From Under the Salt-Mango Tree

Sun, 04 Feb 2007 22:21:38 GMT

In need of help from my flist again since my imagination is out of minutes:

What are two things that would look erm...interesting together when combined? For (a lame) example, a cat and a tomato = cato.

*stabs chemistry*

Another poem. Kill it.

EDIT: OHMYGOD, this is the best day this year! NO SCHOOL (for the first time in a century - read: 3 years)! WOOT! *bounces*

*changes mood* ;)

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 01:10:35 GMT

View Poll: #908212

I am turning senile like my FST teacher. Joy. *stabs exam prep*

Beta, por favor?

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 21:14:00 GMT

*facepalm* I must stop the insomnia.

So, as you may or may not have noticed, I'm in need of a beta. This is a Remus fic, a little under 1000 words, in which Remus is very melodramatic and teetering into the kingdom of OOCness, and that frightens me a bit. General, a kind of light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel fic as is typical for me.

And keep away, avendya, since this is for you ;) (And it may take a few eons for you to read it, as I will probably go insane with self-depreciation and treading above par).

If you'd like to help a procrastinating teenager who wrote this somewhere between the hours of 12:30 and 2:30 last night and has a severe comma disorder, please direct a message to my PM or e-mail. Or you could comment here, which would be plus simple, but of course I didn't think of it the first tme around.

Danke =)

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 02:17:05 GMT

I find it hilariously ridiculous that I spend more time trying to do my online duties when I'm taking time off rather than when I'm just around normally.

*stabs studying*

/ possibly Kal's shortest post ever

Edit: Poetry updates can be found at lastescapade. (2 new poems: Tea and Prelude to "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" )

Comment, s'il te plait. =)

Tue, 12 Dec 2006 02:23:52 GMT

Stop laughing if you've seen my failed attempts to pin up a Christmas stocking. Laughter hurts. Especially when I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong!! All you have to do is bloody copy-and-paste, right? Well, my LJ doesn't seem to agree...

*mutters*

(Er, this is a desperate plea for help in case you think I am simply ranting).

<table border=0 cellpadding=1 cellspacing=0 width=402><tr><td bgcolor=green align=center><font color=white face=Arial>Xmas Stocking</font></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor=green><table border=0 cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 width=400><tr><td bgcolor=white><table border=0 cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 width=400><tr><td><img src='http://xmas.combatcards.net/images/top.gif'></td></tr><tr><td><img src='http://xmas.combatcards.net/images/25/25760.gif'></td></tr><tr><td><img src='http://xmas.combatcards.net/images/bottom.gif'></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor=red align=center><font face=Arial color=white>leave a gift for xkalhonaaho</font></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor=green align=left><font face=Arial color=white><form method='post' action='http://xmas.combatcards.net/addgift.php'><input type=hidden name=user_uid value=25760>your username: <input type=text name=username maxlength=30 size=20><br>your gift: <input type=text name=gift maxlength=30 size=25> <font size=1>(30 characters or less)</font><br></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor=green align=center><font face=Arial color=white><input type=submit value='put gift in stocking'><br></form></font></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor=red align=center><a href='http://xmas.combatcards.net/createstocking.php?parent_uid=25760'><font face=Arial color=white>get your stocking</font></a></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor=red align=center><a href='http://www.snoglondon.com' title='sponsor'><img src='http://xmas.combatcards.net/images/sl.gif' border=0 alt='dating website' height=1 width=400></a></td></tr></table></td></tr></table></td></tr></table>

There. I'm a complete technologically inept idiot, I'll admit it. Now please, will someone fix it?

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 22:02:57 GMT

Total number of fandoms I like:
Depends on how you define fandom. Like Leanne, I only am into HP fanfic and fanstuff. But I still fangirl other things. So...HP, LotR, PotC, Star Wars, Lost, Grey's Anatomy, ASOUE, Heroes.

