wear. In his hair are silver clips, serving no purpose but to speak of the coin.
Where Cook is clothed in only what he needs to survive, Malise wears his fame and fortune so all can see; where Malise is proud and arrogant Cook is humble and servile. The distaste between these two men hangs in the air like smoke after a gunfight, but this gunfight has never quieted. Malise is the proud General of the Waxen army, an army to which Cook once served but was released for cowardice during battle. General Troy considers Cook a spineless hack; Cook knows his own heart is in the right position in his chest, a position that in Malise's case is void of anything as warm as flowing blood.
"Perhaps your biggest ailment in achieving your fools dream is not the lack of ship or sail but your lack of courage and common sense," the General spits. He opens his mouth to speak again but is interrupted.
"Speak naught to me in the tones of one with more than another Malise, for you know well that I own more than you ever have or will."
Malise only laughs like a hyena, high and separated like a small girl.
"Tell me, Mr. Cook, what is it that is yours that I do not own two of?"
The crowd tenses at this, the guns of the men are drawn through words and everyone is waiting for Cook to fire; waiting for him to do exactly what Malise would like. Wanting Cook to fall in and become entangled by the rich man's vicious self-absorption. Wanting him to yell back, to deny and spin some excuse.
Cook stands rigid in the gaze of the town folk, his eyes locked on Malise, his mouth working and his teeth grinding. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but shuts it just as quickly, turning on his heels to continue on his way.
Once again he is halted before he takes even two steps, the acid of the Generals tone burning his ears.
"Are you a gambling man by chance Cristoph?"
The use of his first name raises Cook's neck hairs, and he does not turn, does not give Malise the pleasure of seeing his face screwed up like a babe biting into a sour grape. He shows the General only his back, and speaks as such.
"A family man can not be a gambling man General Troy."
"Ah yes, of course. The family. Dear boy I believe if you hear me out on this wager your family may be the first thing to prosper. Waxen knows the pack of you could use it."
Cook spins on his heels with uncanny speed at this and takes three long strides that land him face to face with Troy, close enough to kiss. Spittle flies from his lips and gritting teeth as he makes the mistake of biting the worm Malise has dangled before him.
"You will silence your flapping tongue if it yearns to speak of my daughter or wife! You empty shell of a man! That mouth will not form the names of my kin again before me or I will have you laid dead right here at my feet!"
A wicked grin parts the Generals face, his eyes shine with a joy only sick men can feel.
"But young Master Cook, I meant no offense to thee! Surely you wouldn't imagine I mean to speak offhand of your wife and child."
"No more Malise. Not one word more."
"Oh but Cook we are only begun," Troy says through his toothy grin, "You have yet to here my offer."
"I would accept nothing from you short of silence."
"Yes, I know you're feeling a little upset with the sad situation of your resignation..."
"Resignation?" Cook asks, bewildered, "Resignation you say? Of all the twisted truths I've been privy to hear..."
"Mister Cook, let us handle this like gentlemen. I am interested in a mature wager between the two of us, and if you will not hear it I will be on my way. I am sure you have important places to go as well."
Cook tries to hold the Generals eyes but fails and stares at the ground, knowing that Troy understands his weakness. His inability to fight the demon named Gambling. It has been six years since his last wager, but six years ago he had not had Delany to think of, and he had been secure in his position as Admiral of the Waxen army. Six years ago his dear wife Viviam had not been dying of the Rot, and most importantly, six years ago he had not been called upon by the great god Jah to undertake a task of which he felt too small a man to surmount.
For six years he had put to sleep his demon, but now the demon had reawakened.
"Speak, but do it quickly I beg," Cook whispers, still focused on the dust of the street.
Malise changes his grin to a full-fledged smile and claps his hand on Cook's shoulder. He chuckles and then quiets, lifting Cook's head by the chin so that their eyes can meet again.
The crowd has to bend forward at the waist to catch this next exchange; it is spoken in the tone of intimate lovers.
"Cristoph, you claim to know the shape of the world?"
"Aye."
"And what would that shape be?"
"Round," Cook answers, his lips barely moving, "Round as a Phoenix fruit."
"You seem quite sure of this."
"The Jah-man has told me it is so."
Troy, a strict believer in the absence of gods or majik in the world, sighs and lowers his head at this, keeping his joy at this fools beliefs for himself.
"I would be willing to bet my lot that you are wrong boy," Malise challenges, "In fact I would be willing to help you prove yourself wrong. What do you say?
