A Reprise

When I come to my old home, suddenly I remember what matters. Maybe this time I can take it home with me. Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Bleah. Another beautiful day. And I slept through half of it. (warning, a lot of complaints to follow) I just sent my Treo blog and was praying it would go through so I could come in and complain. So here I am. So I'm trying to figure out why I get 8 mB a month web service on my phone, and it's only alotting me 2.5 this month? I guess they're doing it partway and maybe they do the billing at the first of each month, but I should be getting more than that. And I still haven't gotten my pay. Bloody hell, how far behind am I in my pay??? I guess I will have to start keeping records on it and exact my money, since they don't exactly give it to me. *&%#W @$%^# @#$%$!!!! Why's everyone trying to take everything away from me? I'm just waiting for that phone to ring again so another telemarketer can bother me, but it seems they decide to stop that after I wake up. And I don't know how to turn off the ringer on the bedroom phone. And I don't feel lik

Here is my very first Treo blog, and thus it will probably be very short. These keys are miniscule but ah, if you could just see how precious my little friend is. I may end up eliminating punctuation and caps if I can't grow accustomed.  This will be perfect for writing poetry, though, since I spend more time thinking than writing.  Or maybe I will have to learn some fashionable shorthand- it's about time I got hip on my abbreviations.  So I am @lunch, wishing I'd brought a book...  Wondering if it really pays to grow up...  Thinking on my new favorite hottie anime singer...  Which would be my very own husband. Sigh...  Wondering if I will ever see him again for more than a 30 min interval...   I hope we can do something fun this weekend...  Go to the zoo...  And good lord I want to see my freaking BJDs.  And my cat is a mess, throws up in a new spot every day. He's listless and depressed... Last night I came home and he was sitting on the couch waiting for me with th

I came on with the thought to write for the sheer hope that Nathan might read it-- if I had known he had already checked my weblog I would have been writing on it in the lab just to be able to tell him my thoughts. Nathan... I miss you, too. I almost forgot tonight was abnormal but as soon as I came in Henry was acting really odd, the same disturbed way he acted when I came home from Bethyl every afternoon. Then I remembered you weren't here. I don't think I ever said the Bronte books were written by the same person. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are in two very different styles, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is different from either of them. After I finish this book, however, I intend to go into a deep study of all their lives; if I start researching them now, something will probably spoil the ending of this book for me, and I don't want that to happen. Darkthorns, I don't know if The Tenant of Wildfell Hall will be to your taste, but since you liked those othe

I am almost overwhelmed with the desire to obtain more information about this author and her novel The Tenant of Wildfell Hall . I have not been afflicted with such passion for a book in longer than I can remember. I have become a true bookworm again-- glued to this novel, and loathing and scorning every interruption from it. I am over three-fourths done with it, and then finally I will be able to research criticism about this book about which I have never heard. It cuts me more deeply than Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre ever could, though the similarities between all three fascinate me. That these sisters existed on this earth is as overwhelming to me as considering Beethoven existed on this earth. I have been doing very well with Nathan gone-- even though it's only been five hours or so. I cleaned up the house some and did some shopping-- got some peppermint patties to cheer the night, and if that doesn't work, I will get a mocha valencia. I haven't done anything else t

Nichol entered the shabby parlor with misgivings. It was still difficult to believe that someone as elegant as Hildegarde might live in such deplorable conditions. Perhaps she did not use any of the rooms Nichol had seen, but then, which did she use? She made a motion to draw back the velvet draperies and let light into the room, but a single pull at the cord, and a course of spiders trickled from the curtain folds. A shiver ran down her spine and she moved backward, not wishing to make greater evil with her tampering. Hildegarde showed no sign of returning from her errand soon and Nichol felt impatient for some distraction from the oppressive quiet. She spied on a far table an antique phonograph which, despite its apparant age and neglect, was not broken. It was loaded already with a cylinder and Nichol was curious to hear the machine at work. Studied in Victorian technology, she was able to crank the phonograph and put it into operation without risking its destruction, though it appe

(You stole me away to a place where the wind in the trees moaned like the restless dead Where spiders plotted my death in the dooryard You surrounded me with the shadow of your love till all I could see was darkness, and I dreamed.) I wandered thus through dream-fields with a piece of poisoned apple lodged in my throat I floated above the ground and my skirts trailed through the grass: my burial shroud dragged the ground A shadow moved behind me, but my instincts were blunted I reacted slowly, turning from the menace and fleeing toward our shanty That wooden contraption of sticks and twine, where my love waited by Plying a jew harp with careless grace as I danced for You, every step, every curtsey, for my savior. Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