My first fandom ever:
Probably Harry Potter. But if you want to get really technical, definitely We Sing (yeah Mar!) and Barney.

My most recent fandom:
Er...Heroes. Tres interessant, it is.

Five fandoms that currently mean a lot to me: (Ha, I don't think I can make this).
1. Harry Potter - Pretty self-explanatory, no?

2. LOST - OMG I was ticked when I found out that they aren't playing anything til Feb. But I watched and theorized religiously.

3. Heroes - It's a good show, and I like it, and it's got suspense, which is enough for me to download it every week :).

4. LoTR - Ok, so it's not currently important to me, but I fangirl the movies like chocolate and yeah. I was obsessed for a good bit of time. And I got through the books pretty fast. So yeah.

5. PoTC - This still means a lot to me. Brings back good times with my best friend who moved to South Carolina and who I haven't really spoken to for a while. We watched CoBP at my house the first time she slept over and we ate pasta and cold apple pie and rummaged around for coconuts. And we shamelessly adored Johnny and Orlando.

And I went to see DMC with my friends at my summer camp thing - and before we went, my friend D. , he was like, who wants to see PotC, it's so stupid. And I got him in there and got him out and I had converted him. Powerful feeling, it was.

Right, I tag:
ressie_noldo
pandafan81

(LJ is such a distraction...)</div>

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 02:13:56 GMT

*yodles to f-list*

I HAVE PIE!! COME AND GET IT!!

Um, anyway, I'm quite hyper. I'm also writing a lovely angst fic and wondering how on earth it's going to turn out. (I'm ready to throw up all over the blatant and verbose descriptions I have, except that I prefer to keep my apple pie in my stomach, thank you very much).

Yes, sorry, TMI.

This is the first time I'm writing a fic without weeks of planning. It's really quite freeing. I'm just writing. Out it goes. All out.

It's also helping me answer my history questions. Note to self: Write HP-fic before answering homework. Works for me.

Oh, yes, about that, I need some advice. I spent about 6 hours (yes, exaggeration, but not by many minutes) watching Fanaa over the weekend, so now I am naturally battling the very strong impulse to write a story about a pairing in which the girl becomes temporarily blind (and no, the male will not be a terrorist).

I just need a pairing.

I was thinking Ron/Luna, Ron/Hermione, or Ted/Andromeda, and T/A has been forming a wee bit in my mind. So if you have an opinion, any at all (especially if it is strong advice against writing the fic), please comment comment comment.

EDIT: Look at that penguin go!

Mon, 23 Oct 2006 21:14:12 GMT

HAPPY MOLE DAY ! ! !

(as in 6.02 X 10^23)

hehehehehehehehehe

Doggy!

Sun, 15 Oct 2006 14:51:52 GMT

WE HAVE A DOG!!!

Ok, well, not exactly. We're watching a dog for this family on our street. She's kind of old and fat but she has the mot adorable eyes and *squeee* I'm so excited since I haven't had a dog in the house in years! My sister's having fun too XD

But the poor thing's homesick =[ She took me all the way down to her house and kept on sniffing around for a good while until I finally managed to bring her back.

Any ideas to make her happy?

Kal Recreates Painfully Pitiful History Essays

Mon, 25 Sep 2006 23:14:50 GMT

Our history teacher shared these with us today. Warning for hilarious stupidity.

The Renaissance was a secular age. Martin Luther was nailed to the church door at Wittenberg for selling papal indulgences. He died a horrible death, being excommunicated by a bull. Donatello's interest in the female nude made him the father of the Renaissance. Guttenberg invented the Bible. Sir Walter Raleigh is a historical figure because he invented cigarettes. Another important invention was the circulation of blood. Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100-foot clipper.