"If you accept my wager you will take fifteen of my men and two of my ships. You will travel as you must to the edge of the world which, my friend, is surely there. Once there, if I have any luck whatsoever you will be cascaded over the fall of the seas, and I will be rid of your sorry body, having sacrificed only a handful of worthless men and two ships I can have replaced in a day."
Cook's teeth come together again and grind, but he retains his silence.
"Now, in the spirit of fair play," Malise goes on, "I will offer you a reward in the nonexistent chance that you and your demigod Jah are correct and the world turns out to be as round as your fools head.
"In order to prove to me this is so, five of the fifteen men I send with you must not only survive, but also come back with the words 'It is so' on their lips. In the event of such a dream actually happening, a reward will be proffered."
This is the moment the crowd has been waiting for. What could General Troy actually be willing to barter for such extraordinary information? For all of that, what would the General, this man who does nothing for no one, be prepared to give to a sot such as Cristoph Alain Cook?
Cook himself is more interested in this part of the conversation than any other, and stands impatiently waiting for Malise to finish, knowing that his impatience is Troy's pleasure.
"Come back with five of my men alive, have them tell me 'It is so', and not only will I see that your family lives long and well, but I will recall all accusations of your cowardice, formally apologize, and..."
The crowd leans further in, Cook's teeth can be heard gritting in the quiet.
"...I will step down as General of the Waxen army and reinstate you in my leave."
The crowd takes in a breath as if it were one body; the women's hands go to their mouths and the men glance at one another, unbelieving.
Cook himself is stunned, incredulous.
"You lie," he says.
"Oh no Mister Cook," Troy responds, "I assure you that no matter what your opinion of me may be, the only thing stronger than my word is my bond, and I am offering both to you. In a wager a man must be of his word and truth."
Cook thinks of his daughter Delany, he sees her clothed in rags, eating only Phoenix fruit and wild nuts. He sees his once beautiful wife Viviam, now only a vague resemblance to the woman he married, lain in bed and turning the color of a fishes belly; her eyes are glazed and she is unable even to move her bowels on her own. Lastly he sees himself in the battle of Broken Creek seven years ago, huddled beneath an overhang of greenery and unable to move or speak from fear of the hideous grunts and growls of the Dark Men overcoming the few remaining of his battalion. He sees himself hiding like a child and wishing he were a better man than he is, praying desperately for the strength to stand against the things he fears even in the face of inarguable defeat.
He looks up to Malise's patient gaze, expecting an evil return but finding only cautious interest. Closer, he can see that Malise already knows the answer to his question, but is content letting Cook stand and stew over the things that have gotten him here and the only thing that will get him out.
All this in mind, Cook asks in his full voice:
"How soon can your men be ready to leave General?"
~
"Delany Mareen Cook if y' know what's good for ye ye'll leave that mongrel be right this instant!" Grandmother yells through the kitchen window.
"But Gran he's not a monk-rool, he's a puppy," little Del says from the yard, unsure why the name her Granny uses makes her angry. She has no idea what a monk-rool is, but she somehow understands that it is not a nice thing to say about such a cute little pup.
Delany is small for her age; the other six year olds she knows stand at least a foot taller and still carry much of their baby fat while she has always been short and needle thin. She wears loose fitting denim leg pants and an open collared white shirt, which has been dirtied by her romp around the house; her feet are clad in soft moccasins. Her hair cascades down her back, never having been cut, and its dark auburn blended with the brown of her eyes and button nose (not to mention the pretty dresses and hair bows she wears to school) have already begun to make the boys of Waxen take second glances.
She never wears her hair any way but down, unless Granny gets a hold of it before school and forces it into a severe bun just like her teacher Mrs. Scotting wears hers.
Mrs. Scotting is a very nice lady and Del enjoys her voice. In fact, there is little that Del does not enjoy in life, beside the fact that her mommy doesn't seem to ever want to play anymore. Her mommy is in bed every hour of every day, and rarely awake. Her room smells funny and if it weren't the only way to see her Del would stay out of that room completely.
The girl is too young to understand what ails her mother, or even that her mother is ailed. She only knows that Viviam is much unlike the mum she knew only a month before, and that she wishes her old mum would return. Delany is not the type of child to worry over things she does not understand; although curious and exploratory as any child of six, it has never bothered her that some things are beyond her reach. She simply accepts these things in a manner far removed from her age.
