Post by Phayun-C on Jan 30, 2006 19:29:23 GMT -5
Here's what little I've written on a story I decided to write like a long time ago. No titles or anything, and I'm still working on trying to find something completely un-ironic, but it's still fairly enjoyable. Unfortunately, when I started it, I'd been reading a ton of Hitchiker's Guide, so it basically reeks of Douglas Adams... Still, that's not such a bad thing to reek of, just wish it were a little more me. Enjoy!
______________________
Prologue
One day, a long, long, long, long time ago, a slight breeze picked up on the mountains of Karayne Synait. This breeze blew gently over the mountain’s features, caressing brooks, trees, and ridges as if in a lover’s embrace. It carried with it traces of memories long gone, of chirping birds and playful otters splashing through creeks, of things lost, and things found. The breeze, a sigh of angels, continued on down the mountains into a valley, as green as the day God created it. But our story does not start here. This is for the express reason that these mountains are freaking gay. I mean, playful winds caressing trees and ridges like freaking lovers?! What kind of crap is that?! Sounds like something out of some story called “Rainbow kids 3”, where the climax of the story is when little Billy recovers his long lost gerbil. Hopefully, our story won’t even go here. I might fricken barf or something. Moving on.
Hawnkin Big Title Thang
Chapter 1
One day, a long, long, long, long time ago, a slight breeze picked up on the desert flats of Jeyuhadi, the home of the desert elves. Yes there are actually such things as desert elves. It’s simply an old stereotype that all elves are happy little woodland creatures that go around all day, skipping and jumping with their painfully effeminate features. There are some elves who don’t spend all day making cookies, or saving the world with their ocarinas, or inspiring young girls to make gigantic fan-sites about them, or make massive tests that will tell you which body-part of this elf your personality is. These are some of those elves.
The desert elves of Jeyuhadi would not be caught dead skipping, making cookies, or wearing stockings. They’d rather bash small animals with heavy blunt objects (seriously, besides the stereotypical elves, who wouldn’t?!). This is unfortunate for the elves, because in the desert flats of Jeyuhadi, there aren’t very many small animals, and are quite an awful lot of baking materials. But, anyway, we digress. The main point is that there was a breeze, and it was on the desert flats of Jeyuhadi, which just so happens to be the home of the desert elves, who are very much an existent people.
Now, while gentle breezes are nice and all on gay mountains, they often become less than pleasant in arid deserts. This breeze, while originally having good intentions, just wanting to caress a cactus or two as if in a lover’s embrace, accidentally picked up rather a lot of sand, which seemed to bring with it a large desire to destroy everything in the general vacinity. And, in another case of a good breeze gone bad, it gave into peer pressure, and became a vast, ravaging sandstorm. The elves of Jeyuhadi were accustomed to sandstorms, having lived in desert areas for quite some time, so as soon as they saw the telltale signs of death and destruction looming, they went into their tents and cactuses.
Now, it must be explained that the desert flats of Jeyuhadi are exactly the perfect climate to grow cactuses (or cacti, or cactids) at. So, there were quite a few really big cactuses around, which made for excellent houses, once hollowed out. They offered excellent insulation, had an imposing exterior, and large spikes that were excellent for hanging out clothes to dry. They were also infamous for getting tossed around in violent sandstorms. Tarquin did not live in a cactus.
Tarquin lived in a hut in the exact center of the town. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was anything but unpleasant. It was moderate in size, had a nice, sandy brown color (all huts in deserts are sandy brown, but that’s besides the point), and a palm tree in the front lawn. The inside was quite nice too, the furniture still having that smell that suggests that the owners possessing it before spent entirely too much time laying on it. This is because Tarquin had only recently purchased the house. He had saved for 15 years to be able to buy the hut in cash. He had always admired the quaint features, and could think of no better place to spend the rest of his life. Unfortunately, this was not to be.
It should be mentioned that Tarquin was an extremely unlucky desert elf. It wasn’t as if anything drastically unlucky happened to him very often, but most of the little things ended up going wrong at one point or another. This eventually made Tarquin a little paranoid. Let’s face it. After three weeks straight of not being able to correctly match your socks in the morning, and accidentally pouring orange juice in your cereal instead of milk, you’d get a little paranoid, too.