Henry VIII was a king of England. He couldn't walk because of an abbess on his knee. Queen Elizabeth was his daughter and the “Virgin Queen”. When she exposed herself before her troops they all shouted "hurrah." Then her navy went out and defeated the Spanish Armadillo

Benjamin Franklin was a singer of the Declaration of Independence along with Thomas Jefferson. He traveled to the first contented Congress with his clothes in his pockets. He invented electricity by rubbing the backs of two cats together. He said, "A horse divided against itself cannot stand". He died in 1760 and is still dead today.

These aren't exact, just what I remembered plus my few notes on them. According to her, these are real essays of real college students who weren't trying to be pitiful.

Advice

Mon, 28 Aug 2006 17:09:35 GMT

I have a question.

Which is better...going to a public school or a private one?

Are private ones worth the cost? (i.e. $22,000/yr) Would it be worth it if I got financial aid for the next two years? (i.e. $13,000).

This dilemma happens every year and I'm getting rather sick of it. So insight outside of parental units and admissions committe would be quite lovely.

Someone save me from All Quiet on the Western Front please. Good themes, yes. Longest 200-some pages of my life, yes. Best way to spend the last few days of summer, hardly.

Why am I a procrastinator?

Wed, 31 May 2006 01:37:14 GMT

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

****FREAKING OUT***

I still have the effing cold war to study, and then I have to actually review, and then I need to relearn chemiosomosis and Krebs Cycle all over again and OMG DEATH.

(unnamed alter-ego: She uses paranoid as an adjective for a reason.)

Like two minutes ago I was just flipping out because I couldn't find my pencil. Like REALLY flipping out. I get scared if I can't find a paper after 2 seconds of searching. Imagine me under stress.

Scratch that. There's no need to imagine.

Anway, please vote on one image or the other so I can hopefully narrowly avoid the pitchforks of certain people. *looks around nervously for Hal and Ana*

Premier banner:

Deuxieme banner:

Just comment with 1 or 2 if you have a preference.

(The pencil was under my laptop, btw. *facepalm*)

/insanity

Poems: Oddling and Abhinaya Darpanam

Sun, 26 Mar 2006 21:36:45 GMT

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.
And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...
Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.
You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Well. That's fitting. Here they are, for those folks who are interested.

Oddling

The sullied stoop is cold, dirtied with the grime of a single day
Nimbus clouds huddle overhead in the sky, bleak since morning
Cloth of coal swishes past her small frame
Mothers hurry by, not sparing a backward glance

The air crackles with an unusual chill
No shawl adorns her shoulders
She faces the fragile shack, as it should be called
But only silence meets her soft mews of “Daddy”

Her little feet carry her faster in her fear
Darting in and out of crowds that grow sparser by the second
Only when the scent of fruits and spices meet her nose
Does she slow to a childish trot, her breathing calmer

Yet no smiles are sent her way
No nuts or sweets are pressed into her palm
The fruit dulls in comparison to her sickly skin
The woman she searches for frantically seems to have vanished

Perhaps an answer awaits her at the all-knowing fountain
The water that laps against the blinding marble
Reflects only the face of a young woman
But she is just a little girl. Alone.

Abhinaya Darpanam

Concentration
Thai yum tha tha, thai yum tha ha
(Next) Tha dinna ritta jum, thaka dinna ritta jum
Arms up, eyes left
Head follows, mind follows
Leading somewhere, deep within – the heart

And every pore opens, every fiber whispers with
The strains of a warbling sitar
(More, more, faster)
The pounding beat of the drums
Vibrating through the skin until it is mirrored from inside

No memory is necessary, for the body possesses instinct all its own
Arms whirling, eyes darting, braid thwacking the silken red
Falling, falling, the music carrying every step
Flashes of gold, rustles of pleated fabric
Tinkling jewelry, jangling bells
Thud, thud
Forgive me for pounding on this earth
That thai thom, dit thai thom
Quicksilver fingers slipping through poses, Kartarimukha, Katakamukha, Alapadma
Uncontrollable, wild, beautiful, the epitome of grace

The eyes, never once lined with black, open, and stern ones stare back
The feet are throbbing, red and chafed from the stone floor
Arms stiff, muscles burning
Unpainted hands hang limp; wrists, ankles, face, unadorned and weary
Chin up, back straight

There is no glory in this arduous task
Slowly, methodically, carefully
Tha dinna ritta jum
Again (and again, and again)

Namaskaram. We are finished.