This way of unconsciously accepting things as they are make her easily fond of the fantastical, easily drawn to majik, and willing to love even the ugliest of monk-rools with no trace of pity.
She is a good child, a whole child, who has never known despair or loss, and this grates at Old Mother Delaine for she knows that her daughter Viviam's inevitable passing will harm the child all the more because of it.
"Lil' Del! Git from that mongrel and come inside and wash ye're nasty away. Ye're sup's cooked n' steamin'."
Del pats the small dog's belly, scratches behind his ears, and throws a brine cone for him to fetch while she sneaks away from him and back to the house.
The Cook family house is little more than a shack built of wood and straw with only two windows and one door. The door itself is nothing but a rough quilt Mother Delaine weaved by her own hand, as are the covers for the windows. The threshold is nothing more than it is; a wooden bar roughly six inches high placed in the doorway to hold back the thresh of the yard. Consisting of only four rooms (kitchen, bath, Viviam and Cristoph's bedroom, and the bedroom Del and Mother Delaine share), it is sad that the house dwarfs the yard as it does, but true nonetheless.
Del has never thought of the house as anything but home, and never questioned its appearance or doubted that it was anything less than just as it should be. The Cooks have lived in this small house for the past six years, and since Del was born here she has had no other home to compare it with.
In the bathroom Del dips her hands into a shallow bowl of dirty water, using as little soap as possible to remove the dirt from her palms and from beneath her nails. Gran is exceptionally persistent about clean nails. Del doesn't know why it's so important for nails to be clean, but she enjoys pleasing the grown ups she loves, so has never questioned this either; she only makes sure her nails are clean.
After the bowl of dirty water she pours a bit of the clean from a separate bowl over her hands, just enough to wash away the soap. She is young and small for her age, but only physically. Jah knows there will never be a wasteful hair on her head.
She wonders for a moment what the pristine ladies of the Inner Court use to wash their hands; she has seen them in town and seen also their castles that seem to touch the clouds at their tips, but cannot seem to fathom what they may clean with. The apparent contrast between her situation and theirs rises no ill feeling inside of her; she sees and understands what she can, and passes no judgment. This would seem a child's way, something that will be grown out of, but in fact this mind set will last for the extent of her adult life. This is also something she never questions.
Relatively clean, Del shakes her hands in the air to dry them and starts towards the kitchen, passing her mum's room along the way. She stops at the door and looks in, not sure of what she's looking for because the room is as it has been since her mum first went to bed one moon back. Her mother lies on her side facing away from Del, her breathing is ragged and the blanket she is covered with is too small for her; her feet stick out from the end and Del is surprised at how clean they are until she realizes her mother hasn't walked on the dirt floor in a long time. The room smells of something that Delany cannot put a name to but is frightened by just the same. It reminds her of the bird she found on the trail to the mountain, but before she can fully digest this thought she hides from it, choosing instead to hurry on past the door and to the kitchen table where her Granny's baking waits for her.
After supper Del hurries back outside to wait for daddy, knowing he will be late again tonight. Since her father left the army he has been a "gopher", or at least that's what he calls it. Delany knows what a gopher is and doesn't understand how her father could make any money pretending to be one, but if he says that's what he is than that's what he is as far as she is concerned. She only knows that he has been late reaching home every night and that because of the tales he speaks in a low voice to her some nights before sleep she is happy he is no longer in the army. She'd much rather her father play as a furry brown animal than have hand in war with the Dark Men, whom she has never seen but has heard enough to be terrified of.
It is said that the Dark Lands lay beyond Annabreah's borders, a thing Del has trouble even fathoming. Beyond Annabreah? Oh posh. There is nothing other than this beautiful land, and if there were she would not give it a second glance.
But it is said, and by wizened men who know more than she is likely to ever know, so there must be some truth to the claim. They say the Dark Men are not men at all, but forms of some animal that walk on two feet and are capable of speech, though they use grunts and howls like wolves to communicate between one another. Hairy and with arms that hang to their knees, they are supposedly as strong as ten men in one body; they have pointed ears and teeth like feral cats, and are legendary hunters because of their highly developed sense of smell. Some say they are as dumb as rocks, but others argue that if this were true they would not be able to fashion armour such as they wear, and would have been wiped out centuries ago despite their overwhelming might.
Little Del cares less than none if they are smart, dumb, or anything between just so long as she never has to see one.
