RegularsJon and Carol came in as they do
every day
she clutching a bit of cloth to
her face and being unable
to give me an honest look and
Jon being overly enthusiastic about
his coming meal
(I am a goddess because I
bring them food.)

They met each
other outside the bathroom,
gazed across the table with a fifty
year old expression
and the only emotion I have
ever heard in Carol's
ancient, cracking voice
is when she calls him baby

Repeatedly I wonder, if or when
I give up my mind
to age and black eyes,
will we do this? Drink tea
with too much sugar
and have a waitress that will
be overly concerned if we
don't show our wrink

Wild Hunt :: LongmaLike any good story, this one does not begin where it began. It does, however, begin where it ends—at a funeral.

The village was not particularly big. Rather, it was frightfully small, and just as frightfully remote. That said, it was little surprise that every denizen turned out for something so important as the funeral of a good man.

—and it truly was each and every one: every man, woman, and child; every son, brother, and father; every maiden, mother, and crone. It was said even the dogs followed at the heels of their masters, even the songbirds gathered in the trees, and the livestock unable to free themselves from their pens

In summer we all burnThe summer is coming,
I hear the beach roaring from here,
can see shirts hung over shoulders,
sunglasses, arms round waists,
can feel the earth's purrs,
breaking hibernation,
pollens tossed up at us in fanfare.

Ants are walking over me
because we're sharing a tree together.
Back to back, we're trying to
make our winter's pallour a warmer shade.
Is it some sort of personal sign
when you let your shoe-tongues fill with tan bark,
when it's driven you mad your whole life?
Or when you eat ice-cream in public (the sticky
fingers a mere afterthought)?

These trees though, they're not changing.
I can't help thinking they

Tea for TwoI observed her fragile corpse upon the cemetery seat, looking to and fro like a lost pigeon. She blinked her watery green eyes at me just once as I approached, then let them oggle wide.

"Madam," said I, "have you any need of assistance?"

A soft moan echoed back across the dying rhododendrons.

"Are you tired? Lost?" A quick glance at her spittle-slathered chops. "Hungry?"

She nodded vigorously and a bit of froth flew loose to stick upon a nearby leaf. I watched as it slowly slid its way to the very tip and plopped with a light "thwack" upon the freshly upturned soil.

"Er, there ought to be a dead squirrel or two out back by the fence. I i

on 'the Father'mr parker lined up
his children with an ax,
lined up twelve small
disciples of hard work
and the Depression,
twelve small chickens
hollering with tremors,
twelve disciples hungry
for the Fruits of the
Father

previously to this,
he severed many of
mrs parker's tendons and sculpted
her face with a frying pan.
she bled on the floor and
crawled somewhere, the lioness
in her made the unseen more
powerful than science

and far more previous to this,
mr parker sent mrs parker to my
great grandmother's childhood home
with a basket of vegetables and pork
and bread. my great grandmother says
that whenever her family couldn't eat

Caught DrowningFirst I notice her hair: dark and longer than any girl I've met, pulled back in a high ponytail and still past her waist. Since I'm following the line of her hair, I see her hips next, round and smooth like a bright red apple, picked fresh and rubbed against t-shirts, ready for biting. Attached there and growing like slender trunks from her hemline are two long, smooth legs. She smells like green grass and old wood.

We exchange the normal pleasantries. She is subtle and graceful; demure and polite. She speaks like an orchestra, her tones long and smooth, but there's a hiss there, like steam from a radiator. It works for her, and I've never d

The Business of Murder"Well, now that we're through with the pleasantries, Mr. Daniels, I must ask: Why is it that you want to die?"

Joseph Daniels sighed and slumped down in his seat, the picture of unkemptness. His face looked tired, with large bags underneath his eyes and at least three days' worth of stubble. His hair was a mess, his clothes were disheveled. He seemed to exude an aura of despair.

He surveyed the room he was in, which was quite his opposite: neat, orderly, unremarkable. Blank, white walls, some filing cabinents, three windows looking out on downtown. He was sitting in a plain, wooden chair in front of a plain, wooden desk with merely a fake h

UntitledWhen we went to Norway we killed slugs.

