WOO HOO!

Jun. 3rd, 2013 09:16 pm
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
A couple nights ago, a story that had been itching to get out of me for weeks finally began to flow out. In two nights, I finished it. The result is the short story "King of Serpents," a story in the Lyria Spellspinner universe.

The story is basically about Lyria helping the city of Vraygrotta deal with a male Basilisk1 seeking revenge. Which is basically "Don't try to stop him. Help him if you can. Be very very careful either way. Then when it's all over, clean up the mess."

The story jumps from point of view to point of view, one section being one character's POV, the next section being another character, and so on. My favorite part of writing it was the part where I was writing the Basilisk's POV. Basilisks make Klingons look like baby bunnies with pink bows around their necks. They're nasty, even evil. And they don't consider humans to be sentient.

The most remarkable thing about this story is that the death toll is so LOW. Basically because of Lyria's help. Given what happened even with her help, I think that without her, the country of Dralakkith (where she lives) wouldn't exist anymore. Because of ONE angry male Basilisk. (And the females are even worse!)


1 = For those who can't access that post, basically the female Basilisks are the giant serpents of legend, and the males are 7 foot tall humanoid Dragons.
fayanora: Steph Pensive (Steph Pensive)
“A Question of Ethics”
By = Tristan A. Arts


Words - 3619

Note: This is loosely based on an episode of “Angel,” so that's why I'm posting it here instead of attempting to publish it for money. The Zatorshnok are entirely my own creation, though. The story was actually inspired by my wondering what the Zatorshnok would say of the ethical dilemma presented in the episode.

NOTE 2: Zatorshnok is pronounced zah-torsh-nok.

Zatorshnok log entry for 08/12/2489
Entry by: Annik Xandol 88456


      I am making this log with the intent of having it filed with the Earth government, given the events that I and my two siblings witnessed and participated in. If, after reading this entry, the government of Earth wishes to take punitive actions against these three units, we will willingly submit ourselves to whatever punishment is deemed appropriate. We do, however, believe that we were acting in the best interests of justice, at least as we understand the concept. As to why this report is not being filed with the government of Nova Terra, where the incident took place, that will be made clear eventually.
      For the sake of any readers who are unfamiliar with the Zatorshnok Collective, I will relate the relevant overview here for your elucidation. Many thousands of years ago, the sophonts of Zator Alpha were a dying people, being killed by a virulent plague that left few survivors. Their numbers dropped down to a mere 28 individuals, far too few to repopulate the species. These remaining individuals, all scientists who had developed a cure too late to save anyone but themselves, make one last effort to preserve the Zator culture, knowledge, and heritage. Part of this process was to digitize the minds of the remaining scientists, to be downloaded into devices known as “flesh blanks,” a hybrid of biological and technological systems. Nanites amidst the biological components could keep those components alive, young, and healthy for hundreds of years, barring catastrophic damage. With built-in subspace backup units, the death of any one unit is but an inconvenience for the mind inside.
      Even with these new bodies, twenty-eight units were not enough to rebuild an entire civilization. So the 28 Primes, as they are called, uploaded themselves to massive quantum supercomputers, and began churning out copies of themselves by the hundreds. Though there have been occasional new Primes added, for a current running total of 58 Primes, all motile units – regardless of the species of the flesh blank, are copies of one of the Primes.
      Due to the feeding of new information back into the Primes from their motile units, the consciousnesses of the Primes grew in size. Now, only massive Matrioshka Brains set up around stars have the data storage and processing power necessary to hold even a few Primes. As units share data and experiences with their Primes, so do the Primes share these things with one another. Thus was the Zatorshnok Collective born.
      More importantly, to today's log, is that somewhere along the line, the Primes became corrupted from their original templates, resulting in a change of thought patterns. We used to be a vibrant, passionate people with all the varied emotions of biological sophonts, but many now liken us to humorless machines. We have been working on restoring the complexity of emotions we once had, by studying other sophont species, and we have made some progress in correcting the errors, but we still retain a unique perspective and still struggle to interact meaningfully with other sophonts.
      My name is Annik Xandol. I was the result of an experiment performed back in 2304 AD to create new Zator children from DNA replicated from models, as were my two siblings, Yen Xandol and Pokiv Xandol. Because the original Zator species had three sexes, I am sperm-maker, Yen is egg-maker, and Povik is unifier-carrier. Because we were the first batch of a series of these experiments, we are genetically related to one another and not expected to breed. The Collective is still building up a decent breeding population, slowly but surely.
      I say we were the first run of that experiment, but truthfully these units are one of thousands of genetically identical units; the original Annik, Yen, and Povik are now Primes 29, 30, and 31, and in truth I am Annik Xandol 88456. I am stationed on Nova Terra with Yen Xandol 99734 and Povik Xandol 77765.
      Physically, the Zator – like my own flesh blank – are humanoid, with blue scaly skin, yellow eyes, and hands with two opposable thumbs apiece. Males, like myself, have six small, black horns on our heads. Females, like Yen, have a hard, black shell of horn over the top of their craniums. And the unifiers, like Povik, are merely bald with no horns.
      With those necessities completed, I shall now move on to the rest of my story.

