Bards Corner.

[Azrael]

Sorry but Like and Love are one syllabel words. And Whyfore is two syllabels.

[The Nick]

Eh? 'Li-ke', two syllables. 'Au-tumn', two syllables. 'Leaf', one syllable. Five in total.

'Why-fo-re art thou', five syllables. 'Lo-ve and suf-fer', five syllables.

Thanks for the kind words, though. ^^

No, LIKE is 1 syllable. Like rhymes with 'bike', sounds like 'light'.

Whyfore art thou = 4 syllables = [Why][fore][art][thou]

Love is 1 syllable. Love, sounds like "luv." Rhymes with 'glove'.

[Kamino Neko]

A syllable has a vowel in it - in the linguistic sense, that is.

A E I O U Y are not vowels, they're characters sometimes used to represent vowels.

The silent es on like, love, and whyfore* are not vowels, they're an accident of orthography that would likely be represented by accents if English spelling was logical.

Now, haiku written in Japanese wouldn't have this issue, due to the nature of the language and writing system.

* Also, you know the quote is 'wherefore art thou' (which does mean 'why are you', of course), yes? Whyfore is a joke word, usually used in sentences like 'whyfore you do dat?'

[MarkyThirteen]

this is very rough, as i'm fleshing out scenes to myself as i'm writing them. but please C&C nonetheless


It was dark. There was not a star in the sky, and not a shimmer of light. And it was cold. I couldn’t figure out why it was could, but the coldness seemed to be all around me. I was wrapped in cold, which in turn was wrapped in darkness.

I tried to focus my eyes. My head was swimming. I felt like I’d fallen down a long flight of stairs and into a freezer. My body was numb and my head was pounding. There was nothing I could do but lay there and wait for someone to come. I had no vision, and I had no feeling. After what seemed like an eternity, shapes started forming. At first I thought I was imagining things, but I could make out familiar things. Buildings, cars, windows; they were all there. It took a while for my vision to adjust, but I could see that I was laying in the middle of a crossroads, in the middle of an unfamiliar city. It was dark, and it was snowing, which would account for the coldness I could feel. I tried to move my body; my joints were stiff from laying so long in the cold. As I stood up, I realised I was wearing what appeared to be a sleeveless white nightgown – no wonder my arms and legs were frozen! I’d never seen the gown before, and as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window I realised I was looking slightly unfamiliar as well, although this was probably down to the pallid complexion and darkened eyes from the cold. My fingers were icicles as they touched my cheeks, and I could hardly feel the snow on the ground as I walked barefoot down the street

I walked for hours. The flickering streetlights were casting a dim light over the deserted streets as I searched for a destination. I really had no idea where I was heading or where I’d come from – all I knew was that I had to get out of this snow. As I was walking, I could feel that something wasn’t wrong. My skin was crawling, and it wasn’t just because of the cold. Every time I moved out of the caress of a streetlight, I could see things in the corner of my eye. It was if they weren’t really there, or they really didn’t want to be seen. It clawed at the back of my mind like a cheese grater to my consciousness. The further I walked, the more I could feel it.

I arrived at a junction, and the feeling in my head was getting worse. It was painful. The snow had picked up, and the cold whipping around my head was not helping the rasping in my head. It was as if there was a shadow in my mind and it wanted to break out to join the rest of them in this desolate place. I looked around for something to help me. Even an umbrella may help me against the wind and the snow, but no such luck. As I looked up the turn off, I could see a dim light in the distance – I couldn’t make out what it was, but it was the only light I’ve seen aside from the dying streetlights. And if there was someone else here… I had to investigate.

I made my way up the street, trying to keep to the light provided by the fading and flickering lamps, running from one to the other, as the light was solid enough. The feeling in my head was kept at bay, at least as much as it could be, and it seemed like the shadows in my eyes were shunned as I ran from flickering disc to flickering disc in order to get closer to the source of the light….