Fic: Firecracker

Tue, 21 Mar 2006 00:43:51 GMT

Title: Firecracker
Author: KalHoNaaHo
Rating: G
Summary: Amazing how something born from insignificance and a dire need to measure up is the one thing that brings Ginny Weasley back. One-shot.

Excerpt: A hard kick against the ground, and she was gone – up, up until the leaves tickled her exposed arms. Her robes swirled behind her, flaming red hair whipped against her cheek, and the wind was raising her higher and higher. She was a kite, buoying along in the breeze – then a bird, gliding, swerving, diving, only to shoot back up, no longer craving the solidity of earth beneath her feet.

Link: http://fanfiction.mugglenet.com/viewstory.php?sid=46925

Sentinelle - I love you for the banner!!!!!

A hard kick against the ground, and she was gone – up, up until the leaves tickled her exposed arms. Her robes swirled behind her, flaming red hair whipped against her cheek, and the wind was raising her higher and higher. She was a kite, buoying along in the breeze – then a bird, gliding, swerving, diving, only to shoot back up, no longer craving the solidity of earth beneath her feet.

Charlie’s old broom this time. Still smelled of him – so faintly. She wondered vaguely if he was flying a fire-breathing dragon somewhere; did dragons even let you fly them? It didn’t matter to her what the vehicle was, as long as she was somewhere in the clear space between verdant grass and vast, blue, sky – high enough to shiver from the moisture of the clouds. Somewhere over mountains and rainbows, where the rest of the world didn’t matter. Somewhere where she could unfurl her wings and break free.

She flattened herself against the roughened handle, urging it on faster and faster; a change of angle, and she was zooming higher, faster, until suddenly the speeding firecracker inside her exploded –- shimmering stars were everywhere. Yet, they didn’t fall down to the grass below and leave her a smoky shadow but instead lit up the world and danced with her – danced with her until she could feel the warm beams of sunlight streaming through her skin, and she was weightless and beautiful and just Ginny again.

How had she survived without this for nearly a year? No, those stupid lessons didn’t count when all they got to do was hover at the height of a sapling; never mind that she was out for nearly a quarter of them. She was a bit rusty around the edges as she circled about the meadow and completed a sharp about-face. But it was still wonderful; the tingling through her limbs and the sweet, fresh, barely inhaled air filled her lungs and lifted her soul as she ascended higher. She had forgotten how good – how brilliant – this felt.

Tom couldn’t touch her here, couldn’t reach out and play with her mind, couldn’t grow more solid and real as the strength was slowly sapped from her bones, from her heart. She was safe, her mind intoxicated with the thrill of flying. He couldn’t drag her down to the pits of hell when she was feeling this – this giddy. He was just an ant, a dewdrop on a leaf so far below – measly, inconsequential, pathetic.

No one could come and claim her here. She would circle higher and higher and all they would do was shake their fists and shout, their words falling on deaf ears and carried away by the wind, her ally. On ground everyone towered above her, but in air, she had the upper hand. Neither Mum nor Dad nor Fred and George would reach her. Not even Ron and his friends.

Ron. Ron, who had betrayed her. Who had always been her best friend, even when he hated playing with a girl and would tag along after his brothers. Ron, who had found other people – better people – and no longer needed her to play chess with or make-up games where brother and sister battled giant trolls. He had broken his promise and never asked after her nearly as much as she would have liked.

And Harry, too, was far below, stripped of his Seeker skills. The same Harry who made her blush and stutter and act like some lovesick fool – which she supposed she was anyways - and it was rather nice, having her hero around. But she didn’t want him here in the air, taking flight, with her. This was her domain - the realm of Queen Ginevra.