Read the rest of the story. )

A note about how I thought up the Zatorshnok: As a mid-continuum multiple collective, there are more things in my head than just the usual 9 Faces. Faces are fully sentient in their own right, but I think most of them (if not all of them) started out as things I call Soul Shards. They're bits of me that float around inside my mind and surface on occasion, making me feel different. These are different from Masks, because Masks are thought-forms I choose to shift into. Neither Shards nor Masks are sentient on their own, as far as I know.

The Zatorshnok mindset is basically lifted lock, stock, and barrel from one of the Soul Shards that occasionally makes itself known. It is a complex thought pattern, that I'm not sure I've done justice to in this story. It's a bit like detached curiosity with a feeling like everyone else is completely alien from me, more so than the Ah'Koi Bahnis mindset. That Shard's sense of ethics and emotional reactions to things are unusual.

Though there are similarities to the Vulcans, I'm not sure how well the two species would get along. Zatorshnok may seem logical and cold, but their logic is tempered by their unusual emotional reactions. The Zatorshnok do not actually suppress their emotions, it's just that their emotions don't work the same way as human emotions.

To be honest, the Zatorshnok mindset is complex enough that I'm not even sure *I* understand it. And I haven't figured out how to really explain it.
fayanora: Fay doll icon by me, original pic by Lady Dark (Fay Doll still)
Prince Mu-Chao just let me know that he loaded the site update I sent him. So now my website has "A Love Deep and Open," "Of The Reformation and Traipah," and "To Teach and To Learn" on it, which can be accessed from this page.

A quick note about "A Love Deep and Open" = WARNING: Contains some adult language and graphic depictions of alien sexuality (humanoid, but still alien).
fayanora: Hit Girl (Hit Girl)
(This entry was originally written 03/03/2012 at 3:40 AM)

OMG, I finished it! I actually finished it! Do you have any idea what a huge step this is? I've been working on this Yahgahn religion since 1997 (about 14 or 15 years), been practicing it as my own faith/path since 1998, and had the Noiionayya story in my head that whole time (the beginning and other bits of it, anyway). I've lost count of how many attempts I'd made over the years to write it down, how many files I started, got a page or two on it, and abandoned. I feared this attempt would be a failure as well, but I did it! The thing is 13 pages long (single spaced - that's how I write everything), 8614 words long, and has 23 footnotes. Converting it to LJ format is going to be difficult. In fact, I may just convert it to HTML format, which is easier, and send it to Prince Mu-Chao so he can upload it to my website for me. Oh, and if I do that, I have to decide if I want to put a link to it on one of the website's other pages or not. I say it that way because the thing is... well, not rated X, since the sex stuff in it isn't graphic, but there's kink in it, so it's not for minors in this society. (Though I know minors might access that stuff anyway by lying about their age, as I did when I was a minor myself. Ah well, what can be done about that?) Come to that, I guess I *will* list it publicly on the site. Might as well.

Anyway, I'm quite proud of myself. It's a good tale, and it's got that intricacy of interwoven stuff, and those kinds of bits that make it look like I knew what I was doing, when I was really just channeling the thing onto the page like I was taking dictation.

I'm going to read through it now and see if it needs any editing. Of course, I'll have to re-edit it later somewhere with an Internet connection anyway, to fix some of the links in it to go to stuff online, which will involve uploading at least one picture to the Internet. But oh yeah, it should be up and ready to read sometime next week!

This is a major victory for me, against the demons of depression. Now hopefully I can do some of the kind of writing of things I might actually be able to sell one day.

One last thing... there is a note at the end of the Noiionayya which mentions the fact that the Yahgahn religion is quite flexible in regards to alternative versions of the Noiionayya, and additions to the story. Each deity's cult contributes stories of their own which are peripheral, and unofficial. Kind of like fan fiction, but more like Discordian scripture, in that non-canon work is no more or less correct than the canon material, from an official standpoint. Anyway, I only mentioned this because an image popped into my mind:

(An Ah'Koi Bahnis talking to a human about Yahgahn.)
AKB: "I want to show you something." *takes out a slim book, maybe 20 pages long* "This is the Noiionayya, the most recent reprint of the most modern official version. It is the primary sacred story of Yahgahn, chronicling the creation story."
Human: "Okay."
AKB: "And this," *slams enormous book, at least 1000 pages long, onto the table* "is Kohlsiir's Revised Complete Noiionaya With All Official Peripheral Cult Texts, 114th Edition. It contains not only the original Noiionayya, but also all the official versions of all the stories the cults of all 39 deities have contributed. Also, this," *slams a 100-page long book atop that one* "is the endnotes for Kohlsiir's Revised Complete Noiionayya, blah blah blah. The commentaries are in a third book, and that book is over 650 pages long."
Human: "Wow."
AKB: "And if you think that's impressive, you should see 'Kohlsiir's Complete Collected Noiionayya Alternatives, 108th Edition.' That has all the known variations on the original Noiionayya throughout history. Before you even get to the endnotes on that one, you've already got 13 volumes roughly the same length as this 1000 page book I showed you. The endnotes and commentaries bring the volume number up to somewhere around 100. Needless to say, they don't print a lot of those except in ebook format."