[Artemisia]

Ok, I'm going to post two items and I'd like some opinions. . .which of these seems better:

Artemisia:

It started with a conversation.
“Mr and Mrs Lane, how may I help you?”
It was around seven at night, and I had recognized my therapist as she walked up to the house. It must surprise my parents that I actually watch the world outside even though I hate going outside during the day.
“I am sorry Ms Simpson, but Rose told me that you wanted to have a discussion with me, and I figured that my husband should be here as well.” That would be my mother speaking.
“Mrs Lane, what I wanted to talk to you about was Rose. I really think that she should not be in therapy. She is perfectly fine. She is incredibly sane, in fact.”
“But, you have seen how she dressed?” that was my father. He hated how I dressed, which was rather funny since I wore very nice clothes. Alright, maybe with a lot of lace and occult jewelry, but still, nice clothes.
“She is not dressing badly, Mr. Lane. It is just one of the recent fashions of late.”
“She stays inside all the time.”
“Mrs. Lane, Rose told me that she has tried to tell you that the sunlight hurts her eyes and she burns very easily.”
“Then there was this. I found it on her desk today.” I heard a piece of paper rustle. I had a feeling I knew what it was.
“Ok, so Rose has a crush on a girl in her class. That isn’t a huge problem, Mrs. Lane. There are a lot of lesbians out there, and they live happy and healthy lives.”
“Ms Simpson, it isn’t alright. I don’t want my daughter growing up to be a dyke!”
“Mr. Black, you cannot prevent her from growing up to be lesbian.”
“But. . .but, what about curing her. We have tried to be lenient and not push Rose too hard, but this is unacceptable. She is already enough of an embarrassment dressing the way she does, now with this mooning over some slut in her class. Quite frankly, Ms Simpson, I do not want my daughter having degenerate and disgusting sex just because you are too afraid to see that it is wrong. I don’t even know why we bothered. I told you this was a waste of money, Gladys!”
“Mr. Lane, Rose is a talented, beautiful young woman. She gets very high grades. The APA has aid emphatically that being lesbian or being gay is not a psychological problem. In fact, you will do more harm-“
”GET OUT!” My father bellowed. I quickly stood up and quietly went into my room. I knew I should not have left those papers out. I bit my lip and began to gather together what I knew I was going to need. I had some time. My parents wouldn’t confront me until tomorrow anyway, and by then, I planned on being as far away as I could. Why my parents wanted me to be as miserable as they are I would never understand. I knew about my father’s stash of guy porn and my mother’s “girl nights” when she went out with a couple of lady friends from Church and came home smelling of alcohol and sex. They were hypocrits and I was not going to live like them.
Stacy’s parents liked me. I could just stay there. I...I could sue for emancipation from my parents or something.
I could hear my parents fighting in the room below. I quickly packed what I could, including the money I had been stashing away for ages. There was about a thousand dollars in the little lock box. I picked out my good jewelry. I left the crosses my parents had given me over the years. I wanted nothing to do with their faith any more.
I exited my room with a rather large wheeled suitcase and my backpack. What I wore was probably not the most practical of clothing given that I looked rather like a little gothic doll, but I didn’t really have time to change. It was not until I was down the backstairs and out into the night that the last words I heard from my parents registered.
I remember hearing my father bellow “You were the one who wanted to adopt her! I never wanted children!”
-------------------------
My hair was on end by the time I had gotten half a block. The air was still cold with a crisp hint of the impending winter. Still, I kept walking. I didn’t care about the cold. I didn’t care about the mist that was rising up as I walked. At that point, the only thing I cared about was getting as far from my parents as possible.
Queer shapes began to appear in the mist as I walked. I kept my head down to try and keep an eye on where I was walking as the mist turned into a dense, soupy fog. I stopped to try and get my bearings when I approached the first intersection, but found myself rather confused as to where I was going. A person walked passed me, but rather than seeing them, I mostly felt the movement they made. I found myself taking it slowly so that I did not run into someone, and found it baffling that there were so many people on the sidewalk so late at night.
All around me there seemed to be people. That is, if you called them people. There were big hulking creatures with hunched backs, creatures with spindly legs that seemed to walk on all fours. I knew my mind had to be making things up.
I let out a yelp as I slammed into some woman’s breasts and bounced back into my suitcase and onto the ground.
“Here, let me help you up,” said a rather sultry voice as a perfectly manicured hand reached down. I cautiously grabbed it. “I am so sorry. I really wasn’t looking where I was going and my head must have been in the clouds,” the woman said. I made a show of dusting off my dress. “Are you lost, young lady?”
I opened my mouth to say something when the woman came into view a bit more clearly. I turned from her to run only to catch the curb and fall straight down onto my ankle. The pain was enough to cause me to black out.
-----------------------------
“Well, officer, I don’t know what to tell you. We had to do a bit of surgery on her ankle. She tore some of the ligaments when she dislocated it.”
“Any idea who she is?”
“Well, she had ID on her that lists her name as Rose Lane.” I opened my eyes just a crack and looked at the two men who were talking. It was enough to send me sitting bolt upright.
“Ah, Miss Black, glad to see you are awake,” the doctor said. He seemed normal enough until I realized that he had two rather obvious fangs in his mouth. The police officer was more baffling, though. Like the woman I had bounced into, he had horns that arched back and curled around his ears. He also had leathery wings.
---------------------------
“Artemisia!”
I looked up at the unfamiliar name and caught sight of my birth mother coming towards me. I had to suppress the initial desire to run away. After all, she was something that I had been trained to avoid. I could see tears streaking down her face as she got closer. I found myself flapping my wings trying not to fall over as she embraced me. It took me a moment to get my arms to move and embrace her back.
I could never remember my human mother or father embracing me like this. They had always seemed distant, ashamed.
“Darling one. I thought I had lost you forever,” she whispered in my ear.
“I-I’m sorry. I still don’t remember you. I just know that they keep telling me that I was stolen from you.” She pulled back from me and left her hands on my shoulders.
“It’s alright, dear one. I know this is going to be hard for you. We need to get you home and settled in. You need to meet your father, your sisters. And where are my manners. My name is Hypatia. Hypatia Black. I’m sorry,” she said taking a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping away tears. “It’s just that. . .well. . .I never expected to see you again!” The case workers has prepared me for this, but there was little I could understand. Rather than feel sad, all I could do was feel empty, and that worried me.
“I’m still trying to understand all of this. I really do not understand what happened. Ms Delacroix told me that I was abducted when I was six months old. I feel lost.”
“Dear one, it is alright,” she ran her fingers through an arrant lock of hair covering my face. I looked down at my hands and wondered what I was going to do. “I mean, look at you. You seemed to get the idea that you weren’t who you were forced to be.” I was, indeed, wearing one of my more goth outfits. “Tell me what your human parents were like. How did they treat you?”
I frowned. Callie had warned me about this as well. She had advised me about a few possible directions to take. I decided to tell the truth. “They were not very nice. They hated when I was rebellious and constantly told me about how horrible beings like us are. My, um, after I. . .after some therapy they agreed to let me express myself, but they still hated it. I was running away when I stumbled across the border. I just. . .” I felt a tear begin to trace down my cheek. I could hear the voice of my human father bellowing as he brought the rod across my back when I was twelve. He had caught me holding hands with a boy from down the street. I remembered the words he called me echoing in my ears. I pulled my hands out of my birth mother’s and placed them besides my eyes trying to keep down the panic.
“What’s wrong?” Hypatia asked.
“I can’t. Please, I can’t.”

