Yellow recycle bin

October 6th, 2007

My brain feels like a piece of paper left out on a rainy street and crushed to pulp by a thousand heavy wheels. So please forgive this resurrected post; it may be as ugly as your run-of-the-mill zombie but I need word therapy.

This was written two years ago. RO fanfic. I’m going to start writing fanfic again; I’ve missed it and recent events have made me realize that I need some guiltless pleasure in my life. Fandoms: Rurouni Kenshin, Starcraft, Ragnarok Online. (No WCIII, sorry. I didn’t really like the story.)

–

The sun had almost reached its zenith in the sky by the time Der Ivont finished carving the sigils and runes into the parched ground. Hands shaking with excitement, he drew the last symbol around himself — a circle of protection, from which eight rays radiated — and stood up, not bothering to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He squinted at the sky and let out a deep breath.

It was almost time.

He fumbled with his sage robes before pulling out a worn-out scroll, so old its ink had faded into the yellowed vellum. Those close-minded fools at the Arcane Tower had laughed at his excitement when he had finally deciphered the faint writing and found that the scroll was the key to the discovery of a lifetime. Keep to your own spells, sage, they had mocked, and leave true power to others. He could still taste the bitterness of a thousand suppressed retorts and hear their stinging laughter. They had always belittled his magic, finding it useless and weak, unable to destroy even the most insignificant enemy.

Anticipation stretched his lips into a tight grin. Dare him to destroy, would they? Ah, when he returned, they would laugh no more — no, they would scream, they would beg.

The sage looked up again. The sun was directly overhead. Taking three yellow gems from his bag, he dashed them to pieces on the ground and raised his arms. The lines and runes he had drawn flared with golden light, visible power running outward from the circle’s eight rays, through the symbols drawn around it, and back again, to the exact center. To him.

A sharp cry escaped him when the light touched his body — such pleasure! such pain! –

–

The story has to do with (cough) a Medusa shield. A Platerer’s Guard, to be specific. The Medusa card, compounded on the Shield equipment slot, grants immunity to Stone Curse and 15% reduction in damage taken from Demon monsters.

(Hee, Der Ivont. The real Der Ivont would be mortified.)

And then this… I wrote this two years ago too; it was supposed to be a gift for a couple, but I never got around to finishing it. I don’t exactly know why I’m resurrecting it. I might do something to this (or at least, to an image of this) sometime soon. Or… I don’t know.

–

To him she has always been everything that is intense and beautiful, all that captivates heart and body and soul. Ever since he met her he has been as a man intoxicated, giddy with the sight of the noonday sun caught in her smile, the constellations uncounted that spangle her night-sky eyes. He is drunk on this passion that has overwhelmed his life.

She fills his days with a wonder so all-consuming it leaves him breathless. And during the nights — ah, the nights, long blue hours replete with longing — she haunts him at the edge of sleep, a warm presence not quite touching him, an intangible caress. He lifts his head to kiss her and finds only the memory of her voice and a gentle breeze slipping past shadows.

So he dreams of her. Bereft of her presence he is still with her, and though he cannot touch her she is as fully his as ever.

–

For some reason I like reading my old writing and laughing at how terrible it is. A year from now I’ll probably think the weaver and black hole stories should never have been written. But then, that’s the way it is; at least I can still derive amusement from my work. That’s enough for me.

This reminds me of one of my writing-related quirks, in that I don’t think my fiction will ever be published in print but I don’t really mind. It’s strange, because while I’m learning to write with an audience in mind, once I finish whatever it is I’m working on it’s… done. I don’t submit it anywhere. I don’t know why. It’s not shyness, it’s something else. Maybe lack of motivation?

One time I was talking with a friend of mine, a talented young writer who thought she was hopeless with words, and she said (somewhere in the middle of angsting about workshops etc), “It’s so ironic. I’d kill for your words, but you don’t even want to be published.” I stared at her and said something about just being a physics student who occasionally writes crack to take her mind off her problems. Then just this morning I read something about my being a writer in an LJ friend’s post. I dunno, I said in my comment, I don’t think I’m a writer, I just write. After all, sometimes the ideas won’t leave me alone.

I’m surprisingly content with this. It’s like what I do with my art and calligraphy and music. As long as there’s some spark of beauty or truth or substance I’ll be happy. As long as I’m improving I’ll be happy. As long as I can write I’ll be happy. And there’s still physics and economics and law and Greek, all those things I want to learn and do and be–

…Okay, back to studying.

Entry Filed under: writing