I don't think this would be too far from the truth, considering that I've written two Shao'Bahn Order peripherals myself already, and there are at least 16 different Aspects of Shao'Kehn.

Anyway, enough for now.
fayanora: Djao'Kain (Djao'Kain)
“Xeper Xepera Xeperu”1
By = Shao'Kehn/Djao'Kain
(AKA Tristan A. Arts)
01/29/2012

Inhale, exhale, make the flames rise
Up from your hearts and out through your eyes!
Flame on your breath with every exhale,
With the fire of Shao'Kehn, you cannot fail!

Lava your skin, heat rolls off in waves,
Becoming a vortex of flame which behaves!
Up into the air the vortex doth fly,
A tempest of color and light in the sky!

Life-force fire you beam to the 'casting,
Her Fire ensuring your own's everlasting.
You burn out your fire, She lights it anew,
Endless energy flowing through you!

Then fire – your life force – cast into the earth,
Doubles your 'casting for all that it's worth!
The power you wield, its ebb and its flow,
Ensures “As above, so too from below.”

You are now a conduit for power Divine,
All this achieved in a very short time!
Energy given, set the spell free,
With the cry, “As I will it, so shall it be!”

Now you have given a very great gift,
And received in return an energy shift!
A level of power unlike any you've known.
It is, My Child, because you have grown.

~ ~ ~

1 = “Xeper Xepera Xeperu” (pronounced "keffer kef-ferrah kef-feroo") is a Setian saying from ancient Egypt, meaning ''I Have Come Into Being, and by the Process of my Coming Into Being, the Process of Coming Into Being is Established.''
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
You remember I recently posted that I gave up on "Foreign Influence," a third novel in the Nokwahl Vii'ah'dah series (AKA "Truthspeaker Nokwahl" series), after having started work on it 5 or 6 years ago? ("I'll Tell You No Lies" is #1 in the series, "One Hundred Year Wait" is #2 in the series.) That I gave up on it because the plot was cliché? Well, [livejournal.com profile] erithianopius helped me figure out a plot for a new attempt. I haven't started writing in it yet, because I need to make more alien species and do more preliminary stuff, but once I get around to beginning, I already have a title for this new project, the new 3rd Nokwahl novel: "The Silent Speaking."

I can't tell you much yet without giving too much away, but there are going to be a lot more aliens in this one, and a VERY strange murder for Nokwahl and her partner Alex Davison to solve.
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
Ages ago I published a novel, "I'll Tell You No Lies." While the price is still $24 on Amazon, I just checked the PublishAmerica site, and they have it there for $9.95! So if you want a copy, this is the cheapest it's ever been! Here is the link. No idea how long this price will last, so take advantage of it ASAP.
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
I've been developing the stories for the scriptures of the Yahgahn culture of Traipah for years and years and years. But not a lot of it is written down. I've made several attempts over the years to write it down in one volume, to be called The Noi'ii'ohn'ay'ya.

I think I finally figured out why I have a hard time writing it down, every time. It's because I try to start at the beginning, and go linearly. What I need to do, instead, is to start with the stories I know and put them in their own files in a Noi'ii'ohn'ay'ya folder, and THEN start the task of piecing them together.

Also realized something helpful: a lot of the stories about Shao'Kehn are not in the Noi'ii'ohn'ay'ya, because the Noi'ii'ohn'ay'ya predates the Shao'Bahn Order. The Shao'Kehn stories that the Shao'Bahn have collected will have to be in their own scripture, something with a different title.

Though I do think that the story of how Ahndahn and Shao'Kehn met and fell in love with each other will be in the Noi'ii'ohn'ay'ya. It fits Yahgahn beliefs and, in fact, kind of helps tie the Noi'ii'ohn'ay'ya together.
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
A poem I wrote in response to someone asking who all the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in the Harry Potter series were, and how they left.

Ohh... Quirrell was two-faced and master of trolling,
But Harry found out how that toerag was rolling
In self defense, burnt that dude to a crisp,
his face turning red just like lobster bisque.

Then Gilderoy Lockhart, of whom Molly1 was fond,
got his mind wiped by a malfunctioning wand.
Now he lives at St. Mungo's, still a bit dim,
But his fans still send many letters to him.

Next there was Lupin, who wasn't half bad,
except at full moon when he went howling mad.
He'd have done well in Hogwarts, for he was a peach,
but he resigned after slipping his leash.

Alastair Moody taught the class with a thunk,
Or so we thought till we looked in his trunk.
Fudge was upset when he found things amiss,
So gave the impostor one final kiss.

