“A Teacher’s Revenge”

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The noise was incredible. Twenty-three hyped up eighth graders and one poor teacher with a migraine. Not good odds. Her hands felt tingly and so did her head. Light, like she was going to pass out, but too full to do that.

The kids just wouldnā€™t shut up. ā€œWill you just be QUIET?ā€ she screamed mentally.

And the noise stopped.

It wasnā€™t just complete silence. It was a profound silence.

Blinking, Melissa looked around at her class. Each and every one was totally silent, mouths closed, eyes open wide. Some with surprise, others with fear. She could see some of them trying to open their mouths and failing and the eyes growing wider still.

They couldnā€™t speak, none at all.

Could it be true?

Out the corner of her eye, Melissa saw a girl in the back jump up as if to bolt from the room.

Petrificus! Her mind leapt out before she even knew to think.

And the girl froze in mid-step!

So it was true! Finally! It was about time that Powers That Be lent teachers a hand.

Quietly raising a finger to do so, Melissa wordlessly mobilicorpusā€™ed the girl back into her seat. And there she stayedā€¦after Melissa petrificusā€™ed the entire class to their seats.

Then, picking up the book, she opened to chapter I and began to read.

ā€œWhen Jem was thirteen, he broke his arm badly at the elbowā€¦.ā€

The twelve pages of the first chapter flew by and Melissa even saw some students relaxing and beginning to actually listen to the story as she read and stopped in a few places to explain. She reminded them of their assignments and projects and when the bell rang for the end of class, she silently released the spells that held them and let them scamper away fearfully, not daring to open their mouths until they were out the door and casting glances back at her as they went. They were probably afraid that sheā€™d turned them into something next. She was sure they were all vowing to never return to that classroom and they would tell everyone they knew. That was fine.

Who would believe your teacher was a REAL witch anyway?

“So I Fall in Love with Novel Characters…”

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…don’t judge me!

Why is it that Mercedes Lackey is so talented at writing male characters that just make me swoon? Lately, it’s the re-emergence of Robin Goodfellow (Puck) in her newest Elemental Masters novelĀ Home From the Sea, along with a new character by the name of Idwal, an Elemental creature himself, though nowhere near as powerful as Robin, who is the Oldest Old One on land in all of Britain.

When we first met Robin was way back in the bookĀ Wizard of London, technically book #5 of Elemental Masters series, but what began as my FIRST foray into this beautiful world. I have been pulling memories and associations from it as I read the other books ever since. InĀ Wizard, our main characters Sarah and Nan were but little girls and so Robin appeared to them as a winsome, mischievous boy, a playmate. Now that they are grown, like Aslan, he appears to have grown with them. Of course, Robin can appear anyway he pleases, but he chooses to match their age, perhaps a little older, in order to keep his friends comfortable. I love the image of him appearing and greeting the girls with arms held open and kissing the tops of their heads when they run to embrace him. There is something alluring and tantalizing about him, while at the same time, utterly ungraspable. His almost-unflappable good nature makes me smile constantly, as does his fierce loyalty towards and protection of the girls.

I suppose that is part of what would make him dangerous: the ability to easily fall in love with him, fickle and flighty Old One that he may seem to be. The tingle of magic is around him, the aura of Summerland, the power of the Oldest Ones. But, overall, he is kind, he is merry, he is friendly, and he is loyal and those are beautiful traits.

Then there is Idwal. Idwal is an elemental creature and holds the titles of mage, Druid, and teacher. He is the consummate teacher: patient, kind, understanding, and knowledgeable. He listens to questions and answers them wisely, explaining details and rewarding hard work and deep thought. His nature is calm, joyful when his student excels, and caring of their well-being. Idwal would be the kind of man that I could enjoy being around, talking to, and learning from. He has a very pleasant nature, though he will call a spade a spade if you are being deliberately foolish or ridiculous.

