06 May, 2008
Sent: Monday, May 05, 2008 2:19 AM
Subject: intellectual woman
As an intellectual (and heterosexual) man, I'm more and more afraid I'll have to give up finding you- speak up! I'm looking and looking as best as I can, but I'm not seeing you right off....
19 August, 2006
Anyway, Christina began this story with Resurrection. Lolly continued it with Death Tolls. Phoenix carried it along with Unnatural. That1Guy had the latest addition to the story, with Old Man.
Here's mine; I hope it's enjoyable:
Pascal slowly turned to face the old man, a malicious grin spreading across his face like wildfire. Bastien held his gaze, standing his ground as gusts of putrid wind rushed past the boy, untouched, and pelted him with stinging drops of rain. Corrine let out a bloodcurdling scream as the droplets changed to fire. Bastien waved the women off to the side, Corrine dragging and shielding Lady Niette from her horrifying son. His skin singed as the fire pelted against his slight frame.
Steeling his strength against the onslaught, Bastien blocked the spirits Pascal had sent careening after his mother. He called upon the appropriate god to spare the woman her fate. It was too bad about the boy. If only Pascal’d been shown how to use his powers appropriately... but ‘twas too late now. The work of every devil was within him, captivating his very soul and the souls of all he touched. Pascal must be stopped.
“Come now, old man! You know I cannot be stopped, just as this storm cannot be controlled,” sneered the small child. And the storm waged on its war against every object, living, dead, or otherwise. Bastien glanced up at the swirling vortex that just this afternoon had been a calm, clear sky. The lad was cocky, though hopefully wrong. Sighing, the old man launched a full assault on the boy.
“Not Pascal, please, dear Lord!” Lacy pleaded with her God, her chest heaving as she weeped with terror and sorrow. She and Corrine huddled behind a small wooden shack on the edge of the LaFleur property. Harsh winds whipped across their quaking bodies, tearing at them and chilling them to the center of their souls. Lacy could not watch the battle ensuing, for the display of such evil power would have killed her. Corrine whimpered as the spirits soared closer, wailing and screeching as they went. The two women clung to each other, utterly terrified.
Corrine glanced up at Lacy. With a shriek, she started back from her and cried, “My Lady, your – your hair!” Lacy’s magnificent locks had turned a stark white where dark tendrils had extended toward her head…
Jeffrey woke up with a start. His older son lay, curled in a tattered quilt, at his feet. For all the covers over him, the boy was shivering, his whole body quaking with fear of his brother. Jeffrey quietly arose, heading straight for the window. The storm was more powerful than any he had seen. The trees flailed this way and that, and the entire house shuddered, creaking back and forth. Branches snapped off, sounding so like gunshots. A flash of lightning etched an ugly scar across the sky.
In the black sky, Jeffrey could see an opening toward the center of the storm. It was not the calm for which he had hoped; the tear was dark and ominous. From it poured forth shadows of creatures too terrible to imagine. He could hear their wailing over the noise of the storm. Abruptly, he realized it was because they were closer than he’d thought. He backed away from the window slowly, stumbling over the fitfully sleeping Emile. Dark, swooping figures were heading straight for the house…
Pascal sent another wave of demons at Bastien, blasting him also with torrents from the ever-growing storm. Bastien could feel his power wavering as another bout attacked. He wavered in his stance. The winds pulled at his skin, stripping away at his life. This child was strong – stronger than he should have been made, but those were, again, the devils inside him. His eyes glowed red as he called more spirits against his frail mother. Her life was draining from her terrified eyes, opened wide to the horrors these demons held.
Bastien was failing, and he knew it. He denied the impulse to break free of this mess and end it easily. He must try to save Lady Niette. She alone had had some small amount of control over this boy. Without her, there was no hope for any of them. He looked over at the affected mother. She was losing her soul at an alarming rate. The boy was harsh with her. Swiftly, he called again upon the appropriate gods for her sake.
Yet as Bastien glanced again at Lacy, Pascal attacked full force. The old man was broadsided by the worst of the demon spirits; his life swept away by the malicious forces of the storm. As the spirits shrieked, his slight, worn body crumpled to the ground.
