Candice Dionysus: Prose and Non-Fiction

[Candice Dionysus]

Maroque: A Novel of Nightmares:
The Story Begins
Maroque
Interlude ( I )
Dei
Kyonsei
The Serpent
Awake (Dei)
Awake (Anianka)
Roommates
Truths to Come
Turtle
A Little Explanation of Monique


An essay/rant-type thing
Secret Project
Pain [Short Story]
Project "Fort Wars"
Project "Fort Wars", Chapter 1
'Eights' (Short Story)

UnNamed: It Began With A Box
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five


Dreams


Maroque: A Novel of Nightmares

What if you were having a nightmare and you died? If you died while sleeping, would you be trapped in your nightmare forever? Or would you go to heaven or hell?
Imagine your most beautiful, and spectacular dream. Now imagine it twisted into a nightmarish realm of pain, torture, and deceit. This is what the land of Maroque is like.
How do you get there? Maroque is a land that you may only visit while your physical body is asleep, and your mind is wandering the Dreamscape’s of the Universe. And if your body dies while you are there, then you become trapped for all eternity.
At first the few inhabitants, the nightmare demons, were alone. People would come and go, and sometimes wouldn’t even see them. When they finally realized they could smell the human souls, they began hunting them, and causing them to ‘die’ in Maroque. And since anything that dies in Maroque becomes a demon, the population soon began to grow.
Maroque is a place where the deadliest, nightmare creatures come to life, and even the vegetation is out for the taste of blood. In this realm of death and carnage there is one nightmare which rules over Maroque. Her name is Monique and she is the Princess of Nightmares.

Can you live and wake to see another sunrise? Or will you simply become another of the Demons of Maroque?

[Candice Dionysus]

The Story Begins

--A strange place for a story to start, no? Our ‘heroine’, if she can be called such, is at work in Kerry’s Book Store, nestled in downtown Barrie. The Dunlop St. Store has been there quite a while - when a lot of the stores downtown fizzled, this one still stood. The men who owned it hadn’t sold, but they’d hired her the previous year, just a few months after Anianka’s eighteenth birthday in May of 2012. It was July 19th, 2013 now and she was out back, across from the Salvation Army store where the poor and homeless would congregate for supper later on - just across from the nucleus of the city, Barrie Bus Terminal. She watched people go to and from the Terminal while smoking a cheap Native cigarette. They didn’t always taste the best, but they were affordable.
--Tweakers, losers, assholes... Anianka’s thoughts were of all the people she saw. Retards, niggers, Jews... By no means was she a racist; Anianka hated all races equally, including her own. If you asked her, and she was feeling particularly nice, she’d tell you she just hated humanity. “No one special,” she might say, “just all the people on Earth.”
--She found it sickening that the whole town basically spider webbed from the Terminal, and the lake, Kepmenfelt Bay, not more than a two minute walk from where she stood now. And the city never did fix the Sunday and nighttime bus service to meet the demands of the growing population - which had been growing fairly steady since about nineteen ninety-five or so. It still only ran once an hour from seven pm on week- and Saturday nights, and once an hour from ten am to about six or seven pm on Sundays. At least during the week it was on the half hour
--She snuffed out her smoke and went back in. She’d had three customers since her shift started at nine in the morning. An old woman and two young adults, probably no more than twenty fives years old each. The old woman had bought a romance novel; the young adults had gone for the fantasy and science fiction. Anianka preferred murder mysteries herself, but no one knew that except her and her bosses. And they were both drunks, so who cared?
--Anianka working cash was more of her form of a joke. “Watch me fool people into thinking I’m somewhat normal!” she might have told a friend, if she had one. Besides, she needed the money for food, smokes, and shelter - and in that order, too.
--About the only memories Anianka had were bad; her father beating her purple for not cleaning her room; the other kids teasing her in fifth grade for her home-pierced nose; the teachers telling her to take it out and her blunt refusal because she had the right to express herself. And OH! How furious those morons had been with her! How exquisitely pissed off they got when she told them NO! Had she ever been quite so happy since that day? Not that she could remember, but maybe...
--A man, possibly in his mid-thirties, came into the store. They smiled at each other and he went to browsing the shelves near the back. He was almost an attractive man in Anianka’s mind, but for the most part she hated him before he even walked into the building. If he was feeling talkative she might slip him her number; she wasn’t adverse to sleeping with someone every now and again, even if she hated human kind. She was promiscuous, but she was safe about it.
--She fixed her shirt to show a bit more cleavage and unzipped the sides of her skirt, upwards, to show more thigh. When she felt her appearance was ‘slutty’ enough she went out from behind the counter to fix some of the shelves a bit. He came back to the counter with a Stephen Davis novel, she likes his books, and when he looked at her she heard his breath catch in his throat. She turned, playing the innocent flirt, and she giggled on her way back to the counter.
“Hello.” she said, amiably and cutely. “Will that be all?”
He stuttered a bit before he got the reply of “all for the books, yeah.”
Real smooth, dude, she thought, then said “for the books?” and giggled.
After five minutes of poor flirting on his part, and gentle pressing on hers, she gave him her number and his book.
--Another casualty of war, she mused to herself, slipping back to her usual morbid demeanor, zipping her skirt back down and re-readjusting her shirt.
--She was studying human behavior in her spare time, reading up on it, watching people every chance she got. It was manipulation she was really learning, and OH! Was she ever getting GOOD at it! Just for shits and giggles, to see how easy she would bend the rest of the world to her will. It was nothing to her, and it was oh-so-fun. But the main reason was the power; she had power over people. That was what was important, that was what turned her on. He would probably call later tonight, or tomorrow evening.