Lackey has a wonderful, beautiful ability to create these male characters for whom I can instantly come to feel something, often something deep and abiding that lingers and brings me joy when I see those characters once more. I enjoy her female characters, most definitely, root and cheer for them. But it’s those few guiding males that I often pay more attention to, as their work goes on behind the scenes in order to strengthen and help the female lead(s). It is a gorgeous talent and, for that, I thank you, Mercedes Lackey! ^_^

Link:Ā http://www.mercedeslackey.com/books/elemental8.html

“Yes, another post about roleplaying”

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So the other night, in an online/live action X-men game that I play, my character set about comforting another PC who had been to emotional and mental hell and back during a live game session a few days before. And I have to admit that dear little Delilah did a pretty good job at comforting her distraught classmate without a single set of dice being thrown for skills or anything. *is rather proud of this fact* The scene was incredibly fun to run and was with someone with whom I do not get to play very often, which is always fun. šŸ™‚ The player also gave me noms (nominations) for the scene:Ā “Noms to Cheshire. It is almost insane how good a mom you’ll make someday.”

Delilah Croft, codename: “Cheshire” – illusionist

That made me feel nice. I do try to transfer my own mothering instincts into the character of Delilah/Cheshire, Ā as not many of my characters actually end up embodying that trait. She has walls, she can have a very prickly, cold nature if you’ve crossed her, but for those who manage to get through (over) the walls, if she has come to care for you, woe betide anyone who falls afoul of you and therefore afoul of her. Delilah is also one of those characters who embodies her fair share of bitterness. Almost all of my characters have a bitterness seed somewhere; something happened or been done to them that they will be working for years to overcome. Some of my characters have a seed of fear because of what they have done in the past or because of what they have lost. I almost cannot bear to have a character for whom all is perfect and hunky-dory, because then the character feel flat and false to me. Incomplete, as it were. I want my characters to be round and dynamic.

Now, my Hogwarts character, my little Ravenclaw, has had a better life than most of my characters and why not? Her generation hasn’t had to deal with the evils and terrors of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. They have become nightmare tales for her, told to her by her uncle Kingsley when he trips across the pond to visit her and her parents. That doesn’t meant that I’m going to leave my little Dulcet so porcelain perfect. Oh, no. She’s a teenager; things are bound to happen, as we all know.

The hubby and I were having a conversation the other day about roleplay characters and how people create them. I was getting fed up with something and he commented to me, “You know, I think we all create the same characters over and over again, just with different quirks to them.” That we all have essentially one idea that we are in love with and, no matter how many times we create characters and try to make them different and unique (thought they are), they will carry a bit of that beloved idea with them. Because that beloved idea is a part of us or perhaps something we wish was a part of us or that we could be.

Some people denegrate roleplaying as merely escapism and, yes, it can be a method of escapism, of getting away from the real world into one where you can do impossible things from time to time. But that is not allĀ it is, I can assure you of that. For me, roleplaying games are a blessed opportunity to create a beautiful story with other people. And I have done just that. I have created beautiful, heartbreaking, uplifting stories with friends, my husband, and even new acquaintances that make me cherish characters and hold them to me long after their stories have ended. For me, much as for Jo March, it is theĀ story that is the thing. I will put my characters through the worst I can think of, if it serves to create a wonderful story. Ask just about anyone that I have rp’ed with in the past and they can confirm my claim. If I can create a beautiful story, whether happy ending for my character or no, then I have served my purpose and my joy in roleplay.

And, what can I say? I’ve got a few more years of this left in me, at least. ^_~

“On Lullabies”

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I love lullabies! Absolutely adore them. This stems from my mother singing to me every night when I was a little girl; it was the only way I would go to sleep: if my mother laid in the bed with me and sang “Jesus Loves Me” and patted me gently until I feel asleep under the gentle hum of her voice and touch of her hand. I knew I was safe, I knew I was loved. And, over the years, I have collected lullabies to sing to myself and, now, to my child when it is born. My favorites include:

“Jesus Loves Me” (children’s Bible hymn)

“Baby Mine” (Dumbo,Ā sung by Allison Kraus)

“Stay Awake” (Mary Poppins)

“Distant Melody” (Peter Pan play)

“In My Own Little Corner” (Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella)

Dumbo and his mother as she rocks him to sleep.