And with them was the girl who she had unleashed the basilisk on. One of many victims, but perhaps the one attack that was branded deepest in her mind. Ron’s best friend – Harry’s best friend. What had she been thinking? Ah, but of course, she had barely thought for herself that year. But nobody blamed her. No one blamed poor, little, naïve Ginny. Poor, little, naïve Ginny - the thought made her want to stamp her foot and scream in indignation. She wasn’t a baby, much as she wanted to be babied. Yet, she also wanted to be free and strong and independent, and she wanted to be a child at the same time, squelching through mud and hanging like a bat on a tree limb; but she wanted to come home and have people love and respect her. She wanted everything and nothing - friendship and solitude, admiration and imagination – and it all became such a blur, like the scenery when you’re flying the fastest you possibly can. Except these feelings were horrible and suffocating. and just a gray mess of confusion. And it turned her to Tom.

The thing about growing up in a family of quick-tempered, red-headed Weasleys was that she had to fend for herself on occasion. There were times when her mum’s coddling and her brothers’ protectiveness led her to her wit’s end. Those were the times that the wheels in her head started churning, and she was forced to figure things out – for herself – like learning to fly. That was the part she lost upon entering Hogwarts.

The part she retained was the one that leaned heavily on her parents. When her brothers were being unfair, and every method of persuasion she knew failed to dissuade them, she knew she could always, she could always turn to her mum to strike fear in each of their hearts (except those of maybe Fred and George).

And then there was her father. She was Daddy’s Little Girl, used to the good-night kisses and bear hugs and hair ruffling. Hogwarts took that away from her. She would creep into bed when darkness fell, whispering good-night to him from a far away place, knowing that he would never hear it, and yet hoping, hoping with the kind of hope that only blesses children, that he heard in his heart.

She lost herself then. She felt it too – the loneliness, the despair slowly seeping in. She waved away all her acquaintances and then blamed them for not picking up the thread, when she knew, deep down, that the only person to blame was herself. She needed someone, anyone, to help her through the pain, for she – she had no idea what she was feeling. But no one was there.

She sighed as her feet skimmed the dew-kissed grass and she remembered the days when it had been just her around the Burrow. Not just her, though, for she did have her “friends.”

The two of them – Harry and Ron - had been her imaginary companions when the train whisked all of her brothers away from her. They abided to her every wish, and they let her fight her share. They came with her on missions of dessert-stealing and treasure hunting and lounged with her by the pond. And then she went to Hogwarts and they slowly dissipated into the background, replaced by a dark-haired, pale faced, sixteen-year-old wizard named Tom. And he was everything she could have hoped for and more, so much terrifyingly more.

Tom Marvolo Riddle. The man behind the magical diary in which she poured her heart. The man she desperately needed, but the one who would have had no need for her save for a single chance of fate. She had craved his sympathy and consolations, and most of all, the clarity in which he simply understood her. She would talk, and he would listen, and then smile – a smile that sickened her now – and reassure her with his words. And for a while, he was everything she needed.

But then the memories began to disappear, the blackness set in, and there were times Ginny could no longer account for. She never saw the flood of water, or the stricken victims – only heard whispers, speculations, over meals and in classes – yet she slowly began to understand. Everything fell together – Tom had never needed her, had never cared – she was only a tool, a pawn to maneuver, to checkmate Harry Potter and fell those of impure blood.

How cruel can a person be, to use a little, forlorn girl to carry out his ghastly plans. Only You-Know-Who could have carried it through without feeling a single ounce of remorse; only You-Know-Who was capable of manifesting her loneliness into isolation and forcing her to slash open her own skin and graffiti threats on the school walls. Only You-Know-Who could have taunted her ruthlessly with false compassion and understanding.

No one blamed her though. Harry, who should have hated her, had been the one to carry her out of the Chamber. Dumbledore himself had said that far greater wizards had been duped by Tom, and so nobody brought upon her the pain she knew she so rightly deserved.