We ate dinner at midnight as the sun revolved overhead, spinning in slow concentric circles, never dipping beyond the horizon. There was no night.

We looked up at the clouds, and she asked us if we wanted to do her a favor-to justify spending the night in her garage apartment at no cost. We weren't freeloaders, so we said O.K. She told us about the slugs.

There were hundreds of them crawling around the garden area-small families leaving slime trails on rock walls. We collected them one at a time, placing each of them in a huge plastic bag. We saw them pile on top of each other, felt their collec

The Courier Eirik surveyed the impressive façade of the Temple of Myralo with concern, brow furrowed, fingers worrying the loose leather strap that kept his dagger in its sheath. It was certainly a pretty building. Everywhere he looked there was beauty to behold – from the intricately detailed vine-and-leaf patterns carved into the cloud-white exterior, to the elaborate mosaic of Prismeryl, Twin Deity of Beauty dominating the archway above the temple’s entrance.
Hanging next to the ornately wrought gate into the temple’s courtyard was a “Help Wanted” sign. It, too, was beautiful, written in a light script by a steady hand, and assuring any applicants that the pay would be more than sufficient. Eirik didn’t doubt it. If there was one thing the Prismeryllian priests and priestesses were known for (and there were many things they were known for) it was being as free with their pocketbo

tetherhookedYou shift around me, bejeweled
with currency which cannot be
exchanged because detaching your eyes
would be like hollowing a lighthouse,
would be smashing a rare beacon
with stubby fingers and because

trading your mouth would be like
silencing shellsongs and symphonies
and the cinders of your sentences,
the embers of your exhales would
welcome ash where once was warmth

and because your callouses catch on
clothes too well and your shoulders
are the base of a sturdy cradle
and every time you blink, I wake up
and I am uncovered and I am new

and because you would have to
watch the demolition of your
features, the thieving

Girl in the War It did get easier, once I started to imagine things were moving fast, too fast to fathom, too fast to see the stars but only feel them intrinsically on my skin—little pinpricks, little bubbles of air to touch my cheeks or take my breath. Or, you know. The sort of rambling things I was letting myself think, so long as it kept me distracted and living.

The window was damp with me leaning against it, and in that position the teeth-rattling rumble of the ol' greyhound's engines was churning my stomach much the same way a headache had been thrashing behind my eyes for the past month. I rubbed my ragged sleeve into a patch of fogged glass a

for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri

31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed
my balcony is shaped
like wings

and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb

and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men

build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons

where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown

where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
cannot crane

nowhere elseit rains hard enough

that i can finally sit quietly,
as if lighting candles.

maybe there is
nowhere else to be.

a cup of water trembles
on the table as if afraid,

kept too long
from the useful yearning of roots,
from the anonymous way rain falls.

i light one candle
then another,
quietly,
as if lighting candles.

the rain keeps pressing damp invisible flowers
against the window,
reminding me how long the near-dark lasts,

how the woods at the edge of the yard
never see,
but thirst enough to catch fire.

each candle moves like the rain,
each quieting life
from lives of their own.

in the half-light coming in,
i can pretend

FFM21: The Dragon Thing For the third time in a week, Joey woke up crying in the middle of the night. It was a behavior that, like most children, he had left behind years prior, along with diapers and pacifiers and Elmo. It was only in the recent months that it had started again, infrequently at first but worse with every passing week. What made this night particularly notable was that, unlike the previous dozen occurrences, he could actually remember what he had been dreaming about.
"I was flying," he groaned into his mother's collarbone, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes. "I was flying over the mountains. I had these big wings, and everything looked reall

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Warnings: Period-relevant racism, WWII, PTSD, foul language, character death, and gratuitous use of the Girl Scouts of America. Slice-of-Life, human names, FACES(eychelles) family.