However, Tarquin was feeling good about this house. It was as if just owning it had made all his bad luck go away. Still, when he saw the telltale signs of a sandstorm coming (masses of screaming elves running for their lives), he figured it would be a good idea to take shelter in his nice, new hut, rather than flirting with certain death. Tarquin went inside his home, and sat down under a table. The logic of this decision isn’t entirely clear, but I guess if you were an unlucky desert elf, about to be struck by a vast, ravaging sandstorm, you might be a little absent-minded as well.
The storm passed Tarquin’s village in a short matter of minutes, and Tarquin cautiously stepped outside his hut, a bit surprised that the entire thing hadn’t collapsed right on top of him. It seemed a little bit shorter than it had before, with the ground being about three feet higher and all, but it looked decidedly intact. Tarquin was feeling very happy with himself, and his house. “My luck really has turned around”, he thought. He then looked down at the ground between his feet for a moment, wondering if he should begin moving the excess sand to someone else’s hut, when he noticed that one of his socks was not black, as he had thought earlier, but actually a very dark navy. “Oh, dear...” he wondered aloud. “I wonder if something really completely awful is about to happen to my house now...” Unfortunately, nobody heard his wondering, as at that very moment, something really completely awful happened to his house. Tarquin was tossed to the ground as eight 20-foot tall cactuses slammed into his beloved home.
Chapter 2
Now, some might say of this event “Irony is a cruel mistress,” or something of that sort that manages to offer condolensces sincerely, and still get away with the speaker not actually having any idea what you’re talking about, since he/she spaced off the entire time anyway. But Irony would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t say things like this, as they are grossly inaccurate. You see, Irony is a guy, and he really isn’t such a bad person. But if you had people calling you a woman all the time, you might have a tendancy to be a little cruel, too. Anyway, Irony really didn’t have anything against Tarquin, but he had had a really rough day (A bunch of idiots had been dancing around all day on an airplane to a song by a band who hadn’t been killed in a plane crash), and Tarquin was just such an easy target. Plus, it’s a really easy way for the lazy author of this little piece to get Tarquin out of his completely unnamed desert village and into some larger city, where he can meet some companions, and go traipsing off onto some quest given by some government official or another.
___________________________________
Mazal Tov,
Phayun-Cizzle
______________________
Prologue
One day, a long, long, long, long time ago, a slight breeze picked up on the mountains of Karayne Synait. This breeze blew gently over the mountain’s features, caressing brooks, trees, and ridges as if in a lover’s embrace. It carried with it traces of memories long gone, of chirping birds and playful otters splashing through creeks, of things lost, and things found. The breeze, a sigh of angels, continued on down the mountains into a valley, as green as the day God created it. But our story does not start here. This is for the express reason that these mountains are freaking gay. I mean, playful winds caressing trees and ridges like freaking lovers?! What kind of crap is that?! Sounds like something out of some story called “Rainbow kids 3”, where the climax of the story is when little Billy recovers his long lost gerbil. Hopefully, our story won’t even go here. I might fricken barf or something. Moving on.
Hawnkin Big Title Thang
Chapter 1
One day, a long, long, long, long time ago, a slight breeze picked up on the desert flats of Jeyuhadi, the home of the desert elves. Yes there are actually such things as desert elves. It’s simply an old stereotype that all elves are happy little woodland creatures that go around all day, skipping and jumping with their painfully effeminate features. There are some elves who don’t spend all day making cookies, or saving the world with their ocarinas, or inspiring young girls to make gigantic fan-sites about them, or make massive tests that will tell you which body-part of this elf your personality is. These are some of those elves.
The desert elves of Jeyuhadi would not be caught dead skipping, making cookies, or wearing stockings. They’d rather bash small animals with heavy blunt objects (seriously, besides the stereotypical elves, who wouldn’t?!). This is unfortunate for the elves, because in the desert flats of Jeyuhadi, there aren’t very many small animals, and are quite an awful lot of baking materials. But, anyway, we digress. The main point is that there was a breeze, and it was on the desert flats of Jeyuhadi, which just so happens to be the home of the desert elves, who are very much an existent people.