[Artemisia]

Rose Black:

Rose Black; Temple, Black’s Room (3/6):
My hand trembled as I reached over and gently lifted one of the soft linen gloves that I preferred to wear. I put it down again in order to look at my hand. The scars had faded, but I could still make out the patterns that the scars made. I put the memory aside and hurriedly picked up the glove again. I heard a groan from the other side of the bead. The woman laying on her belly there shifted her head to look at me and gave me a half smile. There were tattoos on her back, intricate patterns including a pair of bird wings along her shoulder.
“Leaving me so soon?” Lily said.
“I have rounds to make, dear one. Besides, you might enjoy my company, you do have others that you have to see to.” I reached over and tousled her hair. “You are, as always, beautiful.” I stretched my wings out to ease the cramps in the muscles and carefully stood up.
“Awww...Rose, you always make me happy, but. . .oh never mind.” It had been a conversation that we had both had several times.
“When you joined the Sisters, Lily, you committed to our ways. Besides, I am not ready to commit to a settled life,” I said with a bit of a smile. “One day. . .one day. Just don’t forget to straighten up before you head to your room.” I gave her a quick wink.

Rose Black: Temple, Rotunda (3/7):
The Rotunda was bright when I walked in and I tried to close my eyes as much as I could. The pain from the light was nearly too much. I pulled off my left glove as I moved over to the statue of the Goddess that dominated the rotunda. High above were windows that helped to illuminated the statue and turned the room bright and golden. Around the base of the statue was a pool of water. I dipped my fingers into the water and lifted it to my lips. I then passed my hand over one of the candles set up at the corners and shifted a rock from one side of the statue to another. It was the normal morning ritual to honor the Goddess. Well, waking ritual to honor the Goddess. After all, some of us never got to work until close to the noon hour. Lily was a Healer, of sorts. Most people outside of the Temple would call her a prostitute or worse. Here, she just ‘ministered’ to those who followed the Goddess in her forms. It was not all sexual, certainly. She would deal with all kinds of mental wounds.
I smiled gently at a child who was there with her parent. The parent touched the child’s wing in order to get her attention and the two moved towards one of the clinics. I turned from the statue and began to walk towards the ornate wooden doors that marked the barrier between the Temple and the gardens. A wall separated the gardens from the city. For me, that wall marked the divide between sanity and insanity. I opened the door to the left and walked out into the garden. It took a lot for our people to manage to keep this garden running well. After all, this was not a place was far from being kind to vegetation. There were no stairs separating the Temple from the Garden, though, and I walked out into the struggling plant life.