000

" Heroism is endurance for one moment more." "
- George F. Kennan

000

The year was 1955, and the house had been old for a very long time. On windy nights houses all the way across the street could hear the dark green shutters clattering against their frames, and on rainy days the curtains were thrown wide open and occasionally figures could be seen moving about. On sunny days, half of the curtains were drawn completely, but o

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Les Petits Princes

by ~BeaBae, Dec 18, 2011, 3:30:31 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Fantasy / Introductions & Chapters

"James is dying," Nefertiti said, her voice a whisper and barely audible from the balcony. The gray stone was cool beneath her hands, smooth from generations before her, and comforting to support herself on as she stared down to the gardens and gates of their palace below.

Queen Nefertiti was dark haired and tan, with wide eyes and a thin smile. It was her husband their children took after. Both young men with blond hair and blue eyes, both growing tall and strong and moving towards becoming the rulers of their odd-named nation.

Her husband's, Arthur's, breath caught. A short little gasp and snarl as his fists clenched by his side. His curses were so soft that it was difficult to catch them between the night-things and lazy breeze.

"Oswald cannot lead."

"He will have to."

Footsteps, and Arthur was pacing. "Could we find an excuse to appoint a Regent?"

"He is already seventeen," Nefertiti said. "When you die, he will be king."

Arthur cursed again, louder, as Nefertiti left her perch at the balustrade and approached her husband instead. There were night birds that shrieked, and chose this moment to do so, covering the King and Queen's whispers and mutterings. The birds only left when their whispers grew louder, keeping their conversation mostly private in some strange form of respect.

There was a sigh.

"We must find a way to be rid of the golems," Arthur said, one arm having traveled to wrap about Nefertiti's waist, other hand bringing a lock of her hair to his nose, nuzzling the dark strand. "If nothing else."

Nefertiti nodded and pressed her face to his chest, ignoring the iron and straps and decoration, breathing in. "Of course. We would need to, regardless."

Arthur nodded, "I know. I will discuss this with the—"

—Oswald turned form the doorway and fled. Suddenly he didn't quite feel in the mood to eavesdrop anymore.

Instead, he crept down the stone hall, shivering in a way that had very little to do with the weather. Neither his flaxen blue cloak nor the flickering torches of the halls protected him from the chill sinking into his bones as he navigated the winding halls with the ease of a man who had grown up hiding within its niches.

His brother's room was in the West wing, three floors above the entrance gates and overlooking the town beyond the impenetrable white walls. The door was old oak and made the slightest creaking as he turned the latch and slowly pushed it open.

"You are not stealthy at all."

Oswald did not jump. "I was not attempting to be. I was attempting to be quiet."

"You are not quiet, either," James said.

Candles and lamps gently illuminated the room. At the moment, it was one of the finest in the castle, even rivaling the Ballroom and chamber of their parents. The floor was stone, like the rest of the castle, but covered by a soft woolen rug dyed deep blue. The wall was covered in tapestries of tightly woven gold and green threads. The window was encumbered only by drawn, thick curtains, and the mattress filled with only the finest straw.

On that mattress, in the dim night light that snaked through the window like an intruder, His Dread Lord, Prince James III lay, wrapped in blankets.

"I apologize," Oswald said, standing by the bedside.

"Sit," James said. Oswald took the ornamental oak chair from the corner—the one with floral patters their mother so enjoyed—and moved it near the carved headboard before sitting in it. His hands were folded tightly in his lap between his legs. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter. I just wanted to visit. Is there something the matter with that?"

"Yes," James said. "There is always something the matter with lying."

"I am not lying," his hands did not unclasp out of his lap, but neither did Oswald's head come up. As he glanced shyly sideways to glimpse his brother, his eyes did not blink.

"You are lying," James said, "And I would greatly like to know about what and why."

"It is nothing. Honestly, I am fine. I just wanted to see you," and this time Oswald did blink.

James twisted under his blankets. In the moonlight, his pale, sweaty skin glimmered white. "In that case, if nothing is wrong, would you mind giving me a bit of aid?"

Oswald nodded and quickly gets to hid feet, leaning over to pull the topmost layer of blankets off of his brother and doing his best to not wince as a gentle sigh escaped chewed lips. "Are you thirsty?"

