I know it’s not Christmas yet, but, we’re already singing Christmas songs in choir, and…
CAROL OF THE BELLS BY TRANS-SIBERIAN ORCHESTRA IS THE BEST CHRISTMAS SONG EVER!!!! (I think the technical name for it is
Christmas in Sarajevo but I usually just call it Carol of the Bells)
And, not surprisingly, Carol of the Bells is simply one of the coolest Christmas songs out there. And we’re singing it in choir. Yay! ^.^
*ahem* Anyways…
I feel like such an idiot. Yesterday I thought I was getting out of taking the chem. test b/c I had to go down to the fire department for Junior/Senior sports pictures (
in the freezing cold, with a wicked wind, and I had to stand
on top of a firetruck,
in a t-shirt, and try to strike a pose for the camera. And I can’t “strike a pose” under
normal conditions…)…but then, last night, I realized that the test wasn’t until today anyways…-.- so I’m actually kinda considering studying for it today…
You
must read the fanfic “Shades of Truth”. Do it. Now. I command you!! It is…sheer brilliance. It is beautiful! It is heart stopping suspence! It’s not finished yet, but I love it! (And since I’m at school, I can’t post a link but just go to
FanFiction.Net and search for it) It’s about Seto and Mokuba…and its...
Well…here…this was me last night:
*reading*
*laughing at funny part*
*on edge of seat*
O.O *gasp*
But seriously, to me, a good story is one that creates a strong emotional response in me…and believe me, I have a STRONG emotional response to it…and the writing is beautiful. Go! Read! NOW!
And while you’re in a reading mood, please read this to, and tell me what you think. I would really appreciate comments that show what I can make better.
Tatsu no Otoshigo
~prelude~
A human form slid silently through the still house, blending seamlessly into the shadows except for the long strands of pale hair that fell from her head. One hand clutched a crisp, white envelope, wearing into it the creases and folds of use. Night had laid its sleepy veil over the house, and nary one but her moved.
If one had seen her, they most likely would have concluded that she was a robber, or worse, murderer, intent on carrying out some malicious deed that would never leave the dark clutches of night. Indeed, the inhabitants of that invaded house would have thought so, as they had been there once before.
But the pale-haired one, slipping through the house as little more than a ghost, carried no malice, no death with her. No…not this time.
What she wanted – what she needed – was atonement. Something she didn’t feel she deserved nor would ever receive, but she strove for nonetheless.
Many slips of paper lay inside that crisp, white envelope, most being of the kind that was green and could be used for payment. Possibly more important, though, was the last slip of paper. Once a mere piece of crisp, plain white paper, lines of wear and lines of ink had been inscribed on it, the only survivor of a mass of other slips of paper that had been crumpled and thrown away as the one had searched for just the right words to say. The right words to say what she felt, how deeply sorry she was…
This was the last home, and the most important. Maybe that was why she wandered about, catching glimpses into the lives of its inhabitants. As she moved down a hallway, she could hear the steady even breaths of sleep. A young teenage boy lay sprawled across his bed. Younger was the girl curled up in the adjacent room. And, at the end of a hallway, a woman slept alone…in a bed meant for two.
The pale-haired one hesitated at the entrance to the room. Her body quivered slightly, as if shivering from some unknown breeze. And then, slowly, cautiously, she crept forward and laid the envelope on a nightstand.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered, and fled into the silence of the night. She stopped once, on a wooden deck connected to the back of the house. She could smell it. Maybe it was more memory than reality, more feeling than smell, but to her it was very real. The smell of death…
She fled from it.
I’m sorry…
But, even there, in the silence of the night, someone was waiting. Someone who did not wish her to flee, but rather, to embrace.