"And Hugh? Where did you meet him? And what is he to you?" "The only friend I've got in the wide world. May I see him, please?" "First, tell me what is is to you and to this child?" 'Lina rejoined, her black eyes flashing with a gleam, before which the brown eyes for an instant quailed; then as if something of a like spirit were called to life in her bosom, Adah answered calmly: "Your brother might not like me to tell. I must see him first-- see him alone." "One thing more," and 'Lina held back her mother who was starting in quest of Hugh, "are you a wife?" "Don't, 'Lina," Mrs. Worthington whispered, as she saw the look of agony pass over Adah's face. "Don't worry her so; deal kindly by the fallen." "I am not fallen!" came passionately from the quivering lips. "I'm as true a woman as either of you-- look!" and she pointed to the gold band encircling the th

Her hand is locked firmly in his own: it is warm and tangible. His fingers are stronger than they look: she thought they might be as lithe and ethereal as the rest of him. "Where are we going?" Josette whispered with concern as he dragged her persistently at a dizzying speed through unfamiliar roads. He did not answer, but reached a chain-link fence, and stopped. On the other side of it was an abandoned church with roof falling in. "Climb," he whispered fiercely. "Go as quickly as you can. I'll hand you up as far as I can." "But what about you?" Josette questioned, but he made no reply, firmly hoisting her up. She grasped the links and climbed as well as she could. She reached the top and looked down to see if the man followed her, but he was nowhere to be found. She gasped. She didn't even know his name to call for him. Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Engelburg. The name resonated in Nichol's mind. Of course-- this was where Gabriel had met and loved Gisela Weisse, a young ward of the household already promised in marriage. If the authenticity of Hildegarde's letters could be verified, this would be a powerful discovery indeed. Nichol studied the letters at length while Hildegarde waited. Nichol sensed her confidence in the find. "Are more of Lysander's things at the burg?" Hildegarde watched her closely-- too closely. Nichol began to redden, afraid Hildegarde was considering her personal interest in Lysander. "I don't know what belonged to Gabriel. I haven't the faintest notion about antique things. I am no expert." She arched a brow. "But you are, Miss Durand." Nichol looked at her incredulously, wondering if there was an underlying implication to Hildegarde's words, or if she were going mad. "I am studied in artifacts-- yes." Again Hildegarde was watching her, not as

I have to stay awake: please help me. I'm so drowsy I don't even care to surf the web. I've written three scenes already and I think it's made my eyes tired. I always dreamed of being a paid writer-- darn it, I am. I can't think of anything to think about. I already made lists of groceries, chores and lofty life goals. Somehow even in this July I am freezing when I step outside in the darkness to drive home. I dread that void. Sometimes even my most favorite music can't shake me from that oblivion when I get in the car. It's like being an astronaut looking at earth-- lonely and cold. I feel now that an inferno could not warm me. I see myself under the comforter now-- then I'll be warm and safe. I want to start transcribing Hugh Worthington soon. I was considering tonight what things I want in my life and Gutenberg is one of them. I don't know how far my interactive fiction will go but it's worth a shot anyway. Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'

She slides down the wall next to him, fidgeting with her grocery bags as she does. "I have a roll-top can of Spam. And soft drinks." She smiles apologetically. "The convenience store doesn't have much now. They only carry things that don't spoil." In the shadows she sees the barest glimpse of his smile. "You're kind to share with me." "What else would I do? Go home and eat it alone, while you shiver in the dark? We might be the only two people left on this earth, for all it seems." His pale gaze meets her. The look in his eyes is unfathomable, almost otherworldly. A shiver runs down her spine. "What is it?" Josette asks. "Why do you look at me so?" He puts one hand over hers and the can of Spam she is holding, surprising her to silence. A howl pierces the quiet, chilling Josette's blood. "Oh, God," she whispers with dread. There are wolves nearby: their population has increased rapidly with the declin

The winter wind blasts her as she ducks under the stoop and fishes for her key. Lingering in the doorway is a tall, lanky figure watching her. Josette pauses, key poised in hand, as she meets the man's black stare. "Lysander," she breathes, her heart accelerating. For the first time that day she doesn't feel the cold. He is dressed in black from head to toe: his pale face is framed by close-cropped black hair. "Josette." His voice is barely audible above the howling wind. She notices for the first time that his cheeks and hands are wind-stung and she wonders how long he has been waiting there: she left to carry out her errands hours ago. "I want to talk to you." There was urgency in his voice. Her heart beat harder: she couldn't help wondering if he had missed her as she missed him, if he felt the hollow cold as she did. As she exhaled her breath was marked by frost. She slid her key into the lock with a trembling hand and jiggled it slight

I am so excited that this did not disappear that I'm beside myself-- I looked all over the Internet for this site and couldn't find it, but from what I can tell they had to change their name because CYOA was sueing them. Wow! I can't believe it's well over a year since I wrote this story! Time does fly-- what have I been doing for this past year? Here I am on the eve of my first wedding anniversary wondering how on earth I got here.