Stop, stop right there. Enough of that, Ginny thought to herself as she flew over the pond below, the cool breeze blowing her flaming-red hair back from her freckled face. You told yourself you wouldn’t do that this year. This year will be different. This year, you’ll make friends.-You’ll smile back and talk to the girls who say, “Hi.” This year will be a new year.

With a rush of energy, Ginny was off again, back towards the clump trees, as if to leave her thoughts behind in the banks of the pond. She could hardly wait for Egypt. She would get to see Bill and Charlie again. And it would be a nice change from summer at the Burrow, although she highly doubted that there would be any broom sheds that she could break into where they would be staying.

Ginny flew over her mother’s garden and noticed, with a grimace, that the stupid gnomes were back. Today’s chores would offer no time for relaxation. She flew further, her fingers sore from gripping the broom handle but her head still pleasantly light. The sun was slowly warming the air around her, and she retreated to the cover of a line of trees. It would be boiling in Egypt, and she was going to love it. Oh, she would be the reddest tomato in the market, but at that moment, she didn’t care.

She circled around a tree, sending a batch of birds tumbling out of its branches, squawking indignantly, when the tail of her broom brushed their perch with unintentional force. She heard the beating wings, the angry twitters, but saw, slowly, slowly, the teeniest of the lot falling further than the rest. Down, down, one branch, then another, until Ginny’s senses finally caught up with her and she dove, pleading with the battered broom to just speed up, just this one minute. And she stretched out her freckled arm, the worry pounding in her chest, nearly slipping the broom herself as her fingers brushed something soft and quickly closed around it. But the little bird had escaped, the welt on her finger her only reward as she watched the fuzzy ball of yellow wobblingly wing its way back to the nest.

She smiled, the tenseness of her face easing as she turned back to the pond, the gentle sounds of morning filling her ears. Her mind clearer, she twisted the broom, spiraling up, then down, then up again, the calm surface of the glinting water (it had once mocked her, back in her first days of vacation) now an agreeable companion.

Ginny practiced gripping the broom handle with her knees and grabbing a pretend Quaffle. She turned over and over, clinging to the broom like those exotic creatures, her head back and hair falling everywhere, reveling in the feeling of being able to do just about anything. She remembered her first shaky go on a broom, when she had nearly broken her wrist. But still, it had been nothing short of amazing. The roaring wind and the rush of adrenaline had left her wobbly on the ground. And she walked around that day as if in a dream, longing to sweep into the sky once more and leave all her troubles behind.

Her reverie was suddenly broken when she heard the distant sound of clapping and whistles, and Ginny swung her broom around. She could just make out Charlie’s stocky figure standing by the pond, and she abruptly pointed the broom downwards, shrieking and hurtling towards him, nearly tumbling into the water before Charlie caught her.

“Good to see you too, Ginny.” He grinned at her.

She beamed back and hugged him. “How’s Romania been?” Ginny struggled with his suitcase for a minute and before finally giving up, panting. Charlie flicked his wand lazily, levitating the piece of luggage and smirking at Ginny’s scowl.

“Oh, it’s been all right,” he replied, shrugging,. “But who cares about Romania?” He waved his hand as if to dismiss the thought. “When did you learn to fly like that?”

She blushed, unused to compliments from her brothers, and diverted her eyes to the ground.. “Oh…well…you see…”

“And when did you get a broom?” he continued. “There’s no way Mum – hang on a tick – that’s mine!”

“Your old one,” she teased.

“Yeah,” he said fondly, running a hand along it and hoisting it onto his shoulder.

“So,” he continued, sending her a sly glance as they walked, “You’ve been breaking into the broom shed for how many years?”

There was no way she could get out of this one. “Six,” she looked away, pretending to blink at the now intensely bright sunlight.

“Six? ” said Charlie, his eyes widening in disbelief. “No bloody way! I would have seen!”