[Candice Dionysus]

What ever happened to the pacifistic and passionate views of the 1960's? The sit-in’s, the rallies for peace, the non-violent revolution of the Counter-culture through protest and concert? Has the population grown too fat and lazy to really care about war and hate in any non-military, peace-love-unity-respect, love-thy-neighbor-as-though-he-were-your-brother, let-the-music-set-us-free, F-U-C-K the F-U-Z-Z way anymore? Are they really content to let the joint Government of North America keep on its Roman Shadow-path, towards a full and painful collapse?
I wasn’t alive in the sixties. Hell, I wasn’t alive in the seventies, or early to mid-eighties. I was born in ‘88, of all times. But even the Grunge-and-punk revolution of the ‘90's faded into this pop-punk, fashion oriented culture of pseudo-depressed idiots who can no more read and write then they can take care of themselves right. They’re either too fat and lazy, or too skinny and uninterested in the world around them to notice that its so royally screwed up. They don’t believe they can make a real difference. Non of them are leaders, they do as they are told, whether they know it or not.
What they need is a strong voice, a real and strong person to lead them to their destinies. Because they are at current too sober, or too drunk on the wrong drugs to realize their full potentials! The loss of the greats, like Jim Morrison and John Lennon were big losses on the Revolutionary front; we could have done so much better with people like them to lead us to our own personal Nirvana’s, to stop war and to keep our noses where they belong, instead of our people dying needlessly and uselessly! Its ridiculous, and as the future, I won’t stand for it any longer!
Its true! The children are the future! So why are so many of us stupid, undereducated, over-medicated emo-kids? Sheep! You’re all sheep! And I could be the Shepard, if only you’d listen, look past my outer appearance, drop your petty preconceived notions, LEARN and ADVANCE and ACCEPT the REALITY of your world! SEE THE LIES! Realize the TRUTH of it ALL!
The Government wants you all under control, and by letting them medicate the young, or, really, make up problems like A.D.D. - Most of those kids just need someone to pay attention to them. A PARENT or two to raise them, teach them, LOVE THEM the way a parent is meant to! But I wander. By letting the Government do this you are doing nobody any favors. That is, no one but the Government. The North American people have the Right to Bear Arms so that if at any point they disagree with the way their Government is doing things, they could have another Revolution, take back the country and start over. Interpretation of the Constitution corrupts it greatly.
But this fact was forgotten by the people, who decided they’d rather have a non-violent Revolution, in the end. The sit-ins, love-ins, protests, rallies... They only turned violent because the police turned them that way. But it could work! Because of Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Expression, it could work still! So why did we stop? Why, indeed. How did the Government win? Easy.
The hippies were all talk and no muscle. They said “we’ll make peace” but made love instead. They said “Free Tibet” and freed only their minds, they said they’d change the world and changed only their own tune in the end. The Hippies became the Yuppies, and the passion was lost. But is it gone forever? In France they revolt over anything they don’t agree with. Does it work? Not always, but it keeps the Government in fear, which is as it should be. People should not fear their Government, they should have it by the balls! Of yes! And I ask you, would you put your own personal well-being on the line for something you believed in so strongly? Or are you a coward who would hide and say the answer they want to hear?
I, for one, have had to put my live on the line for what I believe in, and would gladly and proudly do it again!
But would you?

[Candice Dionysus]

Alright! So I've been working forever on this project (which I really want you all to participate in!) of a free bi-monthly magazine.

I've got myself a deadline, and I've gotten a few submissions of poems and short stories, but I need some more, I need articles and rants; music, television, movie and game reviews; political views; fashion reviews; bar and club reviews for anyone who might be visiting your area; art; and anything else, anything, that you might be able to think of!

If you click the link at the top of this post it will take you to my site. There you can find updates, my deadline, the subjects we cover, people working on the magazine with me, submission guide, etc. If there is anything you think is missing, or you need to know, feel free to ask me.

I plan on having the first issue ready for February, barring any unforeseen problems.

As you may have guessed, this magazine is for anything, anyone, and anywhere. So anything you have to submit, be it an opinion, artwork, a recipe you want to share with the world, or just a local story you think is gripping, I want you to submit it.

Thanks, and I hope to be publishing something of yours soon,
Candice.

[Matt]

Looks good Candice

[Candice Dionysus]

Thanks, Matt. ^^; Like I said, I've been the only one working on it, so for it to look "good" is pretty freaking amazing.

[Matt]

Its not an easy thing to do for sure, I put my fingers to the bone on six pages yesterday.

[Candice Dionysus]

I've still got my own few articles to type up, a layout for the magazine itself to come up with, advertising to do, contributors to find, and so on...
Because I can't do the whole thing on my own, no matter how good I am.

[Frunobulax]

Very neat, Can! I look forward to this!

[Candice Dionysus]

Thank you, Fruno.
But at this point, I'm really in desperate need of help. I can't do this all on my own, and I need volunteers to help.

For those interested in helping, the websites Current Issue page has a list of the things I will be accepting articles in and on. Any questions about each section, feel free to PM me here and ask.