Rose Black (3/8):
The priest in the stiff black coat and dog collar scowled at me, as if daring me to say one word or make one move out of place. I barely acknowledged him as I walked passed, but I knew that those rat-like eyes set in that balding head were following me. I wore my usual garb of black trimmed with red lace at the throat and cuffs. The simple dress was loose, but ended several inches from the ground. I wore mostly practical boots that, while hard soled, were lacking in an overly high heel or a point. After all, what was the point of hobbling oneself if you were going to be walking across much of the city.
I reached the first of the houses that I was suppose to visit. While most of the priests out in the city were interested in getting people to site in their pews and put money in their coffers, most of the Sisters did nothing more than help. I ignored the unlit red lantern that hung next to the door and slipped in. We succubi have no problem with those who made a living having sexual relations with others for money. The Goddess in her form as Althara had taught that the building up of sexual frustration and energy was detrimental to all living organisms and that the regular purging of such feelings and energies would lead to greater calmness and clarity. Occasionally, even with succubi, such an exercise could, and did, lead to pregnancy. Some of the Sisters who worshiped Althara were even willing to gift those who wanted a child with one if they did not have an established mate or, for some reason, their mate was infertile.
I was one such child. My sire was never known to me.
I nodded to Simaul as I entered. The massive man put aside the book he had been reading and said “Morning Miss Black. The ladies will be glad to see you again.”
Simaul was both the owner and the enforcer of this establishment. From what I could understand, this was an unusual arrangement. Apparently, the women here did not mind because, oddly, Simaul had an eye for the men. I smiled at Simaul and said “I just wish I could stop by more often.”
Simaul laughed. His skin was nearly as dark as the dress I wore. In fact, Simaul was not his real name. On one visit, he told me that he had taken the name as a way of adding a touch of exotic to his business. He had been born John Samuels on a street not far from the very brothel he owned, but he had confided in me that people just did not seem to believe that a man both his size and complection could possibly have been born in the city.
I moved down the hallway towards the common room of the brothel. In truth, this had probably once been a regular house with a hallway down the center and the rooms branching off. The room Simaul spent most of his time in was just sectioned off. In the common room were a number of the women who worked at the establishment.
Gaela stood up. She was an elegant looking elfen woman. Like all elf, she had an ethereal bearing and body. She was slender with golden hair. Currently, she was dressed plainly in just a simple robe. “T’lan, Sister Rose,” Gaela said walking up to me. She took my arms and ran her fingers down them until she reached my gloved hands. She held my fingers in her bare hands and looked into my eyes. “It has been too long, Rose.”
“Alas, things have been far too busy at the Temple of late. You do know that you can come to me and get my help if it is really desperate. Still, it is good to see you again. It has been far too long since last I visited. How are the ladies?”
“Oh, so far, nothing bad.” As she spoke, I let my mind open up and let my feelings course along her body. She was lucky in that there was no sickness in her. Elfen constitution tended to make them heartier in terms of health, though they could and did die from injury. “The only real problem is Claudette. She refused to let us call you in, and refused to go to the Temple. She is new, and has some very backwards notions.” I released Gaela from my Sight and stood there. “One of the clients beat her pretty badly. Poor thing hasn’t been out of her room since then.”
“Do you want to try and prepare her to see me? I mean, I don’t want to walk in there and have her try to take my head off.”
“I’ll try. She’s in room 15.”
“Ok, I’ll look to the other ladies and meet you in there.” I was good to my word, of course. I began making my way through the various ladies there dispensing simple medicines where I could. There were very few women who needed my help, but then again, Simaul did a good job making sure no one got badly hurt. Mostly, the medicine I was dispensing was just to make sure that they did not catch any diseases. I also left a good supply of preventative medicine. It was preventative in that it prevented unwanted pregnancies.