She winked at him, grinning broadly, “Now you know how good I am at not being seen when I don’t want to be.”

He Charlie unlocked the broom she door and leaned his broom against the wall almost reverently.

“You should try out for the house team.” He turned to back to her, his face serious.

She laughed. “Come on Charlie, there aren’t any spots on the team!”

He shrugged. “There’s bound to be one sometime soon. I’m sure you’d make it right away.”

She was thoughtful. “All right, what would I play then?”

“Seeker, of course!”

“Harry’s Seeker, Charlie.”

His grin faltered. “Right,” he muttered, his forehead strained in thought. “Well, I’m sure –”

“- But I think I prefer goal scoring.”

“Yeah! We could use someone when we play at home, too,” Charlie said, a bit too enthusiastically for Ginny’s taste.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone, Charlie!”

“Why not?”

“Just because,” she replied distantly. She turned around and started walking out of the broom shed, biting back a sharp gasp at a spider that had suddenly dropped from the ceiling, before quickly wiping the web away.

“Okay,” said Charlie hesitantly, the confusion evident in his voice. “Still, I don’t know why you don’t want anyone to find out –”

“Just…”she looked up at her brother pleadingly. Ginny hastily began casting about for a change of subject, and a mischievous glint – one reminiscent of the twins – lit up her eye as she found one, “You know, Mum will have your head once she finds out you’ve been around here for the last twenty minutes and haven’t even popped in to give her a hug. And she’ll be oh so terribly disappointed that you never told her about 'darling Nicoleta.'" She flashed him a cheeky smile and dashed out of the broom shed before he could even blink.

She could hear Charlie pounding like a herd of hippogriffs behind her, bellowing words that she couldn’t make out over her laughter. He caught up with her right before they both tumbled down the small slope, gasping for air, their sides splitting.

He pulled her up, and save for the grass stains, they were both quite unharmed.

“I won’t really tell her, Charlie,” she reassured him as she smoothed her hair.

He grinned and slung his arm around her shoulders. “I know,” and then he broke off. “Home,” he said, his eyes now taking on a content and appreciative look of their own as they gazed up at the house. “It’s good to be back.”

It is indeed, Ginny thought as she walked with Charlie up towards the Burrow. Home – where she had a family who loved her despite everything she had done. A family who forgave her for her mistakes and accepted her as she was. They would always be in her heart, despite the miles and worlds and unknowns that separated them. They may fail to write on occasion or say “Hello,” to her each day, but she was her brothers’ baby sister, and her parents’ little girl; they would never forget her. They would walk beside her on the path of discovery and embrace her when she reached her destination.

There would still be tears, she knew that. There would still be times when the world was cloaked in night, and Tom’s whispers filtered through her brain - as real as if she was there in that dank chamber again. But he would not plague her forever. She had brothers and parents that she could trust and a secret that only Charlie knew of, and she would climb up from there, finding friends who, one day, someday soon , she could trust entirely, without fear of betrayal.

One day, she would be whole again. She would climb trees and somersault in the grass, and she would push the tumultuous past behind her. She was strong, after all. She was tough and resilient and a Gryffindor. She refused to walk on shattered glass any longer, for it was all on her shoulders from now on. Her dreams, her choices, her faults, were hers alone. She was Ginny Weasley, and she could break down the door You-Know-Who had dropped in front of her. She had a life to live.

Just as she was about to shut the back door of the Burrow house, a chirping chorus of birds sounded from the yard. Ginny stopped and winked in the direction of the trees before hurrying inside to the happy voices - bantering playfully, laughing, nagging, and complimenting Mrs. Weasley on the cooking.

She may not have known it then, but that day, Ginny stepped forward. A small step – a baby step – but a step filled with confidence. A step that would see her into the sunlight.

Wheee!

Tue, 21 Mar 2006 00:27:16 GMT

An absolutely splendid weekend in the fic world, at least.

