City of IF

[dinranwen]

This a pilot story to see if I can sneak into the proverbial backdoor of If. So NO BALLONS, EXPLOSIONS (OR EXPLODING OBJECTS), NO PARTIES, NO DEATH THREATS, AND NO HIDING IN DEEP HOLES WHILE MOANING IN DESPAIR. Thank you.

A few notes: This story is a continuation/possible sequel to [url=]Tear Strung Lyre[/url], so while this story will be entirally readable by itself, you may want to read Tear Strung Lyre before reading this story. Comments and Critics of both Tear Strung Lyre, and this story are welcome and encouraged.

I’ve decided in my complete and utter insanity to run this story as a linear story, so I can update it at my own pace, and if something disastrous happens such as me being found in ally somewhere in a definite non-living state, no one will be disappointed.

However since I have been hitting the proverbial writers brick wall since trying to write this story for a year, I will be putting up polls, asking opinions, and generally being a giant pain in the you know what.

Preview, and Prelude to What Maiden is This to follow shortly. First Chapter will appear as soon as its written, when its written, and no sooner. *smiles* And anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with the compliant department.

Enjoy or else.

Snickerdoodles,

Dinranwen

~~ ~
What Maiden is This? The Continuing story of the Unamed Maiden, older sister of Lyra, Undead Widow of Saul, and Aunt and Surrgotate Mother to Lyra and Saul’s only son.

Prelude Taken from the Epilogue of Tear Strung Lyre

Reason to Live

It seems strange how things can change in someone's life in such a short time. Yet it had happened. Her life had changed, and she didn't know if it was for better or worse, she didn't know yet but her life had change.

Lifting her dark green eyes up to survey the green land of Gilead, the older sister of Lyra lifted her small squirming burden as she walked down the road wondering what would become of her. Behind her, the green expanse of Enlyia stood tall and proud the green branches of the trees standing next to rivers edge and pressing against the bridge she had just crossed sighed in the wind causing the trees to sing an old song, a melody of memory that the maiden knew she would never forget. Part of her longed to go back, to find the haunts of old, to make somehow, yet she knew she could not. The Priest of the Enlyian church that she had so blindly followed for many years had seen to that. For with her younger sister’s, Lyra’s, death, the vow the maiden had taken on the day of her marriage with Saul were broken, and she had died also in the eyes of the Church, the History books, and all the people of Enlyia, even her family. She had been marked as one who though breathing, living, and eating was dead. Her dark chestnut brown hair that once had flown down her shoulders had been shorn short, leaving a ragged edged that came just to the top of her ears. A black veil embrodied in a darker black with elaborate Enlyian curses of the living dead covered her head, its length marking where the end of her hair had once been. On her wrist, cruely placed by a blacksmith was a cuff with a small circle where the chains of the guards who had ‘seen to her safe travel out of the country’ had once been connected, the chain was gone, the cuff with its complex lock would not be removed from her wrist save by another blacksmiths mercy. A chain to cry out that she was considered a criminal in the eyes of her country. Finally on her right hand and her forehead, black ink permentally inked upon her flesh carried the symbols of her sins saying for all who could read Enlyian script: Cursed, Death, Adultress, Blasphiemer. No there would not be a return to Enlyia, the maiden thought turning from the sight of the trees of her home, turning instead the green grain the lined the dusty road of the Enlayian countryside. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted the sleeping child in the pack on her back, and strode down the dusty her road, her mind deep in thought.

There was much to consider.

In one short year of her own life, the maiden experienced her sister's marriage and death, married Saul herself, become an Aunt, lost her own life in Lyra's only to regain it again. The church despite all they had taken, had given her something too. Upon giving her sister’s son, they had given her all that was his that the Enlyian church had found worthless themselves. A scroll with a wheat colored seal with the imprint of a crying horn filled with golden grain, the strange script of Gilead written on the inside of the roll. The maiden knew not what she bore, but it was Lyra’s son’s possession, and she find out one way or another if the roll contained something valuable that she could give the small boy of two who hardly spoke and whose nights were haunted by nightmares that made the child whimper with fear. A second roll she carried also in a script the maiden could clearly read, a roll precious because it was written in the hand of Lyra, her sister, and contained the last message the Lyra had dared to hope her older sister would one day read.