[Candice Dionysus]

Pain. Why did his stomach hurt? Oh, right, that was why. He tried to open his eyes and found that everything was just as dark with them open. He tried to sit up and his body screamed bloody murder. Pain, yeah, but he was more hungry than hurting. Slowly, turn to the edge of what ever you are laying on. That’s right, feet on the ground – the nice, reassuring, solid ground. Yes, now take a moment - breathe. That’s right, nice and slow.
Good, he’d succeeded in sitting up with minimal pain. But his body was stiff. How long had he been unconscious? Hard to tell. He couldn’t remember anything after he took a tumble off his bike.
So, then, where was he? It was so black he couldn’t see a thing. There was no adjusting to this total blackness. But light would have hurt him, so he was glad for it, really. Yes, glad. But oh God, his stomach! He had to get up, find some food.
He groped around the sides of him, looking for a table or wall to steady himself with as he stood up. He didn’t find one. Damn. So he’d have to risk falling flat on his face. Ok, he could do that. Slowly.
He lent forward, gently, his hands pushing on his thighs. They felt too thin. Far too thin. How long had he been here, in this timeless blackness? Secluded from light, and unable to eat or drink?
Drink. Come to think of it, his mouth was dry, too. Damn it. Don’t think of it. Just think of standing up. That was the important thing now. Just stand up.
He tried to use the muscles in his legs to straighten them, but it didn’t work. He collapsed back down onto the bed. Damn. That failed miserably. He tried to curse out loud and found his throat was too dry. Nothing came out.
He was so thirsty, now, that he forgot how hungry he was. He forced himself to stand again, slowly, and closed his eyes. His head was spinning; his stomach tried to leap into his throat but was far too empty. The acid was probably eating at the lining. He managed a groan; the sound of it in all the darkness was almost frightening.
He managed to take a step forward, and then another, but his foot snagged on something and he went down. His head cracked off of something and then he was out.

Pain. Always pain; stinging, dizzying, delicious pain. Why did it hurt this time? He thought back to the last thing he could remember doing. Taking a few steps, that’s right. So logically he must have fallen and hit his head. Tentatively he touched his forehead. A sudden blast of tear-educing, exquisite pain lanced through his brain and head. He probably had a concussion. It also felt wet. He licked his fingers to find the coppery, metal taste of blood – he always thought his own had a hint of lemon to it, but he never could say why. He’d have to find the Bactine and some bandages. And painkillers – lots of those. But only after he found food and water.
Damn, how long was he out? Probably a few minutes, the blood was still fresh. So, then, getting up would be first priority. Then, finding either a light, or a way out. How did he get here? Good question. He sat up, seeing stars anyways due to the pain. He could remember crashing, but nothing more. Damn. Oh well, it would come back to him. Or, so he hoped.
He moved into a crawling position as slowly and carefully as he could, and felt for what he’d smacked his head off of. Pottery, dirt. It was a plant-holder – a big one. And his own blood was still on it in little beads that his fingers broke when they felt it. Gee, that wasn’t morbid. No sir, not that.
Oh well, he may possibly use it to steady himself this time. It felt tall enough. But all he could really do was hope, in this eternal darkness all around him. He pushed himself up, trying not to make himself dizzy. There, he was up again. The pot did help, then. That was always pleasant.
Now, time for the locating of a door. This ought to be fun, but optimistically this little bit of good luck would hold out and he wouldn’t go down again. Well, at least he could still be optimistic. There weren’t any signs that this was a dangerous situation, aside from the severe starvation he’d been feeling, and the even more powerful dehydration. His lips already felt chapped, and that was never a good sign. Perhaps the headache he had woken up with was really a migraine due to the absence of life sustaining liquids. Then he would have had to have been unconscious for at least three days, which would explain the stiffness of his leg muscles.
He felt his way to the side of the plant, and found a wall. That was good, that meant that there might be a door somewhere. He groped his way along it, slowly, stopping to let the dizziness fade if he started to go too quick. A concussion was really a wonderful thing to add to all the pain he had already. Too late now, just find the door. He came to a corner, and followed it over. Great, he had no idea where he was now. But at least he was doing something. He moved along this new wall for a short time, but in the darkness it felt like eternity. His hand hit something and suddenly he was blinded completely, and his head screamed in pain. He went to cover his eyes and went down again.

Pain. This time white pain, lancing through his already concussed head. There was blood in his eyes now, and his vision was red. Wait, vision? He could see now, he’d hit the light switch. He took a moment to look around before he stood up. There was the mysterious hard object he’d been laying on. It was a child-sized bed, which explained why he was so stiff when he woke up. The potted plant he’d hit his head on; it was a large one, as he’d guessed. The pottery was the usual orange-y brown color, and the plant was actually a small palm tree. There was the covered window. The fabric covering the window seemed to be black velvet, which explained why no light got through.
But why was it so bright in here? His eyes should have adjusted by now. Then he noticed the walls were glass. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He could see outside, but no light could get in. As a result, the light reflected off the glass on the inside, and made things a lot brighter than they should have been. He imagined the outside was like a big black mirror, reflecting everything around him. Holy hell, where was he?
He kept looking about, seeing both the size of the room, and where the door might be. Definitely not near those black curtains, though he didn’t see why they would be needed, since the whole room was a window. He looked to the right of them, and there was no door there, either. But there was no door to the left, so where was it? He turned to look behind himself, and lo! There was the door. He grasped the glass handle and gently turned it. It cracked open, and there was darkness behind it. But it wasn’t the same as the darkness he’d had in this room up until recently. Anyways, he could get out. That was good.
He went through the door, letting his eyes adjust to the half-darkness and leaving the door open so he could see for as long as possible. His legs were working considerable better, now that there was a whisper of food soon to come. He slowly walked down the hallway he’d come to, using the wall to steady himself where he needed it. This was good, this was progress. The hall was silent but for the echoes of his own shuffling feet as he trekked down the corridor. There were other doors, but he passed these, hoping for either an elevator or a stairway. It had looked like he had been at least one level off the ground, and he didn’t want to take any chances.
Behind him he heard a door open, and footsteps shuffle out. Oh God, let that be someone helpful, please? For a moment there was no noise. Not even his own shuffling feet; he’d stopped at the first sound of another creature in the halls. Then, with no clear warning, the person called out to see if anyone was around. It was a female voice. Asking for help. He suddenly went very cold. Either this was a trap, and he should continue shuffling along and looking for a way out – run, even – or he should go back and see if she really needed his help. But it felt wrong, everything felt wrong. All wrong, beyond a doubt.
He began to shuffle the way he’d been going, and then to take his feet right off the ground, and put them down gently, sneaking along the corridor slowly. Then he heard the call again, saying she really needed someone, please won’t they help? Anyone? But he couldn’t justify what was wrong, even to himself. She wasn’t right, she just wasn’t right at all. He began to take larger sneaking steps, until he found a door that was different from the rest. Maybe this was it; maybe he could escape through here. She called out again, sounding more impatient this time, and he could hear her shuffling towards him, but not slowly at all. The light was mostly gone from the hallway, so she couldn’t see him just yet… But she would be capable of seeing him inside a definite range, and he knew it. No, he had to try this door, had to get away.
It opened soundlessly, despite looking rather old, and he saw stairs. Oh, thank God! Stairs, and he could get out and away from this awful place! She cried out again, help! Help! He’s following me, I just know it! Please? Won’t you save me? But she was wrong. He went through the door, and closed it behind him. He took a breath and then was almost running down the stairs. He went around once, twice, three times… He lost count. Eventually he got to the bottom, and he heard her feet on the floor coming in behind him, and beginning to come down the stairs. He went through the opposite door, seeing light through a grimy window about shoulder-high. He was outside, yes! He began to run, to run and run as fast as he could.
He smacked into someone, they cursed. They began to ask him questions, who he was, where he came from, why he looked so sick. He tried to explain and was surprised he had enough fluid left in him to begin to cry. He’d run smack into a police officer. Then, once more, he fainted.