And the hubby has also added a few of his own favorites lately, namely: “Rainbow Connection” (The Muppets) and “You’ll Be In My Heart” (Tarzan, bluegrass version).

To me, lullabies are tangible love. To sing them, to give of your voice to a little one or just someone who needs it at the moment, is an act of deep love, I believe. Lullabies are not necessarily something that you do out of habit. I think that it is a learned behavior. Little children learn it from parents, grandparents, nannies, older brothers and sisters, daycare teachers and pass it on to sleepy dollies and drowsy cats and dogs. I have already begun singing to our child. So far, “Baby Mine” is my favorite and I’m pretty sure that my mother will use “Jesus Loves Me” with her grand-punkin just as she did with me. Even to this day, when my mom sings “Jesus Loves Me”, it makes me tear up.Ā The hubby will sing “Rainbow Connection” because it has a special place in his heart.

Singing soothes me, calms me, and I only hope that it will do the same for my little one.

Daily-quasi Writing – 7/2/2012 – “The Joys of Organization”

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My new fridge calendar. Yay for organization!

So, this past week, I bought a hanging file for our fridge for our bills, as well as a monthly calendar, to get ourselves all organized and to keep things in order. I’m already pretty organized as a person but I figured that we can always be more so, especially since we are going to be parents in December.

I find a particular joy in organization and paperwork, in filling out my bills and knowing that they are taken care of. I love to be able to find all my appointments at a glance, to be able to see my obligations and plans all in one space. I love having everything in its place and tidied away. I feel a particular type of triumph at being able to fit all my books somewhere on my shelves, getting my laundry folded and put away. There’s Ā a sweet satisfaction in a tidy and orderly house that I can’t quite explain Ā but it’s there. I remember when I was in graduate school, on Saturday mornings, I would throw my windows open to air our my room and clean – sweep, dust, Febreeze, do laundry, and tidy up. It just made me feel wonderful and accomplished to be able to take care of my life and my living space, and it still does now. As a wife, I do enjoy taking care of our home, making sure everything is where it should be and yet reasonablyĀ find-ableĀ when it’s needed. I mean, how would the hubby get along without me, since I know where everything is?

Today is a day for rediscovery it would seem

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This was writtenĀ for those who still seek to ‘protect the princess’. With gratitude.

Born in the wrong century, he says.
No, I don’t think so.
The days of dragons and their taste for damsels may be gone,
But the world still needs the knight.
Instead of castles, you’re given dorms, apartment buildings.
Instead of horses, compact sedans.
Instead of a sword, you have a pen,
Or maybe an umbrella.
Times do not change, an old man said,
Only the details do.
Someone always needs to hear, “You’re beautiful.”
Someone will always be there to say, “Thank you.”
Chivalry is measured in the strength of your heart,
Not the size of your arm.
Sure, some will laugh and not understand.
But, for each of them, there’s one who will be swept away
And restored by a kindly act, a genuine word.
Epics are lived every day, the hearts of damsels saved every moment.
No, you were born in exactly the right century
With the perfect frame of mind.
Just a damsel’s word, take it for what it’s worth.

MGS 11/2004

June 26, 2012 – Poetry repost

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Now, honestly, I don’t read a lot of Harlem Renassiance poetry but this one is just lovely in how it’s written, I think. šŸ™‚ I can just see it in a little girl’s scrapbook or something.

“To a Dark Girl”

I love you for your brownness,
And the rounded darkness of your breast;
I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice
And shadows where your wayward eyelids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk,
And something of the shackled slave
Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow’s mate,
Keep all you have of queenliness,
Forgetting that you once were slave,
And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

The Sweatshirt – written summer 2005

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Author’s Note: This was written the summer after Ben and I started dating and we were apart for four months, him here in Indiana and me with my family in the Cayman Islands.