First, I was promoted to Gamma designer! Wheeeee! I had the time of my life staying up til 1:18 to see them with Ana, Katie, Risa, Moogle, and Hal! *Is officially a Haley fangurl*

Ana is teh amazing :D

Second, my fic got accepted! I'll post it later because I'm lazy.

And third, I won the Year 7 BA Challenge! *squeeees* *is even more of a Haley fangurl than before*

Lastly, Lex loved my review! Once upon a time, I used to think she was the most intimidating person on earth.

Now I just heart her =) HBP is fanficcy to the max. ;)

Fic Teaser Thingy

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 23:43:32 GMT

Amidst the piles of crap, randomness, and rants that are in the making, you may be lucky enough to actually find a halfway decent fic - most likely a one-shot - in here. This is your first dose.

Kind of. It's just a teaser, really. Comment and let me know if you'd like to see more. If it sucks and you hate it, comment anyways and tell me so.

I'm just too lazy to submit to MNFF. I'm also too scared to submit anything there. ???

I don't understand myself.

Anyways -

Title: Happy Window
Rating: Eh...PG-13?
Warnings: Nothing in this little excerpt, but with what I have written so far some graphicness, violence, spousal abuse, and suffocation attempts. It's angsty, people.
Summary: Evil can contort itself into many forms. Even after the Dark Lord is vanquished, it lingers in this household, tearing apart a family through its very foundation. Its presence destroys everything, including any hope of fighting it, and brings pain intense enough to blot out all happy memories.

And she stares, wanting to be away, wanting, most of all, to be the girl in the house across the lawn. The house in which evil does not exist.

There are shouts coming from below.

Lucy turns another page in her book.

More shouts. Then the voice drops to a threatening whisper. A string of protests ensues and the shouting starts up again.

Lucy’s eyes are glued on the pages, but her leg stills its dangling from her perch on the bed. Her hands tighten around the covers of the book.

A slap. She can hear it all the way in her bedroom, even with the door closed.

Another slap. “I can’t believe you! You – "

Marcella is puzzled. “Where am I?” she whisper to the heavy darkness. “What is this place?”

“Do you have any idea what I go through?” The voice is shrill in anger, cutting off a reply. “No! No, because you are a worthless, selfish, ignorant -”

Marcella is puzzled. “Where am I?” she whispers to the heavy darkness. “What is this place?”

From the outside, Lucina Cantherby is your average eleven year-old witch – curled up in bed, a novel in her hands, and dirty-blonde hair brushing her shoulder. But there are secrets, memories cooped up within her that few other girls her age have had to face. Girls – witches – like Ellie.

The echoes of shouts are drowned out by new ones. And wails. Loud, scared wails.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

Lucy pushes herself off the bed, leaving the book on the flowery sheets, and tiptoes towards the door. She opens it a crack, waiting, hoping for things to quiet down.

The wails and shouts only grow louder, each, it seems, trying to outdo the other. Lucy does not want to leave the safety of her room.

“Don’t touch her! Don’t touch my child! You – NO!” A thud. “Stay away from her!”

It is the bang and the confused screams that follow that send Lucy hurtling down the stairs and skidding into the hardwood-floored kitchen in her stockinged feet.

The baby swing is rocking violently.

---

Short, I know. I'm ebil like that.

Who is this?

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 20:27:44 GMT

Yeah, so I'm actually posting something, because I have people on my flist who might just read this.

And I don't care if this is supposed to be in the About the User section or whatever, it's going here.

I am Kal. You might know my real name, but I've gotten rather fond of Kal, so you can just stick with that. Or you can call me whatever you want really, as long as it's nothing derogatory. Only certain people are allowed that privilege.

You can throw dung at me too, but it doesn't mean I'm going to tolerate it.

I'm random, shy, hyper, consciensious, and generally not mean. Terse, but not mean.

And I write. But that's nothing special. And I make banners too, if asked nicely.

Other than that, ask, and I shall tell no lies...

You can't hold me to that.

;)