Pain again. How many times would he wake up in pain? A female voice asked him if he was awake, finally. He tried to respond, and then merely smacked his hand gently on the side-rail of the hospital bed. He remembered now. He’d gotten out, he’d found the policeman. He must have brought him here, to the hospital. The boy cleared his throat a few times, and then asked if he parents had been informed. The nurse said no, he was a John Doe, no ID, no wallet even. She asked him who he was, how old was he, where was he from? He told her to get a policeman in here, he didn’t want to repeat himself. She said she’d call him in now.
A moment later the man who he’d run into was in the room, holding his pad of paper. He said he was glad he was awake, what did he have to tell him? He explained who he was and where he was from – Hunter Fielding, 15 years old, from Portland, Oregon. They just stared at him. He asked them what the problem was.
“Hunter, you’re lucky to be alive, let alone unharmed.” The police officer told him. “You were abducted by a serial killer – a woman from right here in Santa Monica. We caught her just after we found you. You’ve been out another week, but the hospital has kept you hydrated and fed. You were reported missing over a month ago. We found drugs in your system - Valium, GHB, heroin, and opium. You were massively dehydrated, and on the verge of starvation. She was going to cut you up, slowly, as you starved to death, we gather. Its what she does with most of her victims. She claims she’s pregnant, now. We have her in solitary, awaiting a trial. We didn’t find your ID in with the other nineteen wallets we found.”
“I don’t carry one… My mom said I don’t need one yet.”
“At any rate, we can call your parents now, and let them know we’ve found you. But… How in the hell did you get out? You should have been too weak to move at all.”
He just smiled, weakly.
“You’d be astounded at what a kid can do when he needs something to eat.”
And now, no more pain.

[The_Nameless]

Ehh. Not bad, but definitely not your best. I just couldn't get into it that much.

A little continuity issue also.

Third paragraph, fourth line, you wrote "The blinds seemed to be black velvet...", then in the same paragraph, ninth line, you wrote " Definitely not near those black curtains..."

The ending made it more interesting, though.

[Candice Dionysus]

Ehh. Not bad, but definitely not your best. I just couldn't get into it that much.

A little continuity issue also.

Third paragraph, fourth line, you wrote "The blinds seemed to be black velvet...", then in the same paragraph, ninth line, you wrote " Definitely not near those black curtains..."

The ending made it more interesting, though.

Ooh. I had meant to write curtains in the first place, but I guess my mind just wasn't working. I haven't edited this at all, by the way. Just spell checked. Which is why its on here.
I'll fix that now.

[Steve]

Society is so skewed that it has no idea what's going on. They've all got their heads so far up their asses they shit when they sneeze. It's just people need something to believe, something to blame. It makes them feel safe.

[Candice Dionysus]

[Candice Dionysus]

Chapter One

ℑn childhoods hour there exists a vast imagination, creating whole worlds within which children play and grow. For some this imagination is encouraged, promoted, and thrives; for others it is stamped upon until it winks out like the flame of an unwanted candle. The fact remains that all children have it when they start out. For those whom it is encouraged in, it sometimes turns into this amazing talent, this brilliant mind, and these people become actors, writers, singers, musicians, dancers, and all manner of stars or unappreciated visionaries. For those whom it is squashed within, they become businessmen, politicians, or bureaucrats. Both are faced with problems, pleasures, and two roads diverged, but none of that is important as the decision you make as a child; to follow your heart and utilize your imagination, or to toss it away forever, leaving it for the more practical, the more mundane. For Margaret Woods, the decision was both.

Margaret Woods was a fifteen-year-old girl living in the small town of Niccals in South-Central Ontario, just outside of Barrie, to the North and the East. She lived in a large house, on a street of large houses just in front of a large space of forest on the very edge of the town, through which a mostly underground river emerged, snaked, and submerged, connecting two large lakes. As a smaller child Maggie’s mother had taken her swimming in that small river, but when she turned five, her mother ran out, leaving her with her father, a music label executive who almost never has time for her. When the two are together, it is either for him to give her money, or them to argue over this or that; he doesn’t get his daughter, and she gets him all to well. After all, she’d begun to turn out just like him already.

