Satyrday, a Fable. Tuesday, parts 3 & 4.

     As the fox watched from a copse of pine, the boy and the satyr packed their belongings. Deirdre continued to hover above them, still petulant. "Deirdre," Matthew said. "You're carrying on like a flustered child. That rock had nothing to do with you. You don't understand."
     "What's to understand?" the raven asked. "I don't take kindly to slurs on my intelligence."
     Matthew stood up and faced her, and she flew higher into the air as if he might try to do her more damage. "He's the one with the temper," Matthew said.
     "Couldn't prove it by me," Deirdre replied.
     "Listen," Matthew said. "Enough's enough." He stuck his arm out, turned his hand sideways. "Come here."
     "Why?" the raven asked, suspicious. "Why should I trust you?"
     "Because of all those kind thoughts you had about me. Because of all those times you rode on my shoulder."
     Deirdre peered at the satyr, could discern no ulterior purpose in his expression. Cautiously she fluttered down and perched upon his finger, ready to fly off at a moment's notice.
     "There," Matthew said. The raven was silent, her expression still peevish.
     "Well," Deirdre said, turning her beak away. "If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust?"
     The satyr laughed. He brought his arm around until he forced the raven to look at him. With his other hand, he reached up and stroked the sleek top of her head. "All right?" he asked.
     "Just be careful," Deirdre said. Remember you're about to enter the Outer Lands. Who knows what outposts the owl has there?"
     The three of them, two by ground and one by air, approached the first wall of cedars at the swamp's edge. "Good-bye." the raven called. "I've got to go. I'll get back when  .  .  .  whenever I can." She left them, flying west. She dabbled in the wind above the swamp, did a loop-the-loop, and took off toward the Deadwood Forest in a straight line.
     The fox crept closer, staying near the ground, keeping herself hidden from them. She thought of the trouble they would have in the swamp, for even the satyr had no idea how things have changed since the owl's power had penetrated east. She darted behind the cedars and approached them from their dark curtain.
     "Stay behind me, now," the satyr said. "Can't tell what we'll find in there." He shielded his eyes and tried to peer into the gloom, but all he saw was water, the fallen cedar trunks, and the ooze gathered at the water's edge before the earth heaved itself into moss-strewn hummocks.
     Matthew looked up at the towering cedars before him. "Did you see anything in there yesterday?" he asked the boy. "Did you hear any noise?"
     "No," Darin said. "Nothing but water."
     The cedars stretched their tall grooved trunks so far above Matthew they made him dizzy. He contemplated their lacy reticulated tops. They were strange trees, without needles or leaves, with a network of thin green fingers which touched one another like feathers and filtered what little light there was until it fell around him in a dense web. The light was refracted as if through droplets of water, prisms suspended in the air.
     The world was about to swallow them: they would pass through this curtain of cedar and the life they had known would close behind them. From this point, the future would be a series of doors leading from one strange room to a stranger one which lay beyond. It was like part of that dream–"A dream," the satyr said aloud–and the sound of his voice in that stillness heartened him.
     "What?" Derin asked.
     "I said, 'What are we waiting for?' We might as well be walking, as standing here."
     He took a step and passed through the outer ring of cedars into the water. He left the solid ground behind, its outer bank a heap of dead leaves and matted dirt, held together by roots. Under the water, which was insufferably cold, lay the ice. His hooves slithered away from him, threatening to throw him, body and pack, flat on his back in the icy wetness.
     Derin followed. He held his arms out to either side to give him better balance. There was no sound in the swamp but their sloshing. They didn't talk, using all their concentration on the task of staying upright. After a fifteen-foot passage which seemed to congeal his blood, Matthew reached a moss-covered hummock and climbed from the water.
     "Look at my legs," he shouted, his voice too loud. Derin was astounded to see ice on the fleece above the satyr's hooves. "We're going to have to move fast," the satyr said, "or we'll freeze in here. One step and our feet will hold fast to the bottom and we'll end it all, waving our fool arms and yelling at the sky."
     He was about to strip branches from a fallen cedar when he saw her. She appeared from behind a very large trunk, a hundred yards ahead of him. Her skin was white as milk and her soft silver hair thrown back from her shoulders revealed the most spectacular collarbone he had ever seen. He was galvanized, standing there in the icy water. His eyes widened and he involuntarily grabbed for her, but she was so far away he smiled at the ludicrous move.
     "After all these years," he whispered, letting his breath drain from his body. "I'm more deranged than I knew."
     But what an apparition! She was lovely, pure grace, with a flirtatious pursing of her lips which made Matthew shiver with pleasure instead of cold.
     He forgot the ice in his fleece; he forgot the treachery of the water beneath him. He was transformed. He took off after her like a bee in search of pollen. His legs sprouted wings. He danced above the surface of the swamp like a madman. Derin was astonished.
     "Matthew!" he screamed. "Wait for me!"


