Nano day one

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Nano 2010 has begun… here’s my first scribbles.


 Dae was already betrothed, it was something I was trying to avoid thinking about but the truth none the less. Her one-day-to-be-husband stood across the gardens, playing with the ducks. It would have been funny if it wasn’t annoying. He reaches out and offers the ducks a slither of his bread, then runs yelling ‘catch me if you can’, of course the ducks give chase for a second then tire of the game. So he walks back, offering the bread again and waiting until he has their intrest before running off and cackling as they give chase. Actually after the first few displays the whole thing is just plain annoying.

Dae isn’t going to agree with me, she’s smothering giggles as it was, so I’m not going to bother expressing my thoughts on the scene. I looked instead over the white washed woodwork of our fathers entertaining patio. The delicate twirls of the banisters and the high beamed cieling. It’s a family pride and joy and the planned location of the wedding.

I feel stupid, even if I was staying I don’t want to get married. I don’t even want to think about romance and babies just yet. But because I can’t have the life my sister is planning I’m desperate for both these things. Is that even possible? To want and not want something with the same feriocity?

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This looks like fun, a windows program specific for writers… why wasn’t i told about this?

I’ll add my own pics and opinions as they formulate!




NaNoWriMo and Analia

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National Novel Writing Month


I just learnt about this one but i’m in. I’d love to drum up as many Aussies as possible, i think it’s a great idea and potentially loads of fun.

Have a look for me, i’m simply ‘cas’ and a part of the Australian group.

And here’s what i’m working on:

Saphryon is a ms i’ve been working on for a while and when i learnt of the NaNoWriMo i was still in the middle of editing and very much in ‘saphryon’ headspace which i don’t particularly want to get out of.

Analia is a character in Saphryon, she pops up at about page 60, disappears again and then pops back in for a page or two around page 240. Perfect.

Here’s the world from Analia’s point of view.

Her life has order, i’ll be skewed from ours and steeped in fantasy, but there’s a point and there’s a purpose and everyone sticks to that – rigidly. One child from each family dedicates 5 years of their lives, usually shortly after turning 11, to complete ‘tasks’ on the mountain.

The mountain is a combination of castle and battle field perched on the slope of the Misty Mountains, directly below the gateway between the immortal and mortal worlds. Szeins, or tasked, are required to complete all manner of duties from cleaning to cooking, caring for animals, hunting, smithing and so on. Five years of their lives is dedicated and then they’re free to leave or request a paid apprenticeship.

This all works in nicely with the medieval theme of the world in which Analia lives, however the fantasy side that Saphryon is steeped in isn’t as obvious in Analia’s life. Analia doesn’t have to deal with winged and armoured fighting immortals who kill anyone stupid enough to step too close – except their Riders.

However Analia does have to deal with the bullying and torment that has evolved in the place of learning and development that the castle and the Riders used to be all about.

It’s a darkness, like a curse, that’s seeping over the entire mountain, fueled by greed and lies and battles and enveloping Analia’s entire world.

Causing the rift between mortals and immortals to intensify, the mountain itself to fight back and all human existence, within the range of the mountain, to be destroyed…

“I’m a Szein, destined by my birth place in my family and by the realm i live in to serve on the mountain. As a small child I though that meant i’d be herding goats, a laughable idea really. The mountain is a word that literally means danger, and mystery and for many death.

The task with all the prestige around here is that of being a Rider. Few ask for it but the battle to gain enough merit to even dare approach the Riders Blade begins from the moment someone arrives here and it makes the rest of our lives hell.”

Venting… a short story.

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Let me tell you a story about an 18 year old girl,

hanging out and having fun with her friends. School was all finished, university was on the horizon and after a few drinks at the pub everyone strolled leisurely back to the redesignated after party destination.

The night was chilly, one of those nights where winter regained control from summer. There was a mix of friends, everyone knew each other and everyone was laughing. Light music played in the background and a blanket was dragged from one of the rooms to keep everyone warm on the trampoline.

Chinese whispers and wrestling matches keep everyone occupied and right around sunrise most people said their good nights and walked home.

Two people stayed, though one of them lived there so really it was only one hanger-on, just one girl who should probably have left but didn’t.

Two weeks later the little test had 2 pink lines…

na not really but it sounds more poetic that way doesn’t it? Four weeks later she was frantic out of her mind, blew off the guy she’d kind of been seeing for a week and went to see the doctor. The doctor could hardly control his look of disgust, the midwife seemed lost for words and there was not a hope a single soul was going to find out – just yet.

“There’s a bus leaving for the clinic [insert name of town two or three hours away] would you like a seat on it?” The doctor asked.

The girl shook her head, she was scared but abortion wasn’t on her list of solutions.

What next? Not crying was priority number one. Two select friends were let in on the secret but this was completly new ground for them all. They couldn’t offer any support or answers or help.

Telling the folks was a must – but not until after the 3 month mark. There was no way she was going through the pain of telling people only to miscarry and have to take it all back.

Three months passed in a state of absolute stress and like world war three the news enticed tears and shouts and disappointment from almost every member of the family.

Still no moment could compare to the seconds when the ‘babies father’ was told, burned into her memory with twinges of shame and complete dispair. Each syllable held such hope and yet granted nothing of the kind.