Now, while gentle breezes are nice and all on gay mountains, they often become less than pleasant in arid deserts. This breeze, while originally having good intentions, just wanting to caress a cactus or two as if in a lover’s embrace, accidentally picked up rather a lot of sand, which seemed to bring with it a large desire to destroy everything in the general vacinity. And, in another case of a good breeze gone bad, it gave into peer pressure, and became a vast, ravaging sandstorm. The elves of Jeyuhadi were accustomed to sandstorms, having lived in desert areas for quite some time, so as soon as they saw the telltale signs of death and destruction looming, they went into their tents and cactuses.
Now, it must be explained that the desert flats of Jeyuhadi are exactly the perfect climate to grow cactuses (or cacti, or cactids) at. So, there were quite a few really big cactuses around, which made for excellent houses, once hollowed out. They offered excellent insulation, had an imposing exterior, and large spikes that were excellent for hanging out clothes to dry. They were also infamous for getting tossed around in violent sandstorms. Tarquin did not live in a cactus.
Tarquin lived in a hut in the exact center of the town. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was anything but unpleasant. It was moderate in size, had a nice, sandy brown color (all huts in deserts are sandy brown, but that’s besides the point), and a palm tree in the front lawn. The inside was quite nice too, the furniture still having that smell that suggests that the owners possessing it before spent entirely too much time laying on it. This is because Tarquin had only recently purchased the house. He had saved for 15 years to be able to buy the hut in cash. He had always admired the quaint features, and could think of no better place to spend the rest of his life. Unfortunately, this was not to be.
It should be mentioned that Tarquin was an extremely unlucky desert elf. It wasn’t as if anything drastically unlucky happened to him very often, but most of the little things ended up going wrong at one point or another. This eventually made Tarquin a little paranoid. Let’s face it. After three weeks straight of not being able to correctly match your socks in the morning, and accidentally pouring orange juice in your cereal instead of milk, you’d get a little paranoid, too.
However, Tarquin was feeling good about this house. It was as if just owning it had made all his bad luck go away. Still, when he saw the telltale signs of a sandstorm coming (masses of screaming elves running for their lives), he figured it would be a good idea to take shelter in his nice, new hut, rather than flirting with certain death. Tarquin went inside his home, and sat down under a table. The logic of this decision isn’t entirely clear, but I guess if you were an unlucky desert elf, about to be struck by a vast, ravaging sandstorm, you might be a little absent-minded as well.
The storm passed Tarquin’s village in a short matter of minutes, and Tarquin cautiously stepped outside his hut, a bit surprised that the entire thing hadn’t collapsed right on top of him. It seemed a little bit shorter than it had before, with the ground being about three feet higher and all, but it looked decidedly intact. Tarquin was feeling very happy with himself, and his house. “My luck really has turned around”, he thought. He then looked down at the ground between his feet for a moment, wondering if he should begin moving the excess sand to someone else’s hut, when he noticed that one of his socks was not black, as he had thought earlier, but actually a very dark navy. “Oh, dear...” he wondered aloud. “I wonder if something really completely awful is about to happen to my house now...” Unfortunately, nobody heard his wondering, as at that very moment, something really completely awful happened to his house. Tarquin was tossed to the ground as eight 20-foot tall cactuses slammed into his beloved home.
Chapter 2
Now, some might say of this event “Irony is a cruel mistress,” or something of that sort that manages to offer condolensces sincerely, and still get away with the speaker not actually having any idea what you’re talking about, since he/she spaced off the entire time anyway. But Irony would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t say things like this, as they are grossly inaccurate. You see, Irony is a guy, and he really isn’t such a bad person. But if you had people calling you a woman all the time, you might have a tendancy to be a little cruel, too. Anyway, Irony really didn’t have anything against Tarquin, but he had had a really rough day (A bunch of idiots had been dancing around all day on an airplane to a song by a band who hadn’t been killed in a plane crash), and Tarquin was just such an easy target. Plus, it’s a really easy way for the lazy author of this little piece to get Tarquin out of his completely unnamed desert village and into some larger city, where he can meet some companions, and go traipsing off onto some quest given by some government official or another.
___________________________________
Mazal Tov,
Phayun-Cizzle
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