Mister Fudge took Umbridge with Dumbledore
For telling him Voldy had come back for more.
Dolores was racist, and called Bane a beast,
So they chased her away before end of year feast.

After years of wanting to teach the DADA,
Severus Snape got his chance, HA HA HA!
Things got surreal when he killed Dumbledore,
And ran off to rejoin Lord Voldemort.

And that's about it, since Lord Voldy's crew
Didn't teach *defense* against You-Know-Who.
I hope you enjoyed this queer little poem.
Now that it's over, I'm going home.

~ ~ ~

It didn't say we had to tell how they died, just how they left the position.

1 = Molly Weasley
fayanora: Hermione not amused (Hermione not amused)
"July The Farce"
By = Tristan A. Arts

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To listen to pompous hypocritical racist windbags
Rally the common people in protest
Of affordable healthcare for all.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To hear hateful vitriolic lies pollute our media,
The Republicans aiming the people like a weapon at Democrats,
While they, the real villains, pay no taxes.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be searched and detained indefinitely without a warrant,
A clear violation of our constutional rights,
All because Al-Jazeera is more reliable than the US media.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be deliberately misinformed by the media,
While they push our fear and panic buttons
With propaganda Hitler would have envied.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To watch a good man take constant fire from his peers,
The economy being sabotaged just so racist pigfuckers
Can say our first black President ruined everything.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be spared from important news developments,
So that rapists, child molesters, thieves, and Klansmen
Can get a good man fired for taking pictures of his penis.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be told we can't pursue our happiness
If that pursuit steps on the precious toes of the priveleged,
Who want that freedom all to themselves.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be taken away from our own children,
Arrested, and put on a special blacklist,
Just because we taught them the word "vagina."

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be brutally attacked for our gender identity,
Then to be told it was our fault for being different,
And mocked, like freaks, by the media.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To be sexually and violently attacked,
Then to be called either a liar or a slut
When we report the crime.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To stockpile enough weapons to destroy the world several times over,
While crumbling schools and education standards mean
Twenty years from now nobody will know how to operate them.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To pretend our Orwellian nightmare is a utopia.
But it would be a hell of a lot easier to do that
If marijuana weren't illegal anymore.

Dear God, we thank you for the freedom
To think.
It's not illegal...
...yet.
fayanora: Steph hail satan (Steph hail satan)
A friend of mine expressed interest in the Lo stories and the STC series. For those of you who haven't seen those yet, the STC series is a series of strange stories that I later retroactively gave a background story to, and the background story became the Lo Series. Most of these, you have to be logged in and a friend of mine to read them.

Here's the first STC story, "The Car Wash" = http://fayanora.livejournal.com/146886.html (Lo is in this one, as the car. Q is the rider.)
"Ten Pounds and a Quid" = http://fayanora.livejournal.com/147099.html (Lo is in this one, as the queen)
"Cuddle Monster" = http://fayanora.livejournal.com/147827.html (Lo is one of the cheerleaders)
"Csak Viccelek" = http://fayanora.livejournal.com/155982.html (Victor Jose Stein, AKA Rock, is the boy in this one)
“One Two Buckle My Shoe” = http://fayanora.livejournal.com/178064.html (no Lo story characters in this one)
"Hammerstein" = http://fayanora.livejournal.com/177267.html (no Lo story characters in this one)

Lo Series:

1. “Ten Points” http://fayanora.livejournal.com/149230.html
2. “Choices” (can't locate online copy of)
3. “La Petite Mort” http://fayanora.livejournal.com/145397.html
4. “Kinderliebe” http://fayanora.livejournal.com/145855.html
5. “Braving The Emocean” http://fayanora.livejournal.com/146558.html
6. “The STC” (can't locate online copy of, may be unfinished)
7. “The Date” (can't locate online copy of, may be unfinished)
8. "Snap, Crackle, Pop" http://fayanora.livejournal.com/384975.html
9. "Sutekh Throws A Party" http://fayanora.livejournal.com/249820.html
fayanora: Elle reading (Elle reading)
I've had this idea for a while, never written it down before. Trying now. It's from my "Untitled Novel Number 23"/"Ye Olde Goldyn Appyl Presse" world.

~ ~ ~

"Destroyer of Worlds"
By = Tristan A. Arts

The sky was red as blood, and great pillars of smoke rose into the air. The ground shook so violently that only The Destroyer, a dark humanoid solid shadow, was able to stand, as chunks of rock the size of nations rose violently from the earth and into orbit, magma trailing in their wake. Yet these were but a minor reflection of the greater violence, as the other planets in the system were going through the same violent deaths. Even the sun, which was still young, was in such upheaval that it was about to go nova. Most of the stars in the universe had already exploded, as the very fabric of the universe was seizing and tearing apart. The Destroyer laughed with evil pleasure as the universe burned. The sound would have been haunting, echoing across the stars, had there been anyone left alive to hear it.