                                                          *                     *                     *


     As good as his word, the owl had sent three falcons back to gag the moon before nightfall of the previous day, and they came again at dawn to ungag her. They were respectful, and they left her alone after completing their errand. She sat in her cage, surveying the forest, the grey sky, the stark black trunks of the trees. How much longer could this go on?
     The moon was beginning to feel slightly crazed. She had talked, for these past two days, only to the owl, and she had been cooped up here when before the wide expanses of sky had been her domain. She ached with disuse and (she had to admit it) with loneliness. She even would have welcomed another conversation with the owl, but she had not seen him since he had left her the day before.
     The section of forest in which she hung was deserted, except for those unseen presences the owl had warned her about. But she wouldn't talk to an unseen presence; it would be like talking to herself, and she couldn't allow herself to slip like that. Not so much as a mouse had crossed the clearing below her. The air was silent, untouched by mosquitoes or flies, and except for the thin arrow of an occasional bird passing overhead, the moon was completely alone. So she was pleased when the three ravens descended from the sky and settled around her on the branches of her cage.
     "Good morning," she said civilly, trying to keep her pleasure in the visit absent from her voice.
     Two of the ravens looked at one another and back at the moon. The third, whose red eyes glittered with a wicked fire, flew to the ground and returned with a pointed stick. He circled the cage once and came up behind her. She whirled to face him, and the other two immediately began to chatter.
     "Good morning," one of them said.
     "A beautiful morning," the other said. "Wind from the southwest. Makes you glad to be alive."
     The raven jabbed his stick through the oaken branches and feinted at the moon. She retreated to the furthest reaches of the cage until the harsh bark scraped her. The other two were breathing down her back, and for an instant, she thought one of them might try to peck at her, but instead their mindless chatter came pouring into her ears.
     "The cage a little too close for comfort?" one asked, and the other answered, as if the question was addressed to him. The one with the stick jabbed repeatedly and flew around to join the others, and so the moon retreated again, more aware each instant of the closeness of her quarters.
     There was no escape if they decided to take her on in earnest; she would have no chance if all three grabbed sticks and came at her. But they seemed to be enjoying the situation as it unfolded, and neither of the two who spat their inanities on the morning air were inclined to arm themselves, preferring to sit there and watch the third, who uttered not a word.
     She tried to think of something clever to say, to alarm them or distract them, but her mind was such a jumble of fear and anger that nothing coherent formed.
     She concentrated on the stick. It came at her from every interstice of branch until it was a blur and she was sick with dizziness. Just when she thought she wouldn't last another minute, the ravens began to tire of their game; the one who had taunted her dropped the stick. The three flew off, drifting in the air above her, throwing down a few more insults before they disappeared from view.
     By the time the moon had regained her composure, and the knot in her stomach had reduced to a small displeasure, she was in an ugly mood. She raged at the empty forest, and is she had gotten her wish, destruction would have rained down around her. She called brimstone and fire, thunderstorms, tornadoes, every disaster weather could deliver. But the placid greyness of the sky did not change, the ground beneath her gave no evidence of a beginning rumble, and she finally fumed herself to silence.
     She had reached the point of despair when the other raven arrived, wheeling in the air above her, dropping down like a silent black feather. As she saw the bird descend, she felt the words well in her throat again and she spewed forth venomous diatribes against all winged and feathered creatures, against all beasts which crept or galloped or slithered on the earth. The raven sat, patiently waiting for her to stop, but the very calmness of the bird further incensed the moon.
     "You scurrilous, lice-ridden, winged contraption," the moon seethed. "You cowardly piece of fluff and bone. Wait until I am free of this cage. Pestilence will be visited upon this forest from that day until all ages have passed, and not one of you shall ever raise a brood again; worms will shrink from your beaks and you'll fall dead from hunger and thirst. Streams will dry up at your approach, and the other animals will kick your dead carcasses with disgust. You will be less than the rocks; you will rot to form leaf mold.  .  .  ." The moon gasped for breath and reeled in her cage. She was so red of face the raven thought she might explode, and jumped to get a word in before the torrent of frustration continued.
     "If you will hold your tongue for a moment.  .  .  ." Deirdre said, but the moon ran ramshackle over her imploring voice. "Your bones will be used to pick the teeth of weasels and vermin, annd therever you die, ratsbane will rear its head. You will be known.  .  .  ."
     Deirdre fixed the moon with a deadly look, a gaze compounded of such long-suffering patience and slowly building violence that she stopped her ranting and waited for the bird to speak.
     "And not a moment too soon," the raven said. "I'm not one to lose my temper, but you were sorely tempting me. I would have given you another minute before I flew away and left you to disintegrate in this forsaken place."
     "Who are you?" the moon asked. "What do you want?"
     "My name is Deirdre–not that it;s of any use to you–and I am attempting to extricate you from this abominable situation. Now, no more questions, there isn't time."
     "No, no," she said. "This is too much. I can bear your taunts and jibes, but please, I beg you, don't torture me with this. Just go in peace and leave me be." The moon drew a long deep breath and let it out so quietly it was like a breeze which ripples the highest branches of the firs at sundown. And the turned her back on Deirdre and closed her eyes.
     Deirdre lost her temper. She flew into the air and made such a racket clattering her wings that the moon opened her eyes and looked at the bird. The raven seemed to be having a fit. Her eyes rolled in her head, her neck jerked, her wings beat unevenly in the grey silent air. But she landed again, close to the moon, and her voice had no patience left in it.
     "I can't take this whimpering prattle. Self-pity infuriates me. I don't yet know how your rescue will be accomplished, but I'm determined that you shall be liberated. Right now, two  .  .  . uh  .  .  . collaborators–a boy and a satyr–are on their way to this forest to engineer your escape.
     "I tell you this to build your courage. You're not alone in wishing for your freedom. You must take heart. I'll come again if I can. At the moment, I'm playing the role of a transcontinental carrier pigeon, and I have an entrance very soon somewhere else. So I haven't time to stay and chat. Just remember who you are."
     The moon was astonished by this speech. No one had ever spoken to her so familiarly, without the slightest trace of respect. Even the owl in his hyperbolic poetical speech gave her some measure of her stature. But here this stranger sat and bid her keep her chin up.
     "Do you have anything to say?" the raven asked. The moon could do no better than to shake her head. "Well, maintain your strength. Stay as cheerful as possible. Keep an ear open for anything you think might be helpful," Deirdre said. "And please. Don't talk to me again as you did a while ago. It has a vanquishing effect upon my determination to help you."
     She was gone before the moon could offer apologies or thanks. But in the afterglow of Deirdre's visit, she practically beamed with joy. It was not even the possibility of her freedom which affected her so; it was more complicated. Never before had she needed the help of anyone, and now when she did, she felt a new emotion at the knowledge that there were creatures out there working on her behalf.
     She felt both bigger and smaller than herself, as though, for the first time, she understood the outlines of her silver form when viewed from the earth. There was great value in that, and great misunderstanding. She knew that when the falcons came again to gag her she would offer no resistance, but submit, as sweetly as possible, to their hooded smiles.