Lady Niette screamed as she tried to scramble away. The full array of spirits was now turning their attention toward her. Corrine held her strongly in place. Desperately, Lacy looked at her companion’s face. She paled, her eyes locked in a gaze shared by blood-red pupils. These eyes shared with her the complete extent of her sins, and all the horrors of all the hells.
“Good-bye, Ma mère,” Pascal’s voice sounded from close by, a cruel smile twisted across his lips. Lacy’s eyes wrenched away from Corrine’s demonic stare, and she looked upon her son for one last time. Her body went limp, her soul consumed by the demons swelling about them.
“Come, my servant,” he beckoned to the remaining woman, and they disappeared into the darkness of the storm.
Jeffrey relaxed his grip on young Emile as the spirits drew back, their wailing subsiding. The storm must be near an end, calming. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Papa? Is it over?” He heard the trembling voice ask hesitantly.
“Oh, no, mon frère, it’s just the eye, the eye of the storm,” a corrupted voice intoned. Father and son looked up to see the small boy standing in the doorway. The storm raged about him, and the demons issued a bloodcurdling shriek as they rushed forth to devour the souls of Pascal’s remaining family. That-which-was-Corrine joined the force to consume, and Pascal’s maniacal laugh resounded throughout the bayou…
16 July, 2006
It was a late-spring evening, and the sun was slowly setting on the empty, still park. Trees, majestic and tall, swayed in a wind which carried the lingering fragrance of sweet blossoms. Two figures came over the hill, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. They were a long way out, these two friends. The pair were enjoying discussions as they transversed the park -- so much so, that they did not noticed the fast-approaching storm clouds.
Just as they neared the middle fountain, a commanding Neptune in focus, a downpour burst from the sky. They raced to the old oak tree, attempting in vain to avoid being soaked. At first, they huddled near the base, laughing over their drenched circumstance. Soon, they were standing beneath the canopy, and together they watched the rain. Both had affinities with storms, and they were content in their plight. Occasional conversation ensued, with comfortable lapses into silence. It was during one of these that he noticed just how cold she was, for she was without a jacket, and her teeth were chattering quietly.
Gallantly, he removed his coat and draped it across her shoulders, refusing her initial protests -- he was a gentleman, and would 'tough it out.' She glanced at him gratefully as she snuggled into the already warm material. Showers continued, and the breeze picked up. She observed how chilled he was, as well, and, ever-practical, she implemented a plan.
With a little smile on her face, she slipped his coat from her shoulders, handing it back to him as she explained herself. He pulled it back on, leaving it unzipped, and the distance between them melted. She wove her arms around his waist, inside the coat, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, closely.
They continued talking, though they no longer noticed the rain. The mood between them had changed; their voices grew softer and they lapsed into more and more silence, enjoying the closeness. The storm had been the catalyst needed to bring them along the path they both had been leaning toward. The sun had nearly set as the rain continued coming down.
He shifted and began humming some low, gentle tune. She nestled her head against his chest as they started to sway. He lightly kissed her hair, then rested his head upon hers. They slowly danced under the canopy of the old oak tree, to their own unending song. Neither noticed that the rain had stopped...
01 July, 2006
This Psychevella began with chapters by Bob [with Bitter Herbs], Christina herself [with Heads Up], and Leslie [with Shrink This]. I have chapter four. Caltechgirl will follow me, God bless her, and El Capitan will wrap it all up!
I hope you continue to enjoy the Psychevella. Without further ado, my contribution:
The Old Neighbourhood
Hanging up the phone, Cahill furrowed his brow as the team swept through every inch of the old McFarland house. Something did not seem quite right about the place – something besides the distinct lack of Johnny’s mother’s decorum. I wonder what ancient childhood trinkets of Johnny’s and mine they’ll find, he wondered. The building had probably never been so thoroughly inspected as it was now. And yet, the main floor, which by the dusty stairs to second seemed to be the most often used area, was completely devoid of prints, blood, anything. Almost cleaner than a clean room.