The portal was beginning to open. The Destroyer knew it was almost time. Soon would come the final seizure, the last gasp as the entire universe exploded. He would use the power of the dying universe to feed himself and power the portal. Then the same process would begin in the next one. For millions of years, The Destroyer had done this. His power was so great, now, that he estimated the next universe would be dead in a mere week, but the violence would begin almost immediately.

"I AM THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS," his voice shook the universe. "FOR MILLIONS OF YEARS I HAVE DESTROYED UNIVERSES TO FEED MYSELF. MY POWER IS UNFATHOMABLE EVEN TO GOD, AND SOME DAY I WILL DESTROY EVEN THAT PATHETIC ENTITY." The universe gave its last gasp of life then, unfathomable destructive energy funneling into him.

He stepped into the portal, the universe behind him disappearing from existence as he stepped upon the soil of a virgin planet. "PUNY MORTALS, TREMBLE IN FEAR! COWER IN TERROR! LET YOUR HEARTS AND SOULS OVERFILL WITH DREAD, TO SHRIVEL AND DIE FROM PURE DESPAIR!" His laughter echoed across the cosmos, filling all of life with dread that was almost palpable.

Sitting at a table in front of him, watching his melodramatic performance with looks of stunned surprise were Coyote, Eris, Loki, and Saint Gulik, who had been in the middle of a poker game as The Destroyer had come into the world. The first to recover was Eris, who frowned in annoyance at The Destroyer as he continued to laugh. With a casual, back-hand flick of Her arm, The Destroyer shrunk, his deep, booming voice getting higher and higher pitched until it turned into a meow. The small black kitten with red eyes stood there with a look of confusion on its face, meowing.

"Now that I've gotten rid of that annoying insect, we can get back to our game," Eris said, and they paid the kitten no more heed.

Inside his new body, the now-powerless Destroyer bellowed his rage endlessly, but all that came from his mouth was meows. His voice no longer echoed across the stars. Enraged, he ran away into the night, his meows of rage barely audible.

~ ~ ~ END ~ ~ ~
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
The following is a micro-scene that came to mind. It is not part of any of the Lyria stories yet. In fact, when I thought up the scene, at first I had no idea who the mage character was. Then I decided I liked Jarnion Zakonjo for the role. Jarnion is one of Lyria's enemies, a man who is only ever a nuisance to Lyria because he's too afraid of her. Intelligent and clever, he's also a bit of an idiot and not as clever as he thinks he is. Alignment: lawful good, Jarnion is a sorcerer who fancies himself to be a good spy. While he is certainly nosy, and good at breaking into places and looking around for clues without leaving much trace behind (unless someone happens to have a magical security system in place), when it comes to getting information out of people in person, he's about as subtle as a train wreck. His being the mage in the story changed it in subtle ways, too. Anyway, enjoy the micro-scene. (One last note: in the "modern era" of the Lyria stories, Jarnion is 186 years old, and looks like he's in his 50's. This takes place a long time before that, in his early 30's.)

~ ~ ~

      Pretending to be just another tired traveler in plain brown traveling cloak, a short and skinny brown-haired young man named Jarnion Zakonjo went into a pub called The Dragon's Balls Pub, complete with a sign depicting a dragon with enormous testicles. Jarnion chuckled at this idiotic sign, for dragons – like lizards and birds – do not have external testes, and went in.
      Jarnion made a very serious attempt to look like he was picking a place at random, a place that just happened to be in earshot – for a mage, anyway – of the two big, burly, and surly-looking men he happened to have been following recently.
      He ordered a pint and pretended to have had a long, hard day that required staring silently into his mug and sipping dolefully every now and then. In truth, he was listening in on the conversation between the big men. He knew them by sight, of course. One had black hair, was missing his left eye, and had replaced it with a glass eye. The other had blond hair and a nasty scar along one cheek. They were also wearing the leather armor of a clan of particularly nasty warriors from the area, which is why he'd decided to follow them. People like that didn't come to Dralakkith for anything good, he was sure.
      At first, Jarnion couldn't understand them, as they were speaking their native language. But being a mage has its advantages, one of those being that he knew Omnitongue. Omnitongue is a useful skill, a magical language with only two words in it. Repeat one of those words over and over again, aloud or in your mind, and you can understand any language at all, if your mind is equipped to understand the thoughts behind the language. Repetition of the other word in Omnitongue will allow anyone at all to understand you in their own native language.
      Having been doing this sort of thing for several decades, the internal chanting of the first Omnitongue word was second nature to him, allowing him to concentrate on what they were saying, which wasn't much of anything important, yet.
      But after the obligatory small talk, while they made the determination of whether it was safe to talk or not, they finally began to talk business. After a little while, Jarnion heard enough to know that he had been right, these two were just part of a larger group that planned to come riding into Dralakkith through the pass, staggered over the course of several weeks, their weapons hidden from the border guards by magic. When the whole clan was over the border, they would all travel across Dralakkith to the western border, assemble at a city there, pillage and burn as much of the city as they could, then escape over the border into Gwalred.
      Unbeknownst to Jarnion, he had forgotten to sip his beer for quite a long time, and was leaning toward the two men. They were halfway through discussing the route they would take to the border when they realized they were being listened to, and stopped talking. The one with the scar on his face slammed his mug down, the metal of the mug clanking against the wooden table. He stood up, a nasty expression on his face. The one-eyed man also stood up, sour-faced, and together they walked over to Jarnion's table and stood menacingly in front of him.
      His heart full of dread, Jarnion looked up from his beer, too scared to talk.
      “You, small weak man, are you listening to our talking?” the one with the scar asked, cracking his knuckles. “Because if so, it would be very, very bad for you.”
      Shaking his head, Jarnion hastily blurted out, “No, of course not. I can't understand a word of your language!”
      The words had already left his mouth before he realized his mistake. His words had been in Omnitongue.