James nodded. Oswald propped him up gently by rearranging the pillows behind his head, helping him sit mostly upright. Fetching the pitcher from the bedside table, he filled a bronze goblet half full and delicately pressed and tilted it against James' lips until the water ran out. Only a tiny bit escaped James' mouth.

Oswald guessed when to pull back, and when there was no protest, set the goblet down once more.

James' hands remained limply at his sides, with only the occasional twitch to show they weren't unnatural dead flesh attached to his very living, very breathing, brother.

Deep breaths filled the room over the night sounds. James' skin was still white and shimmering with sweat. "Now what's wrong?"

Oswald sighed.

James scowled. "I am not dying."

"I know you are not," Oswald said. "Is it wrong for me to be concerned, regardless?"

"If you do not believe I am dying, what could be bothering you? You are not blinking."

Oswald blinked swiftly.

"What is it?" James' hands twitched at his side. Slowly, his arm rose, the movement starting at his shoulder and continuing clumsily to raise his elbow. It his forearm flopped listlessly as he carried it across the bed to rest on Oswald's shoulder. "Tell me."

"You are hurting yourself," Oswald muttered, cupping his hand over his brother's almost lifeless fingers.

"And I believe I may very well continue doing so." It was quiet for a brief time, and the night sounds chittered and squawked outside the window.

"They say I will be the next king," Oswald said, his voice low but no longer truly quiet. "I do not think I would be a good king."

"Oh," James said, and quite suddenly looked rather concerned. "Is it definite? That you will be king?"

Oswald nodded, moving to help lay James back flat on the bed before sitting back in his chair and rubbing his eyes slowly with the palm of his hands. "And it will be a short reign."

"They will not rebel against you," James scoffed.

"They might," Oswald scowled. "Not a rebellion two centuries and I'm most likely to receive the first."

Jams scoffed again, raising one of his limp arms by the shoulder once more and smacking himself in the face when he forgets that half the weight keeping him down was the sheet just recently removed. "You will have advisors— advisors trained by the same advisors Father has right now. They will steer you clear of the people's wrath and you will be perfectly fine. The kingdom is not about to collapse because of you. Trust them."

Oswald nodded and sighed once more. "I am nervous."

"I assume you are terrified. I would prefer to be wrong, however," James said, snorting. "You will be perfectly alright as long as you do not show how worried you are."

Oswald nodded and clenched his hands together once more in his lap. He tried to not bite the inside of his lip. "I will do my best," he said, and took a deep breath, blinked again and pushed back all the squirming nerves in his stomach to somewhere he would not focus on them right then and there. "How are you feeling tonight?"

"Warm," James said, "May I have another cup of water?" Oswald retrieved the goblet and pitcher once more and delicately poured the liquid down James' throat. James took another deep sigh. Theirs was a family of sighs. "Thank you, again."

Oswald nodded, "It is nothing. But how are you?"

"Still warm," James replied, "and weary. …It is getting harder to move lately. I haven't been able to move my feet," as he spoke, he looked down towards his feet and as though to prove his point, there wasn't a hint of movement. Not even a slight twitch to make a cat believe a mouse was hiding beneath the thinner under-sheets.

"I should have held the horse firmer," Oswald said, watching the end of his brother's bed.

"I should have held on tighter is what should have been done," James replied, his eyes rolling back up and away. "But it is in the past now. We shouldn't complain. I am still alive and the throne still has a viable heir," his smile was small and flickering on his lips and his face was still pale. Oswald found it rather difficult to be cheerful.

"How long to you think before I ascend the throne?" he said, his voice once again dropping until it was quiet.

"You mean before Father dies?"

"I suppose I do."

"I shouldn't worry. Neither should you," James said, his voice growing somewhat more powerful in what must have been an attempt to bolster confidence. "It will be decades," Oswald's weak smile twitched into something slightly stronger.

"Thank you."

James laughed a weak little laugh. Weak not because of lack of humor, but because his body no longer shook with him as he laughed. "It is no problem. Though I do suggest that if you are so worried about kingship, go out and do the things you wish to now, before a coronation ever has the chance. After, there will be very little time left to yourself. Go out, there must be something you wish to enjoy before more restrictions are placed," James grinned a toothy grin and gave Oswald a wink. Oswald sat beside his brother with his mouth hanging open and his hands again clasping tightly.