The night sky above her is filled with stars, and the cool air rubs against her cheeks raising the hairs on her neck. She knows her father is only half a mile away, walking slowly toward home, and she knows also that he has been gone from work for over three hours now.
He's thinking about something bad, something awful; the thought appears in her mind as an oyster. It's all slimy and hard on the outside, ready to cut anyone who tries to open it, but on the inside rests the promise of a sweetly colorless pearl.
Del does not question how she knows where her father is or what he is thinking. This is just another one of the things in the world that she neither can change nor understand, and though it makes her feel bad sometimes prying at people's feelings and thoughts, much good has come of it as well.
She sits and doodles with one finger in the dirt, drawing a ship in troubled waters, while she picks and pries at the sides of the oyster in her father's head.
"What did I tell you about snooping?" the elder Cook's voice asks without warning. Del doesn't know for sure if that voice came from thin air or her head, but upon looking up and searching the night for any sign of her father she sees none, and realizes slowly that she knows where the voice came from and that her father is still half a mile away.
"That snooping is for thieves and scoundrels," she thinks, "And that no Cook is either. But daddy, what is the oyster?"
There is no response, and in a whiff the picture of her father walking down the quiet road is gone, the picture of the oyster is gone, and she begins to worry. Had she heard her father's voice or only imagined it? Was there an oyster?
Little Del, who normally never worries or questions a thing, is this time correct and justified in her concern; she has no idea what a hideously slimy oyster lies in wait for her now only a quarter of the mile down the road.
~
"But daddy you can't!"
They have gathered in the bedroom by Viviam, the entire family is to be a part of this discussion. Viviam herself is lucid and all the more awake by the news her husband has brought her, though she interrupts with a cough every minute or so that sounds as if it will rip the lungs from her chest. Del sits on the edge of the bed by her mother, incredulous and angry with her father. Her face betrays what is really bothering her though; she is filled with an anxiety and fear she can't put words to.
"Honey," her father begs, "I have to. I don't have a choice. I will not allow my wife and the product of my loins to go on living the way we have, and a chance like this will not arise again."
"A chance to do what Cristoph?" Mother Delaine cuts in, "To prove to that eel Malise that ye're more a man than he?"
"Mother I give you my word that is not the case."
"Ye can have ye're word Cris, it's ye're presence this mum requires."
Cook bows his head and loses himself in his doubt, wondering if perhaps Mother and Del are right. Maybe it is more important for him to be here in poverty than to risk his life at sea and fortune. Maybe he is wrong, but if that were so why would he feel so right?
"Del, do you remember us speaking of the Jah-man?" Cook asks.
Del nods her head, unable to look at her father.
"Do you remember me saying that men owe him more than they will ever be able to pay?"
Another nod.
"Well Pie, the time to pay my part has come," Cook continues, his eyes rising from the floor. "Jah has come to me in sleep and shown me a vision of the world, and he has asked me to share this truth with as many as I can. I am not able to negate his word, nor am I able to refuse him a service, knowing that I would have nothing as beautiful in my life as you are to me Del, if it weren't for his blessing."
Del tries hard to hold back her tears, her frustration, but she is only a little girl, and the tears come as they may.
As always, it is Viviam, rot or none, that brings calm to the situation.
"Alain, you are a courageous man and a wonderful father. But most of all you are my darling husband, and though I would have you stay in these walls until your dying day, only showing us your face, I would have you do the will of your god if that will be upon you," she speaks, her voice husky.
"You know I don't carry the same faith you do in ethereal beings capable of talking to men and shaping the form of their function; you know I have never believed in majik. But, my dear sweet man, I have faith in you; enough to believe you will return a greater man than you leave."
This is the most any of them have heard the woman say in weeks, and they stand awestruck with their jaws hanging to the dirt floor, knowing they all feel exactly what she has described.
Del sees the oyster again in her mind, but this time she is able to pry it open and reach in a hand. She cups the pearl in her palm and lets it roll upon the lines that lie there. Before looking up to her father one thought begins in her mind which she doesn't get to finish, and that thought is this: 'Of course he'll come back, and of course he will be alright. Of course he will be alright, because he...'
"Loves you very, very much," her father finishes aloud with a wink, "More than there are stars in the heavens."
They are all quiet at this, knowing Del and her father have exchanged something one of them can't hear and the other doesn't believe in. They all stay quiet, and Del gets up and hugs her father tight around the neck.