To be honest, she was just a little overwhelmed by it all.

Another thought struck her. Who was she anyway? Twenty years of her life had been consumed with the knowledge that she was a mistake before the marriage of her parents, a living proof of their own disappointment, and as a result second best to her sister who marked their accomplishments, their joys, and happiness. Then in what seemed like a year that lasted forever, she had become someone, she had become her sister. In becoming her sister, she had forgotten herself.

Now with her sisters death, and in a strange way, her own death, she had lost the only identity she had ever really enjoyed, the identity of being someone she wasn't.

So who was she?

According to the church, she was nobody, she was dead to them, and infidel to boot.

Thinking about was enough to make her cry. In fact it reminded her of an old poem her mother often song to her at night,

On the Lyre of Life,
Carefully Strung,
Are the Tears our Hearts have wrung,
Tears of Joy,
Tears of Sorrow,
But grievous of all,
Tears that but hung,
In our eyes unshed,
Unwept, Unsung,
Yet still hanging there,
Only in our souls,
Doth do they seep,
For some pains are yet to deep.

The jest of the poem was to forget, to hide everything, and never bring up old memories. Somehow the maiden knew that this wouldn't work for her.

Of course, she could always look at it the other way. While she had may have lost everything, including herself, she had gained something without price.

She had gained a nephew, and in a strange way a son.

In her arms, smiling with wide eyes for once, a beautiful brown haired green eyed toddler laughed at her as she smiled back at him. Looking upwards, she silent thanked her Savior above for this small bright eyed gift, smelly diapers and all, for this little boy was just what she needed to keep her smiling if only for his sake.

For the knowledge of a Father above, a child below was enough to give this maiden two very good reasons to live.

Humming under her breath, Lyra continued down the dusty road, hoping the future would be kind.

[dinranwen]

I'm begining to hate this story, and the more I read of it, the Story before it. And to be truthfully honest, all the stories I've ever written here and otherwhere. I've recently discovered that as a writer I have a trait that I abousutely detest in writers, and if I were to read my own books as if I hadn't written them in the first place, I would read one book and give up the author out of disgust. My reviews of my own work would probably read somewhere along the lines of "Unimagintive, booring, predictable, and in everyway unsurprising from any other book of this genre. Boringly typical with absouletly no redeming qualities."

Quite frankly I'm disgusted with myself. Oh, I'll write this alright, and finish what I've started but it doesn't mean I have to like it.

So in case you wondering what's taking me so long its because I'm just so disgusted with my typicalness I have take gag breaks just to wade through the process of writing it.

I'm wracking my brain to find one small way to have one half-way decent story quality to it, so it may take awhile before the first chapter appears.

In the meantime, if you can offer any advice, I would appreciate it.

Basically I have 2 problems,

Predictability (Unimagitive to the point of I rather kill myself then read this)

and the fact that this story if truth will be told will/is a Romance to the Stero-typical T. Not only do I hate reading romances, hate romance in general, but I'm completly lacking the writing finesse to make the romance even romotely interesting.

Chapter 1 is halfway done, and with any luck I may have it done, edited, redone, edited, spell-checked review, and will release it any despite its faults by sometime in March.

[Christalnightshade]

you don't have to rush, this is your story, Din. If you want to make something different which you wouldn't detest, it would be good if you add some strange characters into the story, in which you can misuse their past, which your main character has to find out for herself. A few tips... that's all... I think that you can do well with this story, it doesn't have to be exciting aslong as it has a lesson inside it and a few strange characters. Plus, I also hate my stories, mainly becuase my stories are boring my readers, they don't just want to read everyday life, but something strange in it, mystery and a bit of impossible in it. So you don't have to feel so alienated from many others... ^.^ I'll help critiqueing this story and push your hopes up...