                                                  *                       *                      *



Apologies for a late submission again. If I were a better person, with a stronger will, and better at managing time, I would post at least 3 chapters a week. But I just aren't any of that. Which is a shame :(

Understanding good writing in 10 easy steps!

     Okay, so you have stumbled upon this little blog, and you see this post.

     Will you read it?

     Who knows, but here it goes:


     Good writing. Bad writing. Those two are constantly brought up by people to explain why they like, or don't like a specific work of fiction. But what does make someone's writing good or bad? Is it all really subjective? HELL NO! The subjective part is the choice of themes and tone (genre).

     What is good writing then?

     Well, to answer that I would have to explain what writing fiction is. How do I know what fiction is? I know that because I am a smart cookie and like to ask critical questions about my life experiences. That, and because I read and watched a lot of stuff. Writing fiction is the act of lying. Lying about non-existing characters and the non-existing world they inhabit. And I won't get into the bullshit of whether or not "it all exists in your <3". No, this is a topic for a different time.

     So now, when we have established that telling fictional stories is basically lying, let's get to what makes good fiction. Good fictions are convincing lies. CONVINCING lies. You need to convince the listener/watcher/player that the lie you are telling is plausible. How do you do it? By making it follow the basic rules our real life follows. Let's write down a few important basics:


1) There must be a presence of evil in your fictional world. But it is the amount of evil that is the most important, because too much will be confusing (since when is life that terrible?), and too little/none at all, will come out as an Utopia (again, completely unlike real life). When everyone is evil in your story and wants to get the protagonist, your story is really you projecting like crazy. When everyone loves and adores the protagonist, it will be a self insert crapfiction. Not the mention, everyone cannot be evil either. To summarize, there needs to be some evil, and some conflict, but not too much or too little. And evil does not have to be anything super serious; it could be just a few bad traits someone has, or a bit of misfortune. Or someone getting sick.

2) There must be a significant amount of chance, or "fate" in your story. Those words should be interchangeable for every writer. The majority of the story's events, as well as your fictional world itself, should be beyond the protagonist's control. Such is the way of real life: most of what happens around us and to us, we do not decide. The world decides for us. So, if your protagonist "accidentally" finds an item on a deserted road that will be instrumental in defeating the big bad guy in the end, that is not bad writing. When someone's good intentions lead to the death of a loved one, that is not bad writing. Our future, as well as present is not completely under our control, and that should be the same in fiction. Because when in your story everything happens exactly as the protagonist plans, that is self insert crapfiction, not a good story. Throw in a little Karma, why don't you!

3) Logic. Minor mistakes aside (we are only human, after all), there should be no real logical problems in your story. Things that are very unlikely should be reduced to a minimum, and implausibilities should be reduced to nothing. Having a super powerful big bad guy be defeated by a really weak protagonist in a fair fight, just because you really want it, is stupid, and makes your story a piece of crapfiction.

4) Tone. Are you going for realism, or is your world a comic? Maybe it is a cartoon? In the last two cases, you very well can implement cartoon physics, and bend the laws of said physics, within, and around your characters. Remember those big impossible cartoony eyes? That's just a start.

5) Consistency (in tone). If you are writing a sequel to a work, make sure to keep the tone of the original. At least for the most part. Was the first story realistic, or was is a wacky cartoon? A drama or comedy? Keeping that question in mind is very important.

6) Consistency (in personality). While you can expand and evolve a previously established character (see part 7), you should not betray what he or she was all about in the past. When you are writing a sequel to anything, always remember who those characters were, what they did, and why they did it. Change or no change, they are still the same people.