~ ~ ~
EDIT:

Two possible continuations:

Under the cut )
fayanora: Sammi Hanratty classy (Sammi Hanratty classy)
"By The Light of the Moon"
Flash fiction by = Tristan A. Arts

      Sandra went outside to enjoy the cool night air and stare at the sky. She sat back on the stoop, leaning against the porch's wood, and stared at the moon. It was waning in such a way that it looked like a smiley face without eyes. She smiled at this thought, prepared to turn her eyes elsewhere in the sky, when something happened she couldn't quite believe. On the moon, right where the eyes would be on a smiley face, two bright white lights suddenly flared to life, completing the smiley-face. Sandra stared, astonished, and stood up. She had no idea of the exact dimensions of the moon, but knew those lights had to be at least 100 miles apart, and had to have been extremely bright to show up that well here on the surface of Earth.
      She ran up the stairs and into the house to get her boyfriend to come look. By the time she found him, and they were passing the TV on their way out, whatever show had been playing for noise was being interrupted by a breaking news report about the lights on the moon.
      Over the next few days, rumors flew. Pundits and newscasters traded speculation. Politicians said a great many words that essentially amounted to the flummoxed look on the face of a fish suddenly out of water. Everyone wanted to know what the mysterious lights were, who had put them there, and how they'd managed to do it without someone noticing it. Astronomers watching the moon were even more baffled than the politicians. Whatever was there now was too bright to look at without specialized equipment, and there'd been nothing there before. One minute the moon had been just as it always had been, and the next minute the lights appeared.
      All that could be said for certain after several days was that whatever it was had not been put there by anyone on Earth; at least, not by anyone who would admit to it. When this conclusion came out, all the UFO-freaks and alien-lovers and haters took to the streets, some calling out in joy, others protesting in fear.
      Sandra hadn't been the only one to notice the initial smiley-face pattern. Almost everyone, whether they thought good or ill of the lights, was calling them The Eyes. News reports, pundits, even politicians called them The Eyes.
      After a week, nothing new had happened. No one had been able to see anything clearly even with special equipment, and rumors started to fly that the US government was going to send another ship to the moon.
      So it was that Sandra and her boyfriend were looking at the moon on the seventh night, Sandra outlining why she thought they were friendly, when a change happened. After a week of being white, The Eyes turned red.
fayanora: pensive (pensive)
A micro-scene I thought of earlier, I'm debating whether or not to put it in "The Darkness and The Light," which is where it would go best. The canon part of the story is in italics. Oh, BTW, this story is in 1st person (one of only two I've ever done that way) and narrated by Forizano Lysvalo. Here is the micro-scene:

~ ~ ~ Start ~ ~ ~

      We checked into one of the local inns at the heart of the city and paid for several rooms, as we had done at other inns. The servant Gyhrel, a plain man remarkable only for the bright purple hat he wore, parked the carriage and stabled the horses. Arrandine stood guard over the bags while Jedocas and I began to take them up to our rooms, Gyhrel helping out once he'd stabled the horses.
      "A nice inn, this one," Lyria said as we came down from taking up the last load of luggage. "But don't drink the ale. Nasty stuff."
      "Do they water it down," I asked.
      She laughed. "To say they water their ale down is an understatement. They would need an alchemist to transform that swill into actual ale. I do believe that their ale is diluted with so much water, that the water contains only the memory of the ale. I suppose they think it will get their clients drunker that way."
      I must have looked confused at this, for she looked at me and said, "Sorry, more Earth humor. I think I spent too much time there, the place grew on me more than I had expected."
      I nodded politely. I made a mental note, however, to try to make her tell me more about this 'Earth' she keeps mentioning. It had, at that point, been the only place aside from the city of Ahv that she's talked about, with obvious exceptions of Dralakkith, her neighboring countries, and the strange city we were in then. She'd never talked about even her homeland around me, wherever that may be, nor had she ever mentioned its name. I had only been with her for less than half a year at that point, though, so I didn't think too much of it at the time.

~ ~ ~ End ~ ~ ~

And yes, that IS a reference to homeopathy. :-D

Homeopathy joke aside, I like this scene. It has some interesting exposition. It turned out better than it had even in my head.