 

Itā€™s just an old sweatshirt, red and well worn, emblazoned with his alma mater. It fits him and swallows me whole but is always comfortable. Just a sweatshirt. Thereā€™s nothing really special about it. Wait! Thatā€™s a lie. Itā€™s his. I wonder if he realizes, if he knowsā€¦?

ā€œTake it with you so youā€™ll have something of me this summer,ā€ he said, after I had already informed him of my intention to do so.

I hate summers. I hate being away, being apart.

I wonder if he has any idea of how many kisses are being held for him by that shirt? Iā€™ve lost count myself, but itā€™s at least four a day. At least! My day begins and ends with kissing that shirt.

I have slept with it each and every night, beside me in the bed. A poor substitute for the man I miss. Its sleeve lies thrown across my tummy, just as if he held me while I slept. Every night, without fail. I wonder if he could imagine me glaring around my room angrily the day I came home to find that the shirt had been moved from my bed to my rocking chair?

I wonder, does he have any concept of how many tears lay dried upon that shirtā€™s sleeves, shoulders, and flaking white lettering? How many nights itā€™s heard me sob for God to let him know how much I miss him. How much I love him.

Sometimes, I wonderā€¦can he have any idea how comforting it is to wrap him around me, even though the shirt stopped smelling solely of him weeks ago? I wonder if he could envision my joy at burying my nose in it and smelling his scent layered beneath mine?

This sweatshirt has become the dowry box for my hugs, its battered shape cuddled with when I become lonely or feel sad. If this old shirt could talk, it could tell him so many secrets and tales of my days without him. This sweatshirt could tell him, ever so much more eloquently than I, just how much I love, adore, and cherish him.

But, no. It will never talk. Never tell those secrets. It is just an old, red sweatshirt after all. But itā€™s his.

Descriptions – written April 2, 2003

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Some of you may have seen these before but they remain some of my favorite writings. I need to expand upon them, I think. šŸ™‚

 

1.

She smells like sweet musk and cigarette smoke, pungent and lovely with a tint of ashy rot. She is the epitome of artsy, wrapped in the aroma of white chocolate caramel cappuccino. Her clothes are unassuming, random pieces pulled together in a style that fits only her.

Her voice is soft velvet, always pondering, brooding. A pen is poised between her fingers like a cigarette of ink and plastic as she voices her opinions, clearly aloud. The sound of her voice is intelligently soothing, her pursuit of knowledge beautifully calming.

 

2.

He looked like Irish mist and sunshine, a body slender like a kendo stick, with strength to make you weep.

A man of many voices, yet what fits is the springy lilt of the Emerald Isle, comforting and sweet. Like your favorite storyteller reading your favorite book while you are cuddled in bed beneath your favorite blanket.

His stature is comfortable, somewhat approachable; his voice warm, laced with laughter.

 

3.

Eyes like thunder and feathers, hands like brick mortor and lambā€™s wool. He speaks of freedom, not flippantly like most of this world, but seriously. Serious as death. But this freedom means slavery. No, not slavery. Servanthood. Enslaved to love by my own choice. Not a doormat but a wash-cloth. Not a spine of jelly but a basin of water. Not slavery but servanthood.

 

4.

She is brutally honest but awfully kind, the strongest woman that I know. If not the strongest, then the wisest, If not the wisest, the cleverest. If not the cleverest, the most devoted. If not the most devoted, the kindestā€¦for she cared for me. She is a child of nature with a flair for the dramatic. Not gorgeous but the most beautiful woman I know. Her huge are like being submerged too deep in the ocean, and I love them. Her kisses speak words language never knew, and no one ever defended her little freshmen so valiantly and stalwartly.

She begs of me not to put her on a pedestal yet my love fashions a small one against my will. One where I can still reach my arms up and wrap them around her tight. More of a footstool.

 

5.