7) Character growth, and character depth. Any character should have as much identifiable traits as needed for your story. They can be deeper, or shallower depending on what the story is, and their role in it. However, the idea that sudden never-before-seen behavior is "going against established personality", is full of crap. Just because it was never mentioned that Johnny loves ice cream, does not mean you cannot bring it up later. Having all your character traits written out on a long sheet of paper, and sticking to it like the Word of God is bad news, to your story. Characters should grow and evolve as you write the story. Having them programmed to have all their traits set in cement from the start, makes them into robots, and not living breathing beings. Unless you are writing a story about a robot and why the fuck would you do that geez.

8) Character NOT growth. If you look around in real life, you will surely notice some people change more than others. Some are just way too stubborn, while some have no loyalty or principles and change every day, only to change again the next day. Some people already underwent their "character development", and are now more static, because the change already happened, and now there is not need for it anymore. The idea that there should be character development for everyone in every story ever made, was popularized by Hollywood, after the big wigs realized that Hero's Journeys make the most money.

9) Relatability. You don't write a story about ground. Or a rock. You always write about characters, living beings with feelings and thoughts, and characters always come first. Even when the world is given a large focus, it is the characters' reactions and thought about the world that you really are writing about. Or should be writing. No matter who your characters are: humans, humanoids, aliens, talking animals, non-talking animals, toasters; there should be something human in them. They should have hopes and dreams, passions, fears, bad traits to overcome or succumb to, rivals, and whatever other problems to overcome or be defeated by. Every protagonist of a good story is human to some extent. Except for crapfiction, of course. No one wants to read a story about something that is 0% human. Even the desire to enslave the world is a human flaw, and is relateable.

10) Last, but not least, a good story must be interesting. What is interesting, you might ask? Well, an interesting story is a story that is not 100% identical to what happens to you every day. An interesting premise is something that you don't see every day. Name one bestseller that deals with an average man who wakes up, eats his breakfast, and spends all day watching cat videos on YouTube. THERE ARE NONE, BECAUSE THAT IS NOT INTERESTING. Now, a story about a man who goes to his work, but not really, and instead pretends to go, secretly puts on a bat costume and fights crime? Now that is interesting. And let us not forget that any story that deals with magical powers, fantastic technology, grand battles, and supernatural entities are automatically not boring, at least in concept, because we don't normally deal with that stuff on a day-to-day basis. Also, Indiana Jones and The Ark of The Covenant is interesting.


      And now, boys and girls, we know what elements make a good fictional story! If you do not follow these guidelines, you are a crap writer and should be ashamed of yourself for unleashing your crap writing on the world :)

Donuts, Cookies and Pies.

     It has bothered me for a while. In most circles of He. . . INTERNET, people obsess over cookies, sandwiches, pies, and similar things. Similar in which way, you might ask?

     Well, here's an experiment. Let's list most of the food items people online go gaga over:

-cookies
-sandwiches
-pizza
-tacos
-cakes
-donuts
-pies
-bagels

     So, what is similar? Well, it's all bread, of course! All those 12 year olds who like to make "funny" YouTube comments, they all like their bread products. The lowest common denominator is obsessed with bread. Which makes sense, since most lazy people with no concern for their health are sick and obese. And probably smell bad.

     Well, there you have it! Cookies and sandwiches of the INTERNET, you are worshipped by a cult of dumbasses. Time to commit breaduicide!

     I just coined "breaduicide". I'm so proud of myself :|

Satyrday, a Fable. Tuesday, parts 1 & 2.

TUESDAY

     The fox had followed them, carefully keeping out of sight, from the time they first skirted the marsh. She stayed low, watching them as they slept. She waited. When it was time, she would join them, but it had been enough to see them push their way through the forest and stop on the edge of the swamp.
     They were an odd pair, the tall boy with eyes the color of slate, and the satyr. From the distance, when she had first caught sight of them, they seemed identical, two creatures walking on their hind legs, threading their way along an overgrown path. She had watched them stoop and finger the leaves of shrubs, talking in low voices she couldn't hear. But as the fox crept closer, their differences became apparent. The older one had the hindquarters of a goat, and an air of wildness about him; his eyes were vibrant and his head twisted as the slightest noise. While he moved through the underbrush, he was constantly stopping to sniff the wind, alert to danger. He gave the impression of having full knowledge of the woods, as though he were a natural part of them.
     The boy had the torso of the other, though thinner, less muscled. His legs appeared stronger than the satyr's, and were streaked with blond hair. He laughed when the satyr turned and talked to him. But when he walked in silence, his expression was fierce, hardening into arrogance. He seemed weightier, his intensity a cloak he never quite removed.
     There was a strong yet subtle bond between them, a strange tenderness, a tension. Its surface was rough, full of harsh words, but in its deeper currents, where the two needed no longer to attack each other, it flowed untroubled. It moved her, yet she was disdainful of it. These male creatures would forever place one another in danger and then come to the rescue; they would move in and out of a circle of affection, the perimeter of which they couldn't find. They would clearly need her help.
     Vera lived in a lair at the summit of the Mountains of No Return. She knew of the moon's capture, for her home was in the Outer Lands, close to the Deadwood Forest, and the owl held sway everywhere these days.
     She was a snow fox, the last of her clan. Her fur was silver and soft as goose down. Her pale eyes shone in the dark, a flicker of flame. Like all snow foxes she was solitary, joining others only when the times demanded it.
     And she had other traits which made her different from any animal who lived in the land. She was lightning, the flash of sunlight off a lake in full summer, the ripple of a trout's scales as he swims under cover of a snag.
     She was magic.