"I—James, what are you suggesting?" he said.

James laughed his weak (never-would-boom-again) laugh and grinned his toothy grin, "Did you not mention a certain special someone you wished to see again last solstice?"

Oswald paled rapidly. "I most certainly did not."

"You most certainly did-to," James said, "and as I recall, you were rather obviously pining not a month ago."

"It is not a kind thing to spread lies," Oswald spoke through gritted teeth. "I was twelve."

"Yet, five years later and you are obviously still pining. Stop scowling. No one knows," James said, "I have kept your little secret and now in return for keeping it, I demand you act on it rather than spending the next several years sitting around, thinking about it, and moping."

Oswald's hands came up and covered his face. He groaned into them noisily and heaved out one more great sigh.

"James," he said, "you do realize I have more than one secret."

"Of course," James said.

"Then you also realize that I have not given you their name for a reason."

If James could have leaned closer, he would have— Oswald could tell by the look on his brother's face. His brother who hadn't laughed and exposed him. His brother who had grown with him in the castle and run with him down the halls. His brother who he'd known every little nervous quirt and habit of. Until his brother lost all those bodily little quirks nervous habits with a bad, bad fall.

His brother who'd known Oswald for nearly every moment of his life.

"Well? Are you about to tell me?" James said. If he could have leaned closer, he would have; it was so obviously by the look on his face.

Oswald took a deep breath and leaned forward instead, so that his breath ran over the shell of his brother's ear. "I suppose I am."

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Les Petits Princesby ~BeaBae

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Word count: ~1,969

For

's Triple Challenge

Please correct my horrible French. I'm bad at it and I admit this whole-heartedly. But it's hard to practice French when all the French people I know all turn up their noses and insist on using English, instead. @_@

I should seriously make a timeline for this story, because all these little shorts are just jumping all over the place…

I just realized how much we rely on contractions to speak. D: Stupid royal accent type writing thing, making you all sound pompous D:

WHOO~ Finally the poor protagonist appears~!

To be honest, this is the first thing I've uploaded for K&tM that I'm actually going to be using as a part part in the story, which is why I'm using the preview this time. Most of the other things I've done with K&tM are me figuring out this world and the characters. Mostly the world. Because a lot of these characters are just as ready to explore as I am!

You can tell I'm great with names.

A Dread Lord is the next in line to a throne/oldest male child. I think. Shakespeare taught me that, so it might be wrong. Because Shakespeare was wrong a lot. But it's fantasy, let's just say that that's what's what a Dread Lord is! 8D

Kings&TheMountain (c) *BeaBae
Preview Template (c) *magdalagarza ( [link] )
Image on Preview (c) *BeaBae
_{I cannot tell you how irritating this preview was to make asdfghjkl}

Was everything understandable? Do you like the interaction between characters? Is there any way things could be clearer or more engaging?

000

Edit:

ASDFGHJKL:kJsfds

Did... did I just get a DD?

What?

I-I have no idea what to say but thank you $lightningmonkey for this and everyone for reading this. I'll do my best to reply to all the comments and +favs

You know. Once I stop freaking out.

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Submitted on: December 18, 2011
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Daily Deviation

Given 2011-12-20

Les Petits Princes by ~BeaBae is a great example of a story segment building on the overall work, not revealing too much, but saying just enough to draw a reader in. ( Featured by $wreckling )

*magdalagarza Jan 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Ha! Gotta love that ending! Who could this pined-for person be? Who who who?

I found everything clear and engaging, and as for the interactions --

I loved the emotional webwork here. Poor Oswald, with his unencouraging parents and his bedridden brother. You played the cards very well, starting from the anxiety-inducing parental rejection and ending with the warm, accepting,and all-too-knowing relationship between Oswald and James.

I'm not sure about not having any contractions, though. I've tried it myself before, and it was way too hard to write and read. Imagine writing a whole book with no contractions at all in some people's dialogues! To distinguish royal accents from non-royal, maybe you could just make them have very correct and proper Queen's English, sprinkled with a few big words here and there? Maybe let them use contractions at least occasionally?