Among Maggie’s neighbors were the five members of Corralee Impaled, a five member metal band who did both melodic death metal, and industrial psy-trance, skillfully blended both on CD and in concert. These men all had children, all of whom were younger than Maggie, but who she would hang out with anyways, because their fathers were so close.

There was Carl Lewis, the alcoholic drummers anorexic son; Estelle and Cayrn Marxstein, the bassists kids; Nickolette Deaconstrukt, the singers daughter; Sheekyennå Servetta, the lead guitarists daughter; and Tyenn Sharksfinn, the rhythm guitarists son. Maggie was closest with Ty and Sheekyennå – whom was mostly called Yenni, to make things easier- though Carl seemed to have a crush on her, and Nicki did seem to enjoy her company. She trusted Ty enough to pierce her lip and nose for her when she was thirteen – Ty had been hesitant, but had done so on the black-streaked brunettes express order. Yenni and Ty were both part Swedish, and mostly Scandinavian, both having ice-like blue eyes, though thirteen-year-old Ty’s always had this spark of warmth in them, in direct contrast to Yenni’s cold and bored stares. The bands producer and his daughter lived with Maggie and her father, sharing the large house and parenting together, thus thrusting a relationship upon Maggie and twelve-year-old Rickelle Tumbler, whom with a semi-agreeable peace was reached early on. Up the street from them happens to be a less-well-off family, with who lives 10-year-old Kort Zinedeaux, who likes to hang around with Cay, and with Ricki.

Also living on the street resides another group of children, who Maggie’s group seems to always have problems with. The biggest problems stem from what they all call The Fort Wars, a series of battles fought over different areas in the forest designated forts by both groups, and sometimes furnished. Fargo Jones, Carl’s cousin Samantha Lewis, Michael Pots, Shéyenno Amarth, Ken Russell, Melina King, Danielle Stuarts, David Capsicum, and Kanajima Riyo make up the children who always seem to be giving Maggie and her friend’s grief. I’ll get to them later.

Our story finds itself starting in late July with Maggie, Yenni. Ty, and Ricki in what was termed the “Chair Fort,” large in part due to the used recliner nestled beneath an ancient, gnarled Oak tree. Basically the only way to get into this fort is to take off your shoes and trek a little ways up the river, and its used mainly in the summer, or the winter when all the underbrush and poison ivy are dead and out of the way. Here had been dug a large pit in which they have fires in the early and late summer, often on weekends or nights when they had made a particularly good win against Sammy’s group. It was one of the few forts that remained hidden from the fort thieves – they were much to mundane to think of checking along the rivers banks, and never swam up quite so far as that. For them to stumble upon it would almost surely be an accident, in the event it should happen, and even then, the chair was usually covered in a bush that grew around its sides, and was able to be pulled back from the seat and turned into a reclining bush throne, easily hidden except in winter. It was pretty far out, though, and the likeliness of them finding it was always slim.

Ricki had ventured to bring a portable CD player, and Maggie had consented to allowing some of her vast collection of hard, angry music, as well as some of her equally vast collection of dance-inducing techno tracks, pulse-pounding electronica, and bouncing Euro-beats. Currently the ghetto blaster was pumping out a hip-to-the-jive electro-remix of some popular song past its prime, and Ty and Yenni were bopping about as Maggie watched from her brambles-and-leaves throne, like a queen. Ricki was down to her underwear, as it was scorching hot, and was swimming about in the middle of the river, destined for sunburn. Carl was supposed to be bringing something from his parent’s stash, this kind of booze, or that, and Nicki and Estelle – or Tel - were also supposed to be on their way as soon as they could. Carl always supplied to booze, despite being so young and small, because his parents were of the opinion that if he drinks under their supervision, its for the greater good, because at least he’s not getting arrested, or worse, out on the street. He was steadily on his way to becoming as heavy a drinker as both of them, if he kept drinking the way he was now, and Maggie knew it, but it wasn’t her decision to make, so she let it be.

It was already five in the afternoon, and with the longest day of the year just past, the days were getting shorter. She knew the others would be there, but she was getting edgy. Another month and school would be back in session, and she would be a sophomore in high school, joined by a freshman Carl, who started school a year early, and therefore was in high school as such. She adjusted her cut-sleeve plaid top, unbuttoning a few of the buttons, and pulled a pack of smokes out of her pocket – she got them from a friend, who bought them from a Native, who sold them in bags of two hundred. They usually went splits on a bag, and Maggie had a beat up old tin pack she fished out of someone’s purse at school and slapped a sticker on. In her other pocket was a blue dollar store lighter, which she replaced every month.

”Maggie!” Ricki called, splashing her way closer to the short, and wiping her dripping wet dirty blond hair from her eyes. “Come split that with me, babe!”

”You come here, you want it so bad, Ricki!” Maggie called, their shaky peace bound mostly in cigarettes, booze, and music these days – though mostly by their joint dislike of Sammy and her friends, and their efforts to defend their forts together. “I’ll share, but I ain’t movin’.”

”What? In my see through underwear?” She called back. “I don’t want Ty to see that.”

”Should’ve thought of that before you wore white underwear,” Maggie said, teasingly, “besides, its just Ty! He doesn’t care. Probably seen me like that a million times by now.”

”Haha…” Ricki said. “You’re a skank then.”