                                                        *                       *                      *


     Deirdre told them all she knew about the owl. It was past midnight before the three stopped talking and went to sleep. Derin and Matthew wrapped themselves in their blankets and slid among the pine needles as deeply as they could without touching the ground itself, for it was fearfully cold. The raven took up a perch in a pine over their heads, tucked her beak under her wing, and was the first asleep.
     Matthew dreamed for the first time in weeks. The moon hung upside down, suspended by ropes from two ravens who flew back and forth across the sky, making a constant night. Sometimes the moon rose in the east and raced across the firmament like a haycart set afire and sometimes she rose in the west and traveled, a mocking grin, toward the place where the sun should rise.
     A face coalesced out of the darkness, cruel, without a trace of kindness in it. Its large yellow eyes stared straight ahead, never blinking, surrounded by twin ovals, pale as dawn. A beak, hooked and powerful, jutted over the bottom of the face. And just above the eyes, two horns sprouted.
     He twitched on his bed of needles as if the owl had him in his talons. The beak opened, and at the moment he would have been swallowed, Matthew woke. He lay in the dark, huddled under his blanket, sweaty though the air was intensely cold, and listened to the easy breathing of Derin, who slept in the darkness at his side. Above, he could barely make out the profile of the raven hunched on her branch, still lost in sleep.
     "Only a dream," Matthew mumbled to himself. But in his half-dazed state, he couldn't shake the prickly sense of dread he'd awakened with. he was about to enter a place he'd never been before, and this antagonist had lodged in his mind before he'd even even left the meadowlands behind. The owl, if Deirdre could be trusted, held power from the Swollen River to the farthest reaches of the Outer Lands. If he could command an army of raven to capture the moon, what chance would they have against him?
     Matthew stood and looked toward the swamp, a deeper darkness to the west. He strained to hear some evidence of life there, the throaty bass of the frogs, the hum of insects. But the air was still. It was the swamp he had entered fourteen years ago, alone. He had stumbled in the darkness, seeing the heron's outline before him when lightning crashed across the sky, throwing its white glare down through the trees. Thunder rolled up at him from the dank water. At the river's bank, he could see nothing, swept up in the roar below him. Then the lightning flared again, and the hooded figure stepped from behind the tree, reaching out to give him the child. And had disappeared across the Swollen River, almost spirited away.
     He had stood, looking out over the water, visible only through the sky's bolts of illumination, the water which roiled and bubbled like a cauldron, holding the child in his arms, the little boy who, even then, did not cry or scream, or shiver with cold, but looked up at him, eyes wide, no hint of a smile on his face.
     Now a thin watery light began to seep from the east, until the upper reaches of the pines and oak were black and stark against the morning sky. While the boy and the raven still slept, he got to his feet and gathered wood for a fire. The pine needles, coarse and dry as dust, made good kindling and soon had a healthy blaze.
     He took an earthenware pot from his knapsack, filled it with water, and put it up to boil. He unwrapped some strips of jerky from the pack and slipped them into the water. Matthew brought the pot to his lips and took a sip, but the liquid burned his mouth and throat and he cried out in pain.
     Above him, the raven's voice filtered down. "Old family recipe?" she asked.
     Startled, Matthew stood up, knocking over the pot of water. It spilled into the fire, and a cloud of steam rose, scalding the satyr's palm He howled and batted at the steam as if it were alive, while the fire hissed itself cold. "You shut up," he said in a voice which surprised him. He glanced up and saw the raven tilted forward, her red eyes peering at him. He was unaccountably angry.
     Without thinking, Matthew picked up a rock and heaved it at the raven. He was deadly with bow and arrow, and his aim was true. The rock came close to Deirdre's head, but she hopped deftly to a lower branch.
     "What reason?" she croaked in a sore offended voice. "Watch who you're throwing at."
     "I see who I'm throwing at," Matthew said, picking up another rock, but he stopped himself just as the raven flew into the air. What was he doing?
     Above him, Deirdre landed again and danced from branch to branch, beside herself with excitement. "Blame the bad news, not the messenger," she said. "It's not my fault. I'm only the one who told you."
     "I know," Matthew said. "I don't know what got into me." The air hummed around his head.
     "Apologies are easy," the raven said. "They're only words."
     "I'm sorry," Matthew said. "Calm down."
     "Come down?" Deirdre sputtered. "Where you can get your hands on me? Not on your life. All these years I've thought nothing but kindly of you. I don't deserve this. I truly don't. I didn't kidnap the moon, I'm not responsible for the boy's.  .  .  ."
     He lost the raven's voice, though she continued to caw about indignity and danger, ungratefulness and salvation. Before him, Derin rose from the ground, unsteady, still half-asleep. The boy shivered, wrapped his arms around himself. "It;s cold," he said. "What's all the noise about? And where's the fire?"


                                                      *                       *                       *


There, I'm done for the night. More later!

Satyrday: a Fable. Monday, parts 5, 6 & 7.