"I love you too daddy. And if you believe, and mommy believes, than I believe too," Del says carefully, trying to explain herself. One thing she has heard her father say occurs to her, and though she is not sure, she thinks it fits here.
"Let Jah's will be done, right daddy?"
Her father smiles, and his eyes fill with a sadness he knows he cannot let spill over in front of her.
"Yes little Del," he sighs, "The doing of his will has already begun."
.
2
Annabreah was but one of four lands that made up the world of Jahmian. The name Jahmian could be linked back to an old dead language known as 'crylic' in which the word 'mian' meant birth or child, and the word 'Jah' meant God. Thus, the name of Talon's world translated in new English to mean 'God's Child'.
The lands of Jahmian were separated by natural rivers and mountain ranges, but existed all on one expanse of earth anchored in the middle of the great waters. It was said that no other lands existed upon the plane of Jahmian, though no one had ever dared trying to prove otherwise since the world was flat and the chance that it was not was not only very slim but very much not worth the risk of life. Therefore it could be said that Jahmian was nothing more than a large island unto itself. The sea was thought to be the perpetual runoff from the land and air; its inhabitants were considered monsters.
The separate countries of Jahmian were not unlike the points of a compass; Annabreah to the North, the Dark Lands to the South, Filigree on the West, and Prianor to the East.
Annabreah was considered the capitol of Jahmian, since it was the largest and most prosperous, and because it was dominated mainly by humans. Humans had, since time out of mind, proved themselves to be the reckoning force of Jahmian despite their uniform lack of cooperation and caste system, and their unwillingness to leave things the way Jah intended them. Instead of respecting the world as it lay they would shape and mold the very earth to their liking. Such was the way of men, and their intelligence caused all other beings to have a high respect for them. All beings, that is, except for those that made the Dark Lands dark.
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User Reviews
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-12-08 11:28:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Jesus christ misinterpreted again. Look, I don't want to cause problems by communicating with you. When I say "honest assesment," I mean I could try to fucking help you, since that is what you seem to want from this post, but I can't, because then you'll get in trouble for talking to me. How hard is that to understand? Fuck.
I don't think I'm a great critic or anything, but I think I have the ability to help people because having my own writing put through the wringer this past year has helped me to help others with theirs. Jesus you think everything I say is an insult, when really I'm just trying not to spew your personal information in a public forum. Damn.
Submitted by TaK (user info) at 2006-12-07 21:16:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Please, let's have that all important honest assesment.
The arrogance and intended insult in that comment has stuck in my throat.
I would die to have someone as great as you critique my work.
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-11-27 09:49:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
If you are going to start posting your fiction here, you should know that I've been visiting this site fairly regularly for the past year.
I could give an honest assessment, but I don't really want to cause problems, so I won't.
It's good that you are writing again.
Submitted by TaK (user info) at 2006-11-27 03:46:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Way too fuckin long? Horribly structured? Weak character potential? Cliched, obtuse, moral?
Is there any literary criticism to be had at this site anymore?
Anybody there? Awake? Alive? Able to read and understand? HELLO?!?
Submitted by TaK (user info) at 2006-11-26 03:12:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Hello again FunnyAsCancer.
No, I was only hoping there were a few here left that knew how to read. :)
Criticism is the only thing I'm after nowadays.
Submitted by TaK (user info) at 2006-11-26 03:10:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Yes, I know it's long.
It's all I've got of a new novel I've been thinking about for a long time now.
I wanted to know if I should continue with it or not, so I figured I'd throw it all in one post. Of what you read, do you think it strong enough to continue with?
Thanks everybody.
__________________________
Anne McCaffrey....
Never heard of her. I will check into her now though!
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2006-11-26 00:43:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'll finish it later. I don't blame you, I blame my short attention span.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-11-25 13:58:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
For gods sake break this up into smaller bits.
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-11-25 13:32:21 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Hello again TaK.
Still fighting to bring back Uber?
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-25 10:47:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I see someone has been reading Anne McCaffrey....
Very good, but I think it could be edited down quite a bit without losing
any of the meat of the story. It sounds like the introduction to a much
longer tale.....
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-11-25 08:32:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow that's long, I can't finish it now but I will later.
Submitted by frankthebear (user info) at 2006-11-25 04:01:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
sorry dude, I tried to read this, but it's just too long. I got to the crazy old man on the soap box before I quit. It's good though. perhaps you should break it up and post it in smaller sections?