”Fuck you.” Maggie was not, in fact, a skank. She wasn’t prudish, either, but she didn’t mind being in her underwear, no matter how see-through, around close friends. Truth be told, she’d rather be seen like that by the people she knew and trusted, than by someone who just wanted to sleep with her. She had a habit of going way deeper into the forests certain nights and attending bush raves. She always got hit on at these, but she didn’t know any of the people there well enough to even think of having sex with them. Ricki knew that, and was just being a bitch. She was also laughing, and making her way over, so Maggie lit her smoke, the two Scandinavians ignoring them and continuing to dance.

As the two girls passed their smoke back and forth, taking drag after drag, Carl waded up the shallow part of the river, his shoes in his backpack, his pant legs rolled up. He smiled and waved to them, his rust-colored hair falling into his lime green eyes, a half-drunk and dopey smile gracing his lips. His freckled skin must have been lathered in the highest possible SPF, because he had his swimming shorts sticking out of his rolled up pants, and a towel sticking out of his backpack.

”I brought Irish Cream, and vodka’ n’ juice.” He said, as he walked up to the chair and let his backpack down next to it. “How’s the water?” He tipped the half-naked Ricki a wink before almost choking at the realization that she was in Maggie’s lap, a towel separating them, and a smoke going back and forth between them.

”Water’s fine, fire-crotch.” Ricki replied, nodding back. She knew about his crush on Maggie, but she wasn’t about to say anything. It would be fair to assume everyone knew, but it was one of those unspoken knowledge’s. “Jump on in. I’ll be in after this is dead.” She meant, of course, the cigarette.

”R-right.” Carl said, slipping his shirt off, and then his jeans. “Tel said she’d be here as soon as Nicki finished cleaning her room. So yeah, they’re coming together. Sadly the others can’t make it tonight… Although Cay says he might show up towards the end. He’s got soccer practice until eight.”

”Cool.” Ricki said, taking a drag off the smoke, before passing it back and giving Maggie kills. “Lets go in now. Why can’t Kort come?”

”Grandparent’s’re here for a visit.” Carl replied as the two of them walked towards the water.

”Ews.” Yenni said, her English not so great because she and Ty had grown up speaking Swedish. “Grand’s parents. Poor Kortz, should’s be here’s with us.”

”Ja. Well, can’t wins them all, huh?” Ty replied, switching the CD which had just ended.

”Not everyone’s grandparents suck, dumb-asses.” Carl said. “Mine are pretty awesome, actually. They like to give me money.”

”Ja, wells, you’re luckies, Carl.” Yenni said, boredom still icing her voice. “Mine gives me clothing’s I hates wearing.”

”At least’s yours gives you things.” Ty said. “Mine gives me nothings. Hates me and mine father, after’s mother died’s. Dads giving’s me everything’s, but stupid’s grand’s parent’s gives nothing, ever, evens Christmases.”

”Ahh, shuts up ands dance, Ty.” Yenni said. “Puts something’s on alreadies!”

Ty flipped Yenni the bird as he riffled through the CD’s, two of his mothers gold bracelets rattling around his wrist loosely. He cracked his neck and adjusted his gray-green tee shirt with the picture of a phoenix erupting into flames on the front, under which were the words “Immortal Reborn” in a block text that looked like there was a sandstorm blasting through it. He peeked over his shoulder at Yenni standing crossed armed and bored, and behind her Carl was splashing Ricki, who was running away, and back, the two eventually deteriorating into a water wrestling match – and of course, Ricki was winning because Carl was so much smaller.

Maggie, who had finished the smoke by now, stomped one skate shoed foot to the ground, adjusting her glasses. “Ty, put in the two dee three mix CD.” She told him, smirking. He nodded and flipped back to it. Maggie smiled, watching her friends, and an electronic R’n’B remix floated its way into the air around her, and she nodded her head along with it, her eyes closed.

-------------------------------

She must have dozed off, because she opened her eyes with a start as Tel an Nicki were there, and Nicki ha given her a big hug.
“Oh god, what time is it?” She asked. The sun had definitely moved since her eyes first closed. Must have been seven or so, she reckoned, from the shadows.

“Its probably about seven thirty… Wouldn’t you say, Tel?” Nicki said.
”Yeah, give or take.” She replied, looking to her watch. “I brought weenies and buns, and Nicki’s got chips, pop, ‘n some of those delightful little fruit things her parents always have sitting in a bowl on their table.”

”’Lee-chee,‘ or somethin’ like that.” Nicki corrected. “Love ‘em.”

”Yeah. The red ones ya have to peel,” Tel agreed, “with the big brown seed in the center… They’re all transparent and whitish and jiggly.”

Ty laughed. “Those tings are so strange…” He said, stopping dancing for a moment.

”But they’s amazingly good.” Yenni said, her hips shaking with the steady beat and tempo of the now slow-paced Middle East-inspired Euro dance track. “I’s impressed firsts times I tried’s them.”

”Ja. So good!” Ty grabbed the ever-bored girls wrist and pulled her close for a moment, before spinning her out and away from him. “Tastes likes… I dunno. Such odd flavors. Should’s makes a candies with that flavors.”

”Should’s makes candies with you’s brains.” Yenni said, not unfondly. She might as well have been belly dancing, the way her body was moving, arms an hips swaying as she turned and twisted. She grabbed Nicki by the hand, and the large, raven-haired girl began to move almost equally as gracefully as the miniscule blond.

”Good moves,” Yenni said, “you’s been practicing’s.” The two girls bumped hips every so often as they danced.

”I try.” Nicki replied.

While the two contrasting beauties danced, Carl made his way out of the water and back up to where Ty, Tel, and Maggie were discussing the strategy for retrieving control of the wicker fort, almost a mile back in the west from where they were now.