     Derin had no idea what time it was, morning or afternoon. The sky looked wet as a soaket blanket, and as heavy. The boy tried to figure out how many hours of daylight lay before them, but he had no point to start from.
     They had long since left the granite overhang behind; they had crossed the meadow with its brackish brook. The jay had chattered madly at them from the elderberry bush near the oxbow lake, berating Matthew, but when he saw the boy and satyr would not be dissuaded, he wished them luck and let them go, giving Derin a touchstone to keep him safe.
     They entered a section of the meadowlands Darin hadn't seen. It wasn't meadow at all. "Matthew," Darin said. "Have you been her before?"
     "Not in a long time," the satyr replied. "Not since you were a child. Had no reason to."
     The earth grew spongy under their feet as the trail began to descend. The decline in elevation excited the boy, gave him the first sense he'd had that his imagination's landscape might be met. They were readying to enter a new zone, and Derin, in the first flush of the journey, stared ahead with expectation.
     "Do you know where we are?" he asked.
     "We are nearing the Swollen River," the satyr said. "Still several miles off, I think, but we're getting there. If I'm remembering right, we're close to the swamp which borders it."
     As they left behind the more familiar woodlands crowded with hickory and oak, the boy realized how little he usually saw of the world. Yes, he had seen–the  maples by the oxbow lake, the beech whose leaves turned yellow as goldenrod in fall–but he'd become so used to them, he had ceased to look carefully. He simply captured them in his mind's eye, as if through peripheral vision, and moved absently on. But here, with so much of the vegetation unfamiliar, his eyes were cleansed. The world began to emerge from the fog which shrouded everyday life.
     They passed through the edges of a marsh. Its tall thin reeds, bleached as weathered wood, were specked and streaked with black. Cattails, brown and spindly, poked through the reeds. The dried empty cases of milkwood jutted in clusters from the ends of their thin stems. And there were other, stranger plants that Matthew knew–chokecherry, bullbriar, and sheep laurel. The air was filled with the rustle of their passing, a scratchy rasp like sand on rock, broken only by the ooze of displaced water which filled the little pockets their feet made. Derin bent and put his finger in the water. It was warm and silty, and tasted faintly sweet, of mud and peat. The ground before him held two distinct holes, like half-moons, from Matthew's hooves.
     Beyond the marsh, the ground rose slightly, became drier. They entered a forest of pine and oak. The soil was sandy, a flecked black which skittered under Derin's feet. The sand was blanketed with pine needles, and their resilience made the boy want to leap in the air, but the tree's branches hung only a few feet over his head. They passed bear oak and black oak. The pitch pine seemed stunted, reaching a height of only eight feet. It grew in stands of five or six trees, its dark split bark covered with lichen. Many were grotesquely twisted, pruned and pinched in fantastic shapes. Black huckleberry, broom crowberry, and barberry, all new to Derin, grew under the tree cover. Sphagnum moss was everywhere, its tiny furred stems reaching up at the boy.
     It was an autumnal forest. Derin had the feeling he had entered a different time. It was summer in the meadowlands, the trees lush with large green leaves. Raspberries and blueberries made bushes droop under their weight. Before the moon was stolen, the land had been coursing with life. But here, a few miles from where they'd started, the leaves were brown and dry. The conifers still held their thin green needles, but the oaks were largely bare, except for the few ragged leaves still clinging to the branches.
     As the trail fell again, the trees grew taller, sending their slender trunks higher into the grey air. It was the two of them who were descending, as though entering an excavation. The light dimmed as they continued. Derin, walking in silence, had the odd sensation of going backwards. The change in seasons was compounded by what he took to be a change in history. Matthew had explained to him the stories of the earth's beginning, and now he half-expected to see it for himself. His eyes were wide; every strange noise put him on edge. He looked above him, to the distant reaches of the pines and oaks, waiting to see a bird of prey eyeing them. But the forest was empty, the only noises natural, wind in the upper branches of the trees, the soft padding of their feet.
     "It's very strange," Matthew said. almost to himself. "This forest was filled with birds. Swallows and goshawks, tanagers and kingfishers, every manner of bird lived here together. All day the trees were heavy with song, and the air was threaded with their flight from branch to branch. Where could they have gone?"
     "Maybe the wind that took the ravens took the other birds as well."
     "No, I don't think so. It's impossible that every member of every clan was either taken by that wind or died because of it. They must have left this forest for some reason; maybe there was danger here and they were frightened away. Or they chose to leave. But why would they do that? This fo
rest.  .  .  . Derin, it was as if music had been given a place to live forever and it lived here."
     "But nothing lives here. It's not just birds. I haven't seen even a salamander or toad."
     "It's the birds I miss," the satyr said.
     "Have we passed into the Outer Lands?" Derin asked.
     "Not yet. Not until we cross the Swollen River. Still, this seems what like the Outer Lands must be. It's as though they had a life of their own, a sickness, which leapt the river and poisoned the forest."
     They walked in silence for several minutes as the trail fell below them. In the distance, Derin saw a wall of darkness rise from the forest floor. He sucked in his breath so sharply that Matthew whirled around in alarm. "What's the matter?" he hissed. Derin raised an arm and pointed.
     "What's that?" he asked.
     "It's the swamp," the satyr said. "Hurry. It's getting darker by the minute, and we don't want to be trapped there when the night comes on."
     Derin hung back. "Maybe we should stop here for the night, before we get there," the boy said.
     Matthew thought for a minute, stroking the side of his face. "You're right," he said. "We got a late start."
     He unslung his pack and put it on the ground. "But I can't say I like it much here either," he said. He quickly looked around for something which might serve as shelter, but forest stretched as far as he could see. No rocks, no possibility of caves. He shrugged. "We'll have to make do," he said. "Help me gather pine needles for our beds before it gets too dark to see. At least we can get a good night's sleep."
     But when he looked at Derin, he realized the boy hadn't heard a word he'd said. Derin stared ahead of him at the place where the cedars rose like a fortress and the darkness began.
     "Derin," the satyr said calmly. "I'm talking to you."