If you want to continue not using contractions, though, there's one little slip from James >>> "I shouldn't worry. Neither should you"

I admit was a little thrown off by the name Nefertiti. I'm assuming that she's a foreigner (dark hair, tan) and brought here to be queen for some sort of alliance, but it still sounds too Egyptian for me, with all sorts of Egpytian connotations. I understand English names, since we're writing in English. But I don't know. Maybe it's just me.

Anyway, I loved these two petits princes. The connection between them comes out very strong, and I'd probably be as devastated as Oswald if James were to die. I'm glad that you're working on the longer story now. Bring on the rest of it!

Also, congratulations on the DD!

~BeaBae Jan 6, 2012 Student General Artist

Pssttt--- I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone else. The person is... _{a huge motherflipping spoiler!}

I love writing brothers. And mushy gooshy cavitifying sweet scenes with them. It's probably why I'm an FMA fan. Sibling dynamics!

Seriously, though. James started out as nothing more than the instigator, and somewhere along the way decided that he didn't like that and decided he was going to try and stand out as a generally nice guy. He came off that way to me, anyway.

Their parents' rejection is mostly caring rejection, though. I've been working on ways to try and make that a little clearer.

The thing is, I'm not familiar with proper English at all. I learned to write later in my life than most, so I write with casual speech more since no one took the time to make it proper. And by Queen's English, do you mean like spelling it "colour" instead and pretending it's representative of the accent?

I think I am going to give up on the no-contractions thing. Probably they'll use fewer contractions than most people, but it's just too awkward to work with.

Other people haven't mentioned it, but I'll ask around. This is partly serious and partly playing around, so when I'm at a loss for names I'll try to make a joke or reference, such as naming the country Yettobenaméd, a town called Nearby _{(Nearby Big River, more accurately, which started as a joke on the Welsh but kind of failed to deliver)}, or in this case, having King Arthur marry Queen Nefertiti. If it did bother too many people, I can change it, but for now it will probably stay as-is.

These two are possibly the only magical characters that I love and like writing almost as much as the magical guys. I'm currently working on more, so hopefully I'll have some up in a week or two.

I may or may not have flipped out when I opened dA that day

*magdalagarza Jan 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Grrr! *stomps foot* Fine! Be that way!

No, it's okay. I could wait.

Brothers are love. Do you watch Supernatural? Sam and Dean are so cute, even when they're trying to kill each other. I haven't been able to get around reading the actual manga for FMA, though, and everyone keeps saying how that's better than the anime.

James does come off as a nice guy, kind and level-headed even after he's been paralyzed. I mean, cripes, if that ever happened to me I'd be moaning and groaning like a wind in a ruin.

Well, Queen's English is basically just grammar that's always stringently proper and correct. It contrasts to casual conversation, where people normally slip around grammar rules, fudge up tenses, repeat themselves, make up slang words, build rickety sentence structures, etc. The best way to familiarize yourself with this, I guess, would be to re-read the classics. Preferably ones with kings and queens in them.

The Prince and the Pauper comes to mind, since it's a relatively easy read.

Yay! I can't wait.

~BeaBae Jan 7, 2012 Student General Artist

It'll make it all the better when you do find out if I keep it a secret!

Y'know. Assuming it doesn't kill the story entirely.

I've watched a few episodes. I guess you could say I try to watch Supernatural, but I'm really bad with scary things in shows and movies. I like what I've seen of it, but have gone to bed terrified for a few weeks afterwards.

The manga is fantastic. I'm biased, but I'd consider it one of the best stories ever written. The animes are alright, but there's no way to beat the original.

Have you ever seen the movie Tuesdays with Morrie? It's a book as well, though I haven't read it. It's about a college professor who's dying of ALS (which basically slowly paralyzes you from your feet up until it paralyses your heart or lungs and kills you that way, but your mind remains intact. It's what Stephen Hawking has ) and he's even nicer than James, and it's a biography!