Sighing, Cahill watched the team carry away the assemblage of appendages found in fridge and freezer alike. A complete set for a body, but there was no way he would let old Mrs. McCuddahey identify George in person; the shock might send her over the edge, and one death was all he could stand around here right now. Carefully, he’d had the team put the body together in rough form, and they’d thrown a sheet over most of the corpse out of respect. Digital print-out in hand, he made his way to the familiar brownstone next door, where an anxious Mrs. McCuddahey was waiting in his mother’s sitting room. She’d have a lot to go through these next few days, poor soul.
Cahill trudged up the familiar, care-worn steps, rang the bell once, and waked in. His mother was making tea to soothe her neighbour’s weak nerves, as well as to supply herself with a cuppa. Fortunately, the ever-practical Mrs. Romano was a Godsend; she handed him a brewed cup of coffee just as he walked in the door. She noted at once his appearance, especially the grim countenance displayed upon his face. Wordlessly, he passed the kitchen by, and entered the sitting room. Such a frail, tiny woman! He hoped, once again, that her heart was stronger than she looked. He sat down in his late father’s favourite chair. He cleared his throat, dreading this moment as always he did, and started in. “Mrs. McCuddahey, I’m afraid I’ve brought some bad news...”
“Is George in trouble? Is it that girl!? I hope he hasn’t been being” – her voice dropped to a whisper – “worldly.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s much worse. I regret to inform you that George, your son, has been… murdered. You have my deepest sympathies,” he consoled as he passed her the print-out. Cahill watched her suck in a long, deep breath. Her eyes had widened, and her hand shook more than usual – or so he thought – when she reached for the print-out. Her breath caught as she gazed down at it through her half-moon spectacles.
“Yes. Yes, that’s my George. My son… my only son!” And she sobbed silently, crumpling herself into his mother’s capable arms. The print-out fell to the floor, showing all in the room the disrespect that had occurred. Mrs. Romano picked it up gingerly, and jerked her head toward the kitchen. Cahill nodded. He followed her there to let one old soul help another in her grief. He could hear his mother softly soothing, “Martha, honey, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” and her voice trailed off as he walked out of earshot and into the kitchen. Mrs. Romano, of course, was all business, leaning against the counter, arms folded. “How long ago, William?”
That name again. He tried not to let it either irk or amuse him. “Two days ago, we think. Won’t know for sure until the pathologist gets a look at him. I hope to God it didn’t last days.” Cahill handed her his cup, looking for a refill. She complied, but with a confused look upon her face.
“How could a blow to his head have lasted for days?” She hands the brimming coffee back to him as he remembered, gratefully, what his team had done. Of course Mrs. Romano doesn’t know about the dismemberment, he reminded himself. “Never you mind, Mrs. Romano. Could you go back in there and see if Mrs. McCuddahey is up for a few questions right now? I know it’s late, but …”
“Sure, William, I’ll check on Martha right now,” and with that, she marched from the room, leaving Cahill to collect his thoughts. What ‘girl’ had she been referring to? Did she know anything about Lenny Markowitz? Would this all lead back to Dr. Schoedel? He had his suspicions about Dr. Schoedel, beginning with George’s personal notes on his sessions with the “Shiksa Psychiatrist” and leading into the number of messages / scheduled meetings George had relating to her. She had seemed unhelpful and uncomfortable on the phone just now… would she actually try to “find” George? Or did she know… Cahill brushed his thoughts aside, and headed back into the sitting room.
A more composed Martha McCuddahey sat waiting for him, her hands folding primly on her lap. Without further ado, he asked question upon question. Each was answered directly by Mrs. McCuddahey, with supplementary information from Mrs. Romano; if anyone would know around here, she would know. Cahill actually found this line of questioning useful, but only because he was so used to multiple women talking at once – especially if one of them was Mrs. Romano.
He started with general questions:
“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm George?”
“No, he was a perfect angel.”
“He was always very quiet, kept mostly to himself, and was polite whenever and wherever.”
And soon progressed to more personal questions, which conveniently addressed his curiosity about George’s decorations:
“What religious beliefs did George profess?”
“Well, naturally, Roman Catholic. We’re devout. He almost became a priest.”