”We gotta get it back.” Maggie said. “We’re the ones who furnished that one.”

”How?” Tel replied. “We fortified it pretty well when we set it up.”

”Tellie, baby.” Maggie said. “We know all the key points of fortification, and we also know every weakness.”

”The vantages points from’s the west’s and south’s…” Ty said. “Little’s bit from’s the north’s. But the east’s weak’s to attacks. We could’s sneaks rights up on them’s, they’s never knows we’s coming if we’s avoiding’s makings noises.”

”We bring water balloons, walking sticks, rocks…” Carl added, not sadistically, as they’d been attacked with just the same in the past. “We could have that one back in no time… And we could refortify it with all-around vantage points, fix the visible weak spots,” he smiled, thinking it over and swaying just a little with the music, “and even the ones they might not think of. We could do it. No problemo.”

-------------------------------

The children went on speaking of weak spots, vantage points, and redesign plans for some time, until Cay showed up with the beginning of the setting of the sun, and Nicki and Yenni set to work finding underbrush and wood for a fire. There were plans to be made, situations to discuss, and weenies to roast, so they each got busy with one thing or another, and by the time the sun was gone from the sky, the fire was going, and they were seated about it happily chatting and preparing to eat. At the last second, barely audible over the sound of the music and their own voices, Maggie could hear the splashing of someone coming up the river quite quickly. She tensed, and hushed everyone, and a few seconds later Kort tripped over a root onto the riverbank. Maggie helped him up, wiping his messy brown Beetles-cut hair out of his eyes. Yenni stared coldly, but she was glad he was here. She nodded to Ty, who tossed him Ricki’s towel. Brown eyes met blue as they smiled at each other, and Kort explained, as he dried his feet and legs off, that his grandparents had gone to bed early, and he had snuck off as soon as he’d gotten a chance.

”Its not that I don’t like them – I love them, they’re great – but I wanted to be here.” He’d said, blushing just lightly in the firelight. “I didn’t want to miss anything important.”

They filled him in on their plans for the Wicker Fort, and someone gave him a weenie and a leche fruit, and they put on a Corralee Impaled CD, Nicki’s father doing the low, rumbling vocals over what started out as an industrial track, but soon turned into a combination of industrial and death metal. What was low and gravelly soon became dark and equivalent to a vocal earthquake. And as they laughed and ate, they had no idea the choices awaiting them in the not so distant future.

[Steve]

Huh... not quite sure what to make of it. I might have to wait for more...

For some reason I got a Bridge to Terabithia for adults vibe from this.

[Candice Dionysus]

Honestly, its not going to be like that. There's going to be a lot of them going make-believe, but for the most part its really going to be more about the characters, and how they deal with each other. I'm going more for reality, and less for fantasy with this one.

[Candice Dionysus]

The blue wave crested and drew back forty feet from the shore. She could see it from her window, atop the hillock to the west of the small beach and dock. The sun rose slowly from beneath the horizon, casting a misty grey light on the world outside her window. It was somehow bright and dark at the same time; the darkness and light merging, as if just for her.

Feeling compelled, she got up and quickly clothed herself in a long skirt and short sleeved blouse; the cotton of the skirt cooling her warm skin, the silken blouse caressing her gently. Yes, she would go for a walk on the beach this fine pre-dawn summer morning. It would make her feel good.

Her mind already half on the Yesod plain, she tip-toed her way down to the front door of the overgrown cottage, slipping silently through the quiet corridor. Then, as quietly as she could in her corybantic, half-dead state of mind, she unlocked and opened the front door. The fresh air hit her like the waves hit the sand, and she gently closed the door behind her, the soft click of the door in its frame telling her of her success almost silently.

The doctor said she was very ill, and her mommy had cried. Later, when mommy had told daddy, he’d put a hole in a closet door, out of both shock and anger. It wasn’t the ‘can’t sir,’ or the ‘tubel-roses’; it was something else. Something like ‘eights,’ only that wasn’t quite right. The doctor said, behind closed doors, that the ‘eights’ had caused her to get a cold, and the cold had progressed to ‘new moan ya,’ which might make her die, but right now she felt fine, good even. She knew she would die, but she was five, and she wanted to live the time she had left, not spend it in bed while mommy cried beside her.

The grass felt good between her toes; she missed the feeling after being in bed for a month. The grass turned to sand, and she giggled at the grainy, funny feeling she didn’t possess the vocabulary to describe. In her delirium she wondered if heaven would be like this wonderful, empty pre-dawn beach. She would love that.

She walked to the point where the water hit the sand, feeling the cold, soft water and surf lap lightly at her toes. She relished in the feeling of the surf. She looked over her shoulder, only for a second, at the empty concrete walkway that led to her house.

A fish jumped near-by, and she tilted her smiling, cherubic face towards the sound. The rocking Ocean roared and crashed, but she loved the sound, delighted in it so greatly. This place was hers, but she knew it was also Mother Natures, the Great Goddess’ world, just as much. That was alright, she didn’t mind sharing this place with the divine; it made her feel special. If all the fairy tales could be real, it still wouldn’t measure up to the secret, and unique feeling she had now, sharing the beach’s wonderful sights and sounds with her personal Gods. It was glorious, she felt magnificent, and having no sense of ‘blasphemy,’ she felt God-like herself. And she felt ready; ready to say goodbye to mommy and daddy, ready to meet her Gods, ready for a new adventure. And look; there was a nice old warrior man to show her the way.