Anyway, whether I use it or not, I wanted to share the joke. :-D
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
Oliver Twist walks up to the man ladeling out the gruel, his bowl empty (he having eaten his portion), and looked up plaintively at the man. Once he had the man's attention, he spoke.
"Please, sir, may I have some more?"
"More? You want MORE?"
"Well, not really. I mean, I doubt this swill meets the nutritional needs of growing children. It's just hot cereal - grains - that has gone kind of cold and mushy. So you've covered the bottom of the food pyramid, but we still need a variety of fruits, vegetables, proteins, and fats. Maybe if you put some blueberries or strawberries in it, and served it with bacon or sausage, we'd be making some progress towards a balanced breakfast. And for dinner, some green beans, or steamed broccoli, or steamed carrots, and some ham slices or Salisbury steak. Mashed potatoes would go well with it, too. Maybe a little butter. Oh, and we'll need something to drink; milk would be a good idea, I think."
"..."
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
I was majorly bored earlier, bored out of my everloving mind. So I said Fuck It and went on a walk. Well, went to Ira's Deli to pay my electric bill first (it's a service they provide, they charge $2 for it {plus the cost of the bill of course}) because why not? From there, I went up to Sandy. From Sandy I went along 72nd (I think) and happened across a school I'd never seen before. Elementary or middle school, I couldn't tell for sure. But it was odd because I used to walk in that area frequently when I lived with Lilla, and had never seen that school before. Mainly because you have to actually go down that particular street to see it, which I had never done before. I'd walked along Sacramento before, but never been down that part of 72nd until today. So until I knew where it was in relation to Sacramento, it was a major WTF for me, especially since it was a fairly large school.

From there, I went along the path between Sacramento and the golf course, then up the stairs to Sacramento. I was perplexed that I went up those stairs without even breathing very hard; I used to go up those steps a LOT because they were part of the shortest path from our apartment at the time, to Brooke's... and every time I'd been up those stairs before, it was with lots of huffing and puffing and rest periods even before getting up them all the way. But today, I went right up them without a problem. I'd like to say it was due to my being more in shape, but truth is I'm probably in worse shape now than I was back then. I finally figured out the only reason I took the steps so well that time was because I'd already been walking for about an hour, so I was nicely warmed up. Oh, now that I think about it, those stairs are only about half the climb from the old apartment. The path I used to take goes uphill, then downhill, then uphill again before getting to the stairs, and it's one hell of a climb before you even get to the stairs; in fact, I'd say it's about 75% of the climb to Sacramento.

From the stairs, I went straight ahead to Sandy, turned right and went down to the area of Safeway, rested for a time, and then trudged up Fremont, turning right at 70th. Walked to Prescott, went the rest of the way home from there.

I'm glad I went on a walk, too. It was warmer than usual today, and just the right amount of light. And for most of my walk, I was working out some plans for my Lyria stories. Walks help me think. Or rather, they remove me from any distractions so I can think about things I don't normally devote time to, such as roadblocks in my writing. A walk is no guarantee of an answer, of course; I'd done at least one or two other walks, before I got ill, to try to solve the problems with the Lyria stories. Finally came up with the solutions this time around. Mainly, the problem was this: I knew I couldn't restrict the stories to short story format anymore. It was time to switch to novel format. But how to do that, and integrate the existing stories? I couldn't just string them all along in order I wrote them; for one thing, the first Lyria story I wrote ("Mother") doesn't have Forizano in it, and I wanted to introduce readers to Lyria through Forizano. Also, "Mother" was basically an experiment; I was trying out the characters to see how well they worked. And I didn't want to reveal too much about Lyria too soon, so going back into her past to start the novel wasn't the way I wanted to go.

Anyway, I solved those problems, worked out if "Mother" could be put into the novel anywhere, and came up with enough of an outline to get started on the process of converting the stories to novel form. So it was a productive walk. But I'm a bit tired. I'm just gonna write down some notes and then take a nap.
fayanora: Steph Pensive (Steph Pensive)
"So Many Words"
By = Tristan A. Arts
Number of words: 1150