I'll try to. Most of my old books are from France, actually (translated to Enligsh, but still) and just sound far too pompous, but my mother might have some older ones I can reference. I just don't want them to sound ridiculous

*magdalagarza Jan 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

That's why I always watch Supernatural with my sister. She never gets fazed by anything, and keeps on rolling her eyes whenever I start screeching my head off.

That's it, I'm going to start reading FMA even if it kills me.

Whu, there's a movie of Tuesdays with Morrie? Back in high school, everyone I knew was reading that book. I never got around to it, but everybody loved it. (Hmm. I'm beginning to detect a pattern in my reading habits...)

Wow. From France? I'd have no idea how aristocrats from France would speak, since everything I've ever read about France was written by English writers.

Sounds cool, though.

~BeaBae Jan 9, 2012 Student General Artist

The only people I could watch it with would be my mother and my roomie. My mother wouldn't like it at all and my roomie has this habit of insulting me when I freak out about anything. She used to call me "child" all the time, but for some reason abruptly stopped when I started keeping a tally. I'm not giving her a reason to start up again by freaking out in front of her over movies D:

Don't kill yourself over it! DD:
I read it on onemanga before everything was taken down, so now I usually get my scans from mangafox or mangareader. They both look like decent scans but since I use to be at onemanga I haven't read through all of it, but I prefer mangareader at the moment since the organization makes a bit more sense to me. Here it is: [link]

Very pompously. At least when they're translated xD; Most of our stuff is from Victor Hugo, though, so maybe it's just him.

*magdalagarza Jan 12, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

"Child"?

How old is your roomie anyway?

Thanks for the link! I foresee a whole day of mangareading for me...

Oh, Victor Hugo. I've only ever read Hunchback of Notre Dame. I tried Les Miserables, but my mind sort of shut down halfway through. *shame* I just watched the play, back when I was a kid. I loved Cosette's song.

~BeaBae Jan 12, 2012 Student General Artist

We're the same age, give or take a few months, and she's the crazy one, so she really has no reason to act like I'm younger than her. :\ She also seems to think I have no idea how to play video games, despite being raised as a gamer. Then again, she's Chinese, so maybe we're just having uber culture clash.

Have fun! Also, I forgot to mention this before, but the first several chapters seem to bash religion. It gets better as it goes on and gains more depth, so don't be put off by that.

I haven't seen the musical, though I really want to. I listen to the songs on youtube and absolutely love them. And though I've tried to read Hugo's unabridged works, I honestly can't get far in them.

I managed to get to Fantine's introduction in Les Mes in about a year of trying to read, but mucking through the preacher's introduction really took it out of me.

(1 Reply)

`GrimFace242 Jan 1, 2012 Writer

I really liked this scene. You have a lot of information coming out, and I was asking myself all kinds of questions throughout. Some of them you answered and some you didn't. Either way, I can't wait to see the next scene.

Your descriptions were spot on in this one without pulling me out of the plot and flow.

I love how you started it with the parents having the talk with Oswald eavesdropping and then going to the comfort of his older brother (at least I'm assuming older. He seemed to be an older brother).

The interactions between the brothers are very real. It's easy to see that they are very close and rely on each other.

I'm really curious to see where you take this. How much of a role with James play? Who is this mysterious love interest?

Very good scene. Can't wait for more.

~BeaBae Jan 2, 2012 Student General Artist

Thanks, I'm really glad you liked it!

Yes, James is the older brother, so he was the first in line to the throne before his accident.

James wasn't originally going to appear after this scene, because honestly, he's just mostly Oswald's instigator and role model, which is why I tried have him make a strong impression, but everyone who I've talked to seems to like him, so I might end up giving him more scenes later on.

I'll try to upload a relavant scene next, but it seems to want to go out of order at the moment

After you mentioned it in The City Prison, I was wondering what you thought of the dialogue in this? I've been trying to give a distinct sound to the characters in different situations, but I don't know if it sounds too stiff and unnatural in this one without contractions.

And I realize you have, what, two contests, a DD and all the other people to comment to, so take your time replying to all my crap if you need it, and Happy (belated) New Year!

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Les Petits Princesby ~BeaBae

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