“I heard tell he dabbled in all sorts of devilry, but I never wanted to upset Martha with it…”
Cahill made a mental note to ask Mrs. Romano more about that later.
Finally, he reached the question he’d been wanting to ask.
“When I first entered, you mentioned ‘that girl’. Who is ‘that girl’? ”
27 June, 2006
26 May, 2006
amelie: i've never touched a gun
the ideal: oh that's unfortunate
amelie: maybe someday i'll learn how to handle one
the ideal: i haven't succeeded in getting a deer for 5 years, but someone usually makes up for it so i can have my fill of animal flesh :)
amelie: don't know that i've ever tasted of it
the ideal: deer, or meat in general?
the ideal: good, i was afraid i had met another vegetarian there for a minute
[almost simultaneously with the previous line] amelie: vegetarian is soo not worth it
[then, in response to his, because i could hear him saying it] amelie: lol
the ideal: so true
the ideal: except, what do you gain by being a vegetarian?
amelie: less protein?
amelie: more angst?
the ideal: lol
amelie: c'mon, you know i'm right :)
the ideal: certainly less angus
18 May, 2006
Calculus III: survived despite the horribleness that was my professor, who was, rather inconveniently, also my advisor. emphasis on "was", as I've switched to another. The term teach can only be used loosely with this man, who famously said, one morning when demonstrating a new concept, "Oh, wait. I can't do this. It's too early in the morning, and my brain doesn't function!" [Then how are ours supposed to function, Sherlock?!] Good concepts, and I learned them rather well and somewhat easily -- on my own -- but still, very little respect for him, but the course is over, and I'll make it so I never have to have him again. grade for semester: A.
General Physics I: better course, even if only for the physics lads I helped each week. I'll miss them. Professor was quite good, and covered a lot of material -- and it was fun to hear her mutter in German when trying to remember something. [[Silk -- she saw and likes Io.]] Some times the exams were too long, or I made really stupid mistakes on them -- and then beat myself up about it for a while. She suggested a physics minor, and we talked about the Trebuchet Society I was in during high school. grade for semester: A.
Introduction to Literature: I loved this class. The professor was incredible, and challenging, and, well, we all know my love of literature! She got the themes across very well, and provoked us to thought. [Too bad more people didn't speak those thoughts.] She ordered a switch to English major, or a double major with English and Mathematics, or at least an English minor. She volunteered to be my unofficial advisor, but for the fact that she's leaving this year, to teach beloved Shakespeare in Montana. She does return for next year's May term to take a group to London to see / discuss / write papers about some dramatizations. She keeps saying I'm going, but we'll have to see. grade for semester: A.
Women in U.S. History: Good class, predictable material, but enjoyable visiting professor. The woman can teach, no doubt about it, but she treated this intro level [1000 level] course as an advanced [4000 level] class. In fact, one of my floormates had her for a 4000 level class, and said it was easier than ours. They had less material to read, both per class period and overall. They also had options for the essays on the exams, and we did not. Also, we only had one paper, one exam [midterm] and the one final to make up 75% of our grade. Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed this class -- including the fact that my roommate was in it. grade for semester: A.
Intermediate Problem Solving / Problem Solving II: There were three of us. Three. of. us. Two guys and myself. The professors rotated through being with us again. The problems were much, much harder, the concepts sometimes difficult to grasp. The Irishman and the new, better advisor were the first two supervising profs, and they were good at motivating us. My previous advisor / Calc III professor was our last supervisor. I don't even want to talk about it. Normally, I dreaded going to the class, and was sorely tempted once to skip, but once I got there, things weren't too bad. We got back Putnam results -- and I got a point! I'm still thrilled. Next up is the Putnam Preparation Problem Solving class next fall, and then I've run out of those classes. grade for semester: S. [It was a pass/fail class.]
Leaving me, altogether, with a grade point average of 4.0 for the semester, and, combined with fall semester's 4.0, a cumulative 4.0 for my first year of college. Amusingly enough, the calculus classes were the last grades to come in each semester... Anyway, there's not a big deal about this 4.0 at home, as things perhaps did not go as well for others with their various classes. I'm not expecting reactions like this -- just thought I'd let you all know.