      Susan closed the door behind her and leaned on it as though she'd never see her apartment again, and stood there struggling to catch her breath. In truth, she was trying to regain her composure, to fight the panic down into some semblance of submission. She caught her reflection in the outside door, and knew she looked like hell. Her mid-length black hair was such a mess she looked like she'd slept for the past three weeks without bathing once. The dark circles under her eyes contradicted this, saying she'd not been sleeping, or not getting restful sleep anyway.
      Muttering curses under her breath, she fumbled with the keys to lock the inside door, closed the outside door, and manically finger-combed her hair into some kind of order quickly, rushing away from the apartment. She tried to tune out everyone's words as she did so; she didn't want to hear any of it, and things were about to get worse.
      Referring constantly to the directions she'd written on the back of an old receipt, Susan blundered around the neighborhood trying to find the bus stop she needed. When she finally found it, she sat down on the bench and fought tears. She felt physically sick at the thought of taking the bus, but this was something of an emergency. The truck she drove for work (semi-trailer) was in the shop; she had to pick it up today and get back on the road, but she couldn't afford a cab. At least it was quiet at the bus stop, only a few people now and then walking by. She heard them, too, but it was easier to tune out with the sound of traffic ebbing and flowing. Susan began to wish she'd taken up smoking, so she could have something to soothe her nerves.
      By the time the bus pulled up, Susan had to pull herself out of an upright version of the fetal position before she could board. She took her pre-prepared bus money out of one of the pockets in her purse and gave it to the machine. Susan liked machines; machines were usually quiet. The bus driver gave her a ticket, and she sat down in the front, since there weren't many people there. Not that it helped much; the whole bus was abuzz with all their words, like a very large hive of noisy insects, buzzing louder the longer she was stuck with them. An almost physical sensation, the buzzing vibrated her entire being in a very uncomfortable way. It made her itch all over, and she also felt very dirty, like the words were filth seeking her out. Only silence could cleanse her of it, and she could never find enough silence, could never get clean. She twitched and squirmed in her skin, trying with all her willpower to not cry, to not scream, to not scratch the itches so hard that her skin bled. As if she needed them thinking she was on meth or some other drug. She had to remain invisible; their concern would only make the buzzing louder and more obnoxious.
      Halfway there, a man about 60 years old got on board. He sat behind her and started chatting with some other people. Susan pinched the bridge of her nose. His words were two-edged. They echoed, in Susan's mind, because of the fraction of a second's lag between the words in his mind and the ones that came out of his mouth. His spoken words were very loud, painfully so, and his mental words were even louder. If everyone else was a hive of buzzing insects, this man was a nest of Japanese hornets all on his own, and someone was playing it over a bullhorn.
      As if this weren't bad enough, the people he was talking at were not interested in his nattering. This, and his intense volume, made their own buzzings get louder in return. Now the bus felt like it was the essence of noise, distilled. She was drowning in itchy, filthy noise. It would no doubt seep into every empty space in her being; she would never get clean, no matter how much silence she could find. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she was grinding her teeth. Not wanting to attract attention, she covered her face in her hands.
      Hoping he would get off soon, or that the bus driver would tell him to stop, Susan tried to endure. But he just wouldn't stop. Whatever it was he was talking about, he must have felt entitled to assault people with his words. Loud enough to be a nuisance to others, to Susan it was like being in the trenches at WWII, only louder and dirtier. She itched so bad she wanted to rip her skin off down to the muscle. Instead, she rocked back and forth as gently as she could to avoid attracting attention.
      Susan fantasized, as much as she could spare the mind power to, about having a psychotic episode right there on the bus. She'd had them before. She'd been given lots of different medicines, but none of it ever worked; the words just kept coming.
      She'd been through too much to snap from this. But something had to change. She steeled herself, fought for every last ounce of self-control, and slowly turned to the loud man. "Please shut up," she said. "No one wants to hear your loud and annoying nattering."
      He turned to her, his hand to his ear. "What was that?"
      Louder, she said, "I said PLEASE SHUT UP. Nobody wants to hear you talking. You are loud and obnoxious and your words are painful. PLEASE. BE. QUIET!"
      The older man looked hurt, but faced the floor and was silent. A variety of cheers sprang up briefly from the others, which made the noise level spike for Susan, but then they were quiet and things died down to a level just a little bit higher than when she'd gotten on.
      At long last, she stumbled out of the bus, regained her composure as it drove off, and she prepared to walk the rest of the way to get her truck. Before she could, though, she noticed that the old man had gotten out with her. He was the only one nearby, so she could clearly hear his internal words. What she heard saddened her, made the whole situation even more awkward.
      Susan shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. "Sorry, dude, about before. I just... I can't stand buses to begin with, and you were being loud and making the whole thing even harder to cope with. I hope you find someone to talk about... whatever it was... with, someone who can listen and be interested." She began to walk away, finishing with, "I used to know the loneliness of the quiet."
      The older man half-smiled despite himself, as she walked away.
fayanora: SK avatar (Default)
"The Snicker Imp"
Flash fiction by Tristan A. Arts

      She was a goddess of chaos. But she wasn't Eris, or Oya, or Kali, or anywhere in their league. She wasn't even one of their sidekicks. She was like an imp, but less impressive. Her kind of chaos consisted of smaller things, like blowing out neon-sign letters on stores to make rude words at night with the remaining letters, or causing embarrassing misspellings and grammar errors on signs, homework assignments, and things posted to the Internet, usually by people who didn't often make such mistakes. The fact was, she was pathetic, and didn't even know it. Bored teenagers throwing jack-o-lanterns into the street wreaked more havoc than she did, but she went blithely on, noticed by no one, not making one iota of difference in the grand scheme of things. But despite all that, she was happy; enviably happy. Which gave her the kind of life that some people could only imagine. If only they knew about her, she'd be the envy of thousands of people. But, while they might chuckle at her handiwork, no one knew of her, or even knew her name. If she knew this, she didn't care. Life was good.

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