                                                          *                   *                   *


     Deirdre flew east again, searching for Matthew and Derin. When she reached the meadowlands, it was close to nightfall. She had given up trying to be in two places at the same time, had decided simply to do what she had to do. For weeks, it seemed, she had flown madly here and there and back again. Now she was so tired she didn't care if the other ravens noticed she was gone.
     With a thump, she landed on the granite overhang and tried to catch her breath. "I'm going to .  .  . uh .  .  . croak if this continues," she gasped to the thinning air, but nothing answered her. "I'm going to drop dead in midflight." It was crazy, crazy, crazy: from the Deadwood Forest to the meadowlands and back, and back to the meadowlands and back again, like a shuttle, a yo-yo, a spinning top. Just this morning, she had been in the southern reaches of the Deadwood Forest, and the thought of those starfish clinging to her claws made her shudder.
     The forest was quiet. Derin and the satyr were nowhere to be seen. The ground below her still held the imprint of their bodies, but it was cold and damp. Hours, at least, had passed since they had been there. The scattered remnants of the fire were clearly from the previous night. So they had taken off, after all. They were on their way.
     She smiled. "I've always thought I was a good judge of character," she said, and no one argued with her self-assessment. She flew to the meadow, thinking she might catch them there. But she couldn't find them anywhere. As she hovered in the light breezes blowing from the east, she saw the grass part below her and come together again. An animal was moving through the meadow. Perhaps it had some news.
     Swooping down toward the moving grass, Deirdre landed in front of a badger who looked exceedingly alarmed at her swift appearance. He took off in another direction as fast as he could. "Wait," Deirdre said. "I just want a word with you." The badger didn't slow down. She flew again at the frightened animal who began to burrow with all his might, his claws flailing at the dirt. "I mean no harm," Deirdre said. "I only want some information." The badger stopped, half into the ground, backed out and stared at the raven.
     "I'm looking for two friends of mine," the raven said. "A young boy and a satyr."
     "You're a friend of Derin's?" the badger asked. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" For the moment, he seemed to let down his guard. "He's gone, I'm afraid."
      "Do you know where?"
     "West," the badger said. "He's gone west with the goat-man. Messengers in the night. The moon caught in a tree. Nothing good will come of it, I promise you. They've headed for the Swollen River."
     "Thank you, badger," Deirdre said. The badger looked at her with suspicion and a faint return of his previous alarm—how had she known his name?—and as he watched, she rose in the air and headed west. Who was that black bird?
     "I hope you find them," the badger said glumly. "Nothing good will come of it, I promise. Not to any of you, I'm, afraid."
     But Deirdre didn't hear the badger's voice, nor did anyone else.


                                                     *                      *                     *


     Matthew lay on one of the two pine-needle beds he and Derin had made. Soon he'd build a fire and see what was in the knapsack to eat. For the moment, he thought he'd rest. He took his panpipe out of the knapsack, sat up, and began to play. He imitated bird song and water music. He played until the melancholy forest echoed with the sound. And then he broke free on a flight of his own fancy, the notes cascading through the pine and oak like little stars.
     To Derin, the distant music sounded more glorious than anything he'd heard all day. It was like light, like sunshine. It cut through the deepening gloom, a knife of pure feeling and release.
     He had gone by himself to the edge of the swamp, leaving Matthew behind him. "Be careful," the satyr had cautioned before he started. "Don't go in." The advice wasn't necessary; Derin had no thought of venturing into that tangle alone. Behind him, the music rose and fell, but as he got as close as he dared and peered into the darkness, it seemed the swamp sucked all the music from the air, all the air from his lungs.
     There was little light in the forest and less in the swamp. The cedars ascended before him, their tall straight trunks covered with a green bark, grooved as if by a chisel. Around them lay the water of the swamp. It looked cold, colder than it should have been, even in autumn, and Derin stared at the water covering a thin casing of ice.
     "Everything's upside down," Derin said, and his words came back to him from the swamp's interior. They would have to walk through the water, their feet on the ice below. Hummocks of moss rose from the swamp's surface, but they couldn't spend their time jumping from one to another. They would have to grit their teeth and plunge in.
     He stood looking into the swamp until the darkness was total. Behind him, Matthew should be making a fire, but when he turned to look, he could see nothing at all. He stumbled back in the direction he's dome. All around him the pines and oaks stood, looming out of the darkness when he was almost upon them. "Matthew!" he cried, but there was no answer. The silence oozed out of the earth. "Matthew, where are you?"
     Could he have gotten himself lost in the few minutes he'd been apart from the satyr? He turned again and tried to retrace his steps, back toward the swamp. He'd expected the wall of cedar to jump out at him, a vantage point he could be sure of. But he had no such luck. He ran forward a few steps and stopped short. The ringing in his ears could only be his own footsteps. He called the satyr's name again, his voice rising in terror.
     Wait, a small voice inside him said, just sit down and wait for Matthew to find you. So Derin sat and immediately stood up again. The sodden ground of the forest had seeped into his skin. He stood in the dark, his heart beating so quickly blood pounded in his ears.
     And then he felt the hand on his shoulder. But it wasn't a hand; it had claws and the claws gripped him tightly, not sinking in, but fastening around him. He grunted in horror, jerked his shoulder, and fell to the ground, rolling away from whatever it was. He screamed, got to his feet, and began to run. He hit a bush, its branches tripping him, wrapping around his legs. And so he lay there in the darkness, breathing hoarsely, afraid to move.
     "Derin!" Matthew's voice sounded behind him.
     "I'm over here!" the boy screamed, relief flooding him.
     "Derin," another voice said from the air above.
     "Who's there?" the boy said, almost in a whisper, shielding his face with his arms.
     "It's Deirdre," the raven said. "You almost broke my back with that inconsiderate stunt of yours."
     Matthew came crashing through the underbrush to find the boy on his back, the raven perched in the branches of the bush in which Derin lay tangled.
     All this the fox saw, but she never made a sound.