Sheā€™s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; kind of spicy along the edges. Sheā€™s secretly creative and, at times, creatively secretive. She can bite your head off one second and smooth away your troubles the next. Sheā€™s better than a diary because she doesnā€™t only listen; she talks back, too. She has strength beyond imaginings, yet goes weak at the sight of her daughter. Sheā€™s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; but just a tad spicy along the edges.

 

6.

The ghost of Tolkien, Beowulf, and Sigurd walks around in daylight. A laugh incomparable by dwarvish jests and love of books long enduring. He is like a wizard summoned for the Fifth Age, to lead and teach until his task is done. He has all the time in the world and a heart to outlast it all. A Maiar in tweed.

 

7.

A soul of fire, a mind of sharpened edge. A secret world held in her mind, of detail and depth incomparable. A hand gentle yet strong to grasp the sword and skillful with pen.

I love her presence, her laugh like a Highland song. An old soul full of memory of beauty. A bard of myth. She searches for voices from the past, listening to the tales they tell. She learns from the previous generation to pass it on to the next. A scholar and warrior, comforter and commander. Her heart speaks with a voice beyond her years, with a voice beyond time.

Quasi-Daily Writing – June 20, 2012 – “Idyllic Dreams”

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Iā€™m sitting here in the den with the window open, listening to the early Morris Street morning. Itā€™s quiet, calm, peaceful. How could I want to live anywhere else? Some of my friends love the crush and bustle of city life, but there is no way I could do that. Cities make me feel small and closed in, insignificant. Yes, I am a person who likes to be able to fade into the background and observe, but I want that to be my choice, not a reality by bent of where I live. The sounds of the city crowd in on my ears, distract me, turn me about. The wind tunnels they become in the winter bowl me over. The anonymity by necessity makes me feel isolated. Now, please donā€™t misunderstand me. Cities have their very, very good points, too. Museums and shopping malls and wonderful places to discover to eat. And friends, donā€™t forget friends. But itā€™s not for me. I learned this rather quickly. I need a touch of country somewhere.

Ben and I were driving through Randolph County one lovely afternoon and, as I looked out over the burgeoning cornfields, the rippling wheat, and the treeline beyond ā€“ so much green! ā€“ I thought to myself, ā€œThis is what I always wanted.ā€ And I did. The beauty and idyllic peace of ā€˜country lifeā€™ is something I dreamt of constantly as a child growing up in the Caribbean. I wanted gardens full of flowers, birds singing in the trees, butterflies in the daytime, and fireflies at night. And I have that now.

Treaty House at Story Inn (Story, Indiana)

We spent our honeymoon and fifth wedding anniversary at the Treaty House in Story, Indiana. Now, seriously, you can hardly ask for my idyllic than Story. No TV, no radio, no cell phone reception, up in the hills of southern Indiana. In the spring and early summer, it is just wonderful! Quiet, beautiful, the air still enough to hear the horses nickering in the nearby fields while the fireflies flit by your head. One of my favorite things was just to walk along the road there with Ben in the late evening, holding hands and reveling in the whispering roar of the leaves rustling overhead like ocean waves, the clean breeze, and the oncoming night as the fireflies began to wink into being. Needless to say, I love it there and plan for us to go back for our tenth anniversary and as many as we can handle after that.

Here, at home, I still have the idyllic. There is a huge oak tree in our backyard that overshadows a swingset left behind by the previous owners, where we have hung a bench swing. Itā€™s perfect on cool evenings, to sit out and listen to the noise of the tree die down as children are bustled inside for dinner and evening tv, though during the summer, ā€œcome inside timeā€ does get later and later. We also have a firepit out back that can make for some very romantic and reflective evenings.

Every little girl wants a cottage of her own some day.

Even though I live ā€˜in townā€™, I still have that country loveliness I always dreamed of. All thatā€™s missing most of the time is a proper, hobbitish sort of dress for me to wear. Because, of course, my dear friend Courtney and I fully intend on someday retiring to a lovely little English country cottage some day. With a darling garden for us to sit and Courtney will teach me to make the perfect loaf of bread. You know, like you do. šŸ™‚