Rose Black (3/10):
“How is she doing Healer?” The voice had a rough edge to it. The sound of it was slightly deeper than most succubi voices. I had been aware of the Healer working next to me for some time. I had heard the scritching of her pen as she wrote notes.
“Duke Brim!” the Healer yelped and rushed to stand up. I kept my eyes closed. Duke Samantha Brim was the nominal leader of the succubi throughout the kingdom. “Miss Black will recover. There was some damage to her genitals, mostly her vaginal canal, which was far too small to easily accommodate a human man’s, um . . .whatever that is that they have. Her wings were strained when they were pinned back, but they do not seem to be broken. She appears to have bitten the tip of her tongue off because of the pain. I there were a few cuts on her as well. I was just writing up the incident report. Not that I think the police are going to actually investigate.”
“They probably won’t, but I am hoping to bring pressure this time to get them to. In fact, that is why I am here. I need your help with a spell.”
“Sir, I know very few spells. Why not let me call in someone more senior. What kind of healing do you need?”
“I do not need healing, Healer. The spell is a Blood to Blood spell. Look, I have never given birth to a child, and I have no plans to. I never took a mate, but I have children. I need to verify if this young one is one of mine.”
At that point, my eyes flew open. I did not sit bolt upright in the bed because doing so would have resulted in my wings being torn.
“Ah,” the Duke said. “I see you finally decided to show that you were awake.” At that point, I sneezed. The bright light in the room hurt my eyes, and I usually sneezed when I first see bright lights. “Good health to you,” she said without hesitation. “Healer, I need a small amount of blood Miss Black.

[Dirty n Evil]

I've long wanted to be a published author again. I've expressed this desire many times, and no matter what happens in my future I will always consider myself a storyteller. It's my nature, part of who I am. I originally stepped down from my role as moderator in order to pursue my writing goals. That didn't work out as well as I hoped, but it also doesn't mean that I've given up. Far from it. In fact, I've been thinking about writing more and more.

I suppose the problem is that I've been thinking about writing more than I've actually been writing. What's more, I've been thinking about the mechanics of writing, and the approach of it. The theory of writing, for lack of a more succinct term. I've always read a large amount, but of late I've been reading a larger variety of books from an array of genres and authors. And seeing them objectively in such contrast, it's interesting. I've learned quite a bit about the "voice" an author uses, and I've noticed a rather interesting trend in this voice as it pertains to the gender of the author. I've notice more male authors tend to be more objective about the description of a scene, dwelling further on events and motion. More female authors invest a greater amount of time on the feelings of the characters, and how they respond to their environment because of those feelings. It's interesting. I've also noticed just how few male authors pass the classic "Bechdel test".

I say this, because when I write, I don't want to be a "guy author". I find those authors that are enjoyed by both genders being the most dynamic, and I find that important. I believe that how you tell a story is as important as the story you tell. I've given serious thought to adopting a pseudonym if I ever publish again, one that was genderless - something like "C. J. Winter". (Except that I realize that more feminine names begin with a vowel, and it would create more ambiguity if I used a different initial than my true initials.) But I'm also aware of how difficult it is in this day and age of remaining an "anonymous" writer for very long.

I've put a good deal of thought into this, but I'm still uncertain on several points. I'm beginning to think that I'm thinking too much, when I should just start writing. As though thinking is an excuse from action.

...

However, I've heard a great term that I've never come across before. In describing the blend of pulp science and fantasy that was so popularized with Edgar Rice Burrough's "John Carter of Mars" series, I heard it described as "Sword and Planet". I find that awesome. Somewhere in my mind, I wonder at trying to mix Steampunk, Sword and Planet, with your mild magic influence. It has a unique flavor in my mind that I'm curious about.

[Dirty n Evil]

It's been two weeks, this is not a double post.

While it's been almost a year since I meddled with my DeviantArt site, the last two days I've added what I've called "scribble notes". I'll write down notes at work for a story idea, and then clarify them a bit and post them up. So far, I have a pretty original idea that I'm pretty fond of. I have in my head a fantasy world that's developed to steampunk technology - airships, alchemy, firearms and such, but also magic. It's a world in which a hundred years ago there was something close to the Napoleonic wars, only this ruler conquered further and kept his empire intact. This French influenced kingdom covers all of their native continent, and the edge of the neighboring one.

The heroine is a young girl named Jolivette, who's father becomes appointed as the new governor of the former nation of Azurjian - a Turkish influenced land. While in Azurjian, Jolivette accidentally befriends a child-like spirit from the land of dreams that calls itself a goblin... and they form an unlikely friendship that covers many years as they grow up together. While at this time I'm still working on the greater "threat" that propels the plot, I have planned that there's still quite a lot of difficulty (and humor) that will happen because their two worlds don't always fit well together.