14 May, 2006
who responded to my scarce comments with utmost kindness last spring,
who took an interest in my life,
who encouraged me to begin blogging -- and even help me set up my blog and profile, who gave me family,
who taught me to appreciate myself more [we're still working on that one],
who inspired me with her own written words to write myself,
who started projects that brought us all together,
who juggled work and family time with her wonderful husband and two lovely daughters,
who encourages me to aspire to great things,
who believed and believes I'll get there,
who shines more brightly than any other writer I know,
who has touched each of us -- it has been said, and I agree, that she is the one who has, more than any other, united the blogosphere neighbourhood we have into a family,
who has done more for me than I can put into words [if I but had the eloquence to say them],
thank you, and happy mother's day, Christina.
05 May, 2006
I AM: often thought to be lonely, when i'm just alone, and thought to be just alone, when i'm lonely; young, and old, at the same time, rather patient understanding and rational [i think].
I WANT: to be able to make it in whatever i end up trying to become, to keep my faith, to find happiness with a wonderful man and be blessed with children.
I WISH: to be recognized for being me, not academia. i recognize that that's a large part of me, but i keep telling myself there is more to me than that. that i could have met J.R.R. Tolkien; that those i love weren't so spread out; also, for happiness, good health, and the like for all whom i know and love.
I HATE: hypocrites, most fruits, being forgotten / left behind, credit card offers.
I MISS: my closest of close friends, Wisconsin, the lake, my dad, and my brother.
I FEAR: failure, losing those i love dearly, falling from faith
I HEAR: doors opening, stairs being climbed past me, random mumblings of a dorm, typing, Issy van Randwyck singing "I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise" from the Glory of Gershwin CD.
I WONDER: what path i'll end up following, if i'll find someone / be found, how i'm going to do on finals this next week, which friends will keep in touch with me as our lives keep taking us farther away from each other, how to do Problem #4 on the Putnam, where home is now
I REGRET: spending so much time second guessing myself and my friends -- convincing myself i didn't have almost any friends -- such that i missed out on a lot of good for years; and still having such a lack of self-confidence -- "how do you fix that?" would probably go into the wondering category.
I AM NOT: desperate, suicidal, and, currently, unhappy; as intelligent as everyone gives me credit for being.
I DANCE: very little, awkwardly, not as well as Princess, the guy's part in a waltz.
I SING: a lot of the time, in harmony [sometimes unwritten or before the singers of whatever is on], NOT at the dinner table [dad's rules sunk in], NOT when some completely different music is on [also a dad rule that stuck]
I CRY: at funerals, sometimes when i remember my paternal grandfather, sometimes when i think of how i never had the chance to really know my maternal grandfather, sometimes when i remember watching my maternal grandmother die; none of these are often.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: as kind as i should be, as happy as i appear [sorry, Audrey; they were the perfect answers for me]
I MAKE: promises [and keep them], good fudge and good cookies, a lot more mistakes than most people are willing to believe, music with my fingers, people freeze in their tracks / be quiet with a single quelling look, secrets stay secret.
I WRITE: all the stories in my head -- even though they don't all come to paper that well, letters to my g-ma each week, [sometimes i write] random quotations [both my own and others] to inspire those around me to thought or action, in several different handwritings, often without capitalization.
I CONFUSE: people who hate math, most people with whom i talk [they often admit they weren't really listening, too..]
I NEED: God, love, music, learning, the friends i have, the good times i have with them.
I HAVE: you. thank you.
I LOVE: God, rain, storms, fog, mist, accents, my family, my friends, chocolate, playing piano, hearing my father play piano, traveling, visiting those i love, the beauty of places like Pennsylvania Ireland New Zealand etc. [even if i've never been], a lot more things that don't need to be posted -- to know me is to know these.
I SHOULD: work out more, worry less, stop overanalyzing / overthinking everything, have more fun.
I TAG: my blogmother, my crazy blogaunt, my bloggodfaddah, my fa, my dashing brother, and Paige. if any of you would like to, have at it. if not, i won't be offended.