                                                    *                        *                         *



Well, that's it for now! Remember, positive feedback is always appreciated; may make me write faster...

SIlent Hill for Pretentious Smartasses Part 1 (introduction).

     You may or may not heard of Silent Hill. You may not know what it is, but you probably heard it is a thing that exists. You may know it's a game franchise and two movies based on such.

     Let's get the enormous elephant out of way: first 4 games are good, everything else is shit.

     There.

     There is much to talk about when discussing Silent Hill games (that aren't shit) (see above). But the most hotly debated topic is the nature of the games' story itself. Is it real, or all IN TEH MAYNDZ OF THE PROTAHGONEESTS???

     Well, when it comes to this debate I side with the folks behind Twin Perfect. If you consider yourself a HARDCOOOORE FAN and never heard of Twin Perfect and their shenanigans, you fucking lie.

     However, these posts (the title does say part one) will not be about proving what was already proven better by more passionate and knowledgeable people than me. Rather, they will deal with the people who prefer the "psychological" explanation of the events of Silent Hill(s). I will be listing the most likely reasons they prefer this explanation.

     So, if you are one of these people, prepare to be OFFENDED on the INTERNET!



     To be continued.................

I hate the Di$ney Corporation.

     I love Lilo & Stitch. It's my favorite Disney movie. Of all the ones the company pushed out, this one addressed the overplayed theme of family the best. Extended family over biological one, and no one gets left behind. Perfect. Simply perfect. Nothing is going to ruin this gem of a movie. Not even an unnecessary sequel with a cheesy moral that is fucking stupid. Not even a pokémon-wannabe unnecessary TV show. Not even ANOTHER TV show where Stitch gets mad at Lilo because of some misunderstanding bullshit and leaves his Ohana orever and goes to Japa... FUCK DISNEY!

     I heard many good things about Peter Pan & The Pirates. I watched some clips online and got intrigued. Must have been quite a show if people still talk about it. Wonder if I can watch it somehow... hmmm, what is this? The show cannot be released? I wonder why. Apparently, Disney owns the rights now, and does not want the general public to pay money for anything aside from their "official" animated clas... FUCK DISNEY!

     I liked Disney Afternoon shows. Hell, I still like a good chunk of them. When a deal was signed with Boom! Studios in 2010 to produce NEW COMICS that will be a continuation of Darkwing Duck I could not be happier. But I got happier still, because the creative team did an amazing job keeping both the tone, and quality of the original, while making it awesome in its own way. And what's that? A RESCUE RANGERS comic??? Wow! That is awesome! The first 4-issue arc was great! What about the next one? Also great! Hey, have they got any more co... what's that? Contract expired? No more Rescue Rangers? And no Tale Spin comic? And all because Disney does not really care for anything other its "animated cla... FUCK DISNEY!


     You know, I've been thinking. It seems The Di$ney Corporation is mostly busy with only a few things: raising awareness of its theatrical animated films amongst the world's population, and milking those as much as possible, with shitty sequels, shitty spin offs, and unnecessary re-re-re-releases (just how many times do you need to release a movie on Blu-Ray?). This corporation is NOT concerned with leaving the good movies alone. It does NOT respect art, or artists responsible for its actual creation. It is NOT concerned for the feelings of people those movies touched. Only promoting the "classics", pushing their fucking princess shit, and latching onto the latest thing to be hip and trendy, like CGI and 3D.

     Occasionally, Di$ney hires talented people to do art for them. Occasionally, some creative freedom is allowed for them. Occasionally, a good thing is made. If it is family friendly enough, Di$ney will market the shit out of it, not really honoring anyone who worked on it (whatever it is). When was the last time you seen a Disny movie cover/poster, where the name of the director/writer was higher or bigger than the Disney logo?

     That's what I thought.

     Fuck Disney. They are a shit company that occasionally allows talented people do good things. Fuck Disney.

     I hate them.