The old museum creaked and groaned against the wind that battered it in the storm. Bare branches tapped Nichol's window as they lost the last of their leaves in an autumn storm. Tucked at her desk with a small space heater, she shivered and drew an old gray sweater further around her shoulders. Through crooked glasses she peered at the handbook she was reading on the effects of light on fragile documents. After staring blankly at the page for several moments she found she could not concentrate on it, distracted by the storm outside, and she marked it and placed the book aside. Storms such as these roused her to impatience. It was warm and cozy to be indoors on such a night, with no imposition to travel beyond the small apartment she kept on the third floor of the museum, but it was lonely to share the storm with none but oil paintings and marble sculptures. Convulsively she reached into her desk for the sheaf of old papers she kept, but just as abruptly ceased. She was tormented wi

He found her in the cold darkness of her room, lying on her bed as though sleeping. But the pallor of her cheek suggested more than repose. Jean went to her, lifted her shoulders, shook her. That was when he saw the garment tied around her chemise-- the corset. Blue rimmed her eyes and shadowed her fingertips: her breathing was shallow and uneven. Hands shaking, Jean worked quickly, untying the whalebone contraption till Blanche fell loose and senselessly back on the bed. He touched her face, listened to her breath, till he was satsfied she would keep, for she would not wake to his voice or prodding. He watched over her silently, till he heard her stepmother enter the house at the break of dawn, and slipped quickly through the window-- not before caressing her cool white cheek. Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Blanche woke with a delicious sense of peacefulness. Yellow light touched her face like a flower's caress, reminding her of the earthen garden she had discovered the evening before. Now more than anything she desired to return. As she dressed and bathed her face, she considered how she would slip there beyond her stepmother's notice. Before she entered the corridor she fastened her mother's locket around her throat and admired its glimmering cheer. In its glow was the semblance of flames, of wood and blowing ashes. A madman wobbled backward, viewing his work with satisfaction. That afternoon Blanche found occasion to visit the abandoned garden when she was done with her chores. She kept quiet company there with birds and insects till the sun descended and she hastened back down the dusty road past Jean's house. This time she paused to look, no longer absorbed in her discovery of the garden. His tall, lean form was blocked against orange light: he continued working after

There was little sunlight here. Cool shadows touched her face as she moved across the moist earth. Wondering, she dropped her basket and stepped further, drawn to the cool quiet. In the middle of the garden was a plot surrounded by a corroded iron fence and marked by a headstone. Blanche could not read the time-obscured script, but as she recognized the trappings of a grave she no longer felt alone. Around the abandoned grave grew wild pink roses whose long, curving thorns were as noticeable as its silken buds. Blanche bent and harvested several of the oldest blossoms to her basket. Late lilies grew around the garden walls: their fragrance was thrown with overgrown honeysuckle climbing the walls and every surface. Blanche breathed deeply of the scented air, feeling that she had somehow come home. But the house to whom this garden belonged was a pile of rubble and ash, collapsed but for stone chimneys. She dared not stay much longer. It was enough to have discovered this place and have

Jean glanced up to see Blanche passing by and paused at the plot of land he was working. Rake poised, he took in her simple, shabby appearance: black tendrils curling beneath a bleached bonnet, angular arms protruding from outgrown cuffs. From one wrist dangled a basket of fruit and on her lips was a peaceful smile. In the evening light she appeared almost fey, and he wondered what thoughts made her smile. He dropped his rake and went to the fence: she favored him with a glance, but whether she really saw him in the dimness he could not tell. Later Jean found a gold locket in the dust, faintly glimmering, engraved BEA. He looked where she had gone, thinking of the shanty far into the woods. Blanche entered the house, untying her frayed bonnet as she entered the kitchen. On the table lay a fine ebony comb, exquisite in weight and craftsmanship. Her eyes filled with astonishment as she beheld the luxury. She picked it up and turned it over, examining it. Then she flew down the little cor

Some problems with Blanche: (1) Muriel is a villain for no particular reason-- I contrived to make her bad and did so, but she is flat, without any personality at all. I want to go deeper into her spirit and describe why she is abusive to Blanche. This story departs from the Snow White tale at many points. That Muriel should despise Blanche because Blanche is young and pretty is stupid. I never intended that to be the case but because this is a retelling of SW that is an implication. Instead Muriel must hate Blanche not for herself, but for what she represents-- her beautiful mother, whom her father never forgot. Because of this hatred and insecurity Muriel deprives Blanche of her mother's possessions while also depriving Blanche of a mother figure in herself. Blanche ends up being starved not merely in physical poverty but also for love and comfort. Blanche's father was no true villain either. He meant well: he married Muriel to be a mother to his daughter, but Muriel-- despit