I like the idea of the clash of cultures, the local land a mixture of people and beliefs prior to even the invading empire's arrival. There's the possibility for some intrigue because of the political element, but I've also got some straight out action moments planned. That, and I adore this idea for the goblin boy Jolivette finds... I'm calling him Llyr. Llyr is going to be one part Peter Pan, one part Barney Stinson from "How I Met Your Mother", with a little bit of Loki and Gollum thrown in for fun. Wild, impish, playful with some creepy darkness to him.

I also like that each day at work, I have to keep a piece of paper folded in my pocket to keep track of all the ideas that are coming to me. It's a good sign.

[Don Alexander]

So, Llyr is pretty much you?

[Dirty n Evil]

NO, HE'S NOT A MARY SUE! Trust me, I'm not going to be half the brat I plan on making Llyr. He's not going to fuss and overthink every choice like I do... he's going to be impulsive and child-like, in all the exasperating good and bad ways.

[Kamino Neko]

Since I haven't been able to force myself to actually write anything in months, I've decided in lieu of new content, I'd clean up what I've done so far, and wrap it up into ebook form, with covers and everything. It's still an ongoing project (Rag Doll Dance and Gaiden will be collected into one book, and hopefully I'll soon get some more stuff written to collect into a fourth), but the current fruits of my labour (and, hey, the rest once I've finished it...yay, tags) can be found here.... In reverse order (stupid bloggyness!)...

[Miss Vavavavoom]

Guys, I need help. Is there anyone who would be interested in reading a comic script?

[Weertangel]

U making your own comic Vava? couse i'd love to see a sample of it.

[Artemisia]

The Toad, The Bride and the Well of the Mother:

Sorcha awoke from her nap. Her black hair gnarled in knots as usual. She could hear her father in the kitchen working on the pump that provided the two with water. She heard a clatter and some muffled cursing which meant that the work was not going well.

Doing her best to untangle her hair, Sorcha padded into one of only three rooms the battered old cottage had. Her father, unbowed by age, sat in the chair and snarled at the pump. In despair, her father finally said “Child, run down to town and fetch Cormac. Maybe he can sort out this plumbing!”

Sorcha smiled a brief little smile. As Sorcha stepped out of the hut her father called out “and then go get water from the well in the glade!” Her father had not even made that request when Sorcha had snatched up the water pail and started down to the little village down below.

She and her father had lived in that cottage since before her memories were made. As far as she knew, she was born there. Who her mother was, she knew not.

The woods turned quickly to hedges and fields. Sorcha plucked a wild growing rose from the side of the road and carefully broke the thorns off before sticking it into her hair by her left ear. At Cormac’s house, which was right at the end of the row, she knocked. The burly smith opened the door.

“My father asked to see you. Apparently the pump won’t work again.”

The big man sighed and said “I’ll go fetch my tools,” and closed the door. Sorcha smiled whimsically and turned back up the way she came until she reached the fork that turned north. She kept thinking about the sky, the flowers. It was the perfect moment to break into song.

Which she totally would have had she known anything other than a few dirty jigs her father sang when she was drunk. Besides, she had a voice that, according to the townsfolk, was reminiscent of a cat in heat.

The sun was just reaching its zenith when Sorcha finally reached the well in the glen. The people called it the Well of the Mother. It was said to be a magical place. Several times the mists rose here and glowed with the moon. As she drew close, she saw a large toad sitting there looking smug. She hooked the pail to the winch and lowered the pail down. She failed to hear any splashing or anything else, for that matter. The rope reached its limit and she pulled it back. The pail was empty.

“If you want water, I can get it for you.” Sorcha heard a soft, almost quiet voice, say.

“Of course I want water. I was asked to get it from this very well by my father strange voice.”

The almost silken voice said “If I release the water from the well, will you do everything I ask of you including marrying me?”

Sorcha thought about this for a moment. What if this voice belonged to some prince who wanted to take her off and ravish her. Then again, why would a prince wait for her to agree to somethign like that. Maybe the voice belonged to an evil wizard who could only marry a woman he tricked into such a union. Finally she said “Yes, I agree. Please.”

“Alright, let me jump into the pail and then lower me down!” The toad lept into the pail. Eyes wide and wondering what a toad could possible want from her other than flies, Sorcha lowered the bucket down into the well. After a while she heard a stone clatter loose and heard water gurgling into the well.

Sorcha raised the pail up and the toad was there clinging to it. She gently scooped up the toad and placed it on her shoulder after latching the pail so it wouldn