“I’m pregnant.” she said. His eyes lit up like he was being let in on some great piece of gossip. “it’s yours.”

He dropped his head in his hands, sitting on the crochet rug that covered his parents sofa. He wasn’t going to say anything, or do anything, he didn’t care about her but she failed to see this.

“No one else knows, i’ve told no one so you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” she handed him her number scribbled on a shred of paper, and left.

Of course he didn’t ring, he didn’t try to talk to her, and she formulated a plan to avoid ever having to disclose the fathers ID. Simple enough, she would say he was a sheerer – a travelling worker – she didn’t know his surname so how could she track him down? He had been kind and gentle and romantic and she didn’t regret it so she’d be able to run with this story for the rest of her childs life. Especially if the real father wanted nothing to do with them.

If only the real father had been kind or gentle or romantic or even worth the five seconds of her time – but as every girl knows only a handful of guys out there know how to be any of those things. She would even have settled for exciting and passionate sex but even that was out of the question.

She wasn’t even showing when the bullying began. Names shouted out at her in the street, accusations and whispered comments and blatant harassment. She was pregnant and everyone knew it. Not from her doing, obviously, and it didn’t take long to trace the source back to the biological father. He hadn’t cared enough to talk to her or discuss anything with sensitivity but he was quite happy to start the rumor mill and let the whole town know what he thought of her. Apparently she was ruining his life, she was lying trying to get money out of him and amongst the other threads of hatred and aggression the message was clear, she was in this alone.

Worse, he had stolen both of their ‘out’. Even those whom she could have successfully lied to believed the stories and rumours, they filled out the paperwork for her and she just watched, unable to correct the hurried scribbles of the babies fathers ID, unable to but in and say ‘it was a travelling sheerer, i’m not sure of his full name, they called him …..’ it was pointless. They knew the truth and the both of them had to ware it all because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He had to spread the misery around.

The midwife gave her a list of post natal depression symptoms and before the baby was even born she was beyond that. So ashamed she didn’t even want to be seen, so scared she refused to talk to people, she tried to hide her body and work though the days on the family farm, as far out of sight as possible. Her happiest pregnant moments were those living 50km from town on a little property with no phone, no tv, a wood fuel stove and one item of furniture – a foldout bed positioned in front of the lounge room fire. No one was there to point or yell or whisper. It was easier that way.

She knew she was condemned but she refused to hate the baby. That little 8pound bundle of joy was made to be loved, even if she was not made of love.

And the desperate vein of life’s own cruel twists is that no matter how far into the future it gets the small steps misplaced in those beginning months lead inevitably to a force of fate in at least 3 lives. She is doomed to bare the scars placed by the babies father and the constant reminder of his attempts to dominate in her life and the child who should have been loved from the beginning will never know a whole home, only pieces of the live she might have been granted.

In the mothers eyes it was never ment to be this way.

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Writing races…

watch this space for more of an update coz i don’t have all the details and right now i’m really tired *insert yawn*

But the gist

One forum, tues nights at 8, 9 if you have daylight savings, login and type your heart out. checkin during the hour to encourage others and report on your progress. try to beat your one high score and touch base with some aussie writers.

Any good?

Love it!


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I’ve been toying with the idea of a black light or uv tattoo for a while, Saphryon features the symbolism of tattoos and i’ve always been partial to being unique so the black light tattoo really appeals to me. I haven’t any of my own images so you’ll have to hit google to have a look but basically you can get them almost invisible (and that’s fine by me) but they glow under black lights.

I also love the look of writing tattoos but i’m worried about the words getting old too quickly, like when you love a song and listen to it to death then get over it and never want to hear it again.

So i’ve been working over a kind of writers promise, since it will be written on my skin permanently i thought that this is quite symbolic and being a writer has been a huge part of my life for so long that even if i grow out of it (yeah right), or give it up (as if), it will always be a part of me as a person and my past.

The Perfect Lullaby

Sweet dreams in scrawled lines of black ink and sanguinity  

The pure promise to own your thoughts and erase the boundaries

Dance with fate, seize the wisps of an idea at play

Innate love of truth in the dark lettering and etched notions

Raise your gaze to face each consequence and never forget

Of those that wish for a life they can not have few will rise

to the challenge of embracing now.

It will be tattooed in invisible ink so visible under black light and there will be a bit of a scar, i just have to strew over the words and make sure they’re perfect first.

Suggestions always welcome!

Saphryon’s ponderings

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Ever wanted to just drop off the face of the planet?

Yep? Well i know exactly how you feel. I just had my butt kicked in the arena, again, and whilst everyone else is enjoying lunch i’m stealing leftovers from the riders mess, again, and if i don’t hurry up and get my mile long list of tasks done i’m doing to get more than one swift kick and a few harsh words too.

Don’t even get me started on the harsh words, these people practically speak a different language half the time. Which is a blessing in disguise, the old ‘what you don’t know won’t hurt you’ thing. I mean i know they’re calling me some horrible stuff, but exactly what i don’t need to know.

And the few words i do know i wish i didn’t.

What i wish i did know is why? Why me, why now, why here and why like this.

Too many questions really.

And the thing is, i can’t answer any of them and i can’t just disappear. None of us can.

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