She walked to him, taking his outstretched hand and looking up at him. Her smiling face locked eyes with his smiling face; he was an ancestor. The muscled, middle-aged mans blue-green woad tattoos showed gracefully on his chest, and he knelt down, his kilt touching the sand, to give her a silent hug.

“I want to say goodbye to mommy and daddy before we go,” she said. He simply nodded, and stood. They walked into the house, and she looked over her shoulder at the beach once more. She saw her self lying on her back at the edge of the Ocean where the water met the sand for a moment, and understood she couldn’t turn back. Though she had not felt herself pass over, she felt that it was probably best this way for her. That she had already been on the verge of death from the moment her eyes had opened that morning, she now knew, though how she did was unclear. Her ancestor held her hand tight, but not overly so, and she squeezed it, both sorrowful and serene at once.

They silently went up the stairs to her parents bedroom, and she kissed them both. Alice, her mother, woke up and saw her. She said something incoherent, then her daughter waved goodbye, and was gone. Alice got up, a little concerned, not bothering to wake Chester. She went into her daughters room, and the first thing she saw was through the window; her daughters small, crumpled body at the edge of the water. The sun was nearing the top of the horizon, and she screamed.

Candice Wozniak / Dionysus
April 15th, 07
11:06 PM
Barrie, Ontario

[Frunobulax]

The repetitious nature of The, There, She, A, etc. all bog down the story and wear out the reader. But other than that, it's an okay story.

[Candice Dionysus]

So I've updated the first post, you guys. Anyone with suggestions can PM me.

I just wanted to let you know this project hasn't died, but it has been a little revamped. It still needs a but of a jump start, but I'm doing a lot better than I thought I would mostly on my own.

[Candice Dionysus]

Prologue

Silanis quietly and thoughtfully traversed the streets of her hometown, Clover Hill. The young woman was coming from a friend Kaiana’s apartment in one of the ebendsahdc buildings, large, multi-level abodes, which housed many families. These were scattered through normal houses, and a few things like two schools, a market place, and city hall. Her house was in the Northeast end of town, and Kaiana’s building was just in the middle of the town. She was in the market place, and about ten minutes from her own house, which was right on the outskirts of the market place and had a storefront attached to it. The two girls had been working on a dress for Kaiana, a long gown for her to wear to her twentieth birthday dinner, an event to mark her full adulthood. It was coming along nicely, but Silanis had to be home for around sunset, and it was fast approaching. She herself was only eighteen, still a few years off from such an event, though she longed for it.

Shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other, her long brown hair getting caught under it, Silanis looked behind herself. Fixing her hair, she felt as though she was being followed, but there was no one else around that she could see. Just the same, she started to walk just a little faster. The townspeople she trusted, she had known them all her life, but if there was someone from out of town around, she didn’t want to take a chance in them being trustworthy. As she rounded a corner the toe of her boot struck a small metal object. Blinking to clear her vision just a little, she knelt down to pick up the box-like object to study it, her silver eyes catching the green of her gloves as she did so.

It was small enough she could fit it in her pocket and covered in intricate engravings of vines and flowers, a seam running through the middle as though it could open. Her fingers became just a little sore as she tried, and eventually she gave up. There were three buttons on the bottom, and an inscription on the top, but she wasn’t about to try to figure out what for while she was still out on the street. Something fell behind her, and she turned to catch a glimpse of something lavender zooming out of sight. Rather than follow it, Silanis took this opportunity to run quickly in the direction of her own home, slipping the small, ornate box into her bag as she did so.

Even in her rush she was able to note the beauty of the town at sunset; the purples, oranges, pinks, and blues all mingling and setting a mood of intense elegance upon the façade’s of each and every building, and especially among the quaint booths, tables, and small tents which made up the market place, and marked her very close to home.

Clover Hill itself was a fair-sized town, on the continent of Gandara. It was roughly one day on horseback from the ocean in the North, and just around eight weeks from the sea in the South. The sea in the West was about two weeks away, and the ocean in the East was roughly five. This meant that Silanis was at the top of the continent, and in the months of shorter days it never got quite cold enough to snow, though sometimes Silanis wished it would; she’d heard stories that it had done so in the past, and longed to see the snow, rather than just hear stories of it. The climate, it seemed, had gotten quite warm; indeed there was a sort of tropics in the ocean to the West, smaller then that of the Southeast, and everything was generally very warm on Gandara. Of course, Silanis had heard tell that it snowed in the South, but she had also heard that on the opposite side of the world the snow was heavy in the North.

Silanis had heard fantastical stories of Queen Hegunini of the Royale Mega-City, near the ByTalna cliffs of Hundr Buma to the East, who ruled a kingdom of snow. It was said that only the very bottom of her continent, near the bridge that connected Hundr Buma to Nylia below, was desert. This was the Skydragora, and it connected to the Kadragora at the top of Nylia. There were two other deserts on Nylia, the Wadragora and Fydragora, and on her own continent, Gandara, there was the Mandragora, on the other side of Lake Xodaik, of which a small river arose from under the ground about two miles East of Clover Hill, near the edge of the Sephirôt forest, of which the further East you got, the safer it became. It seemed there were creatures that stuck to the Western half of the forest, and even the hunters dared not go in except in great numbers with greater weaponry.

Finally Silanis came to her own house, making her way to the side door rather than going through the storefront that made up half their house. Letting her parents know she was home, Silanis entered her room and sank quietly into her bed, kicking off her boots so she could relax.

[Jean]

Little Princess: I put it on the Index as a novel, is that ok? or is it going to be something else?

[Candice Dionysus]

No, it is a novel. One I wrote when I was fifteen, and am in the process of completely re-writing.
Thank you, Jean.

[Jean]

I always like your writings. You sure can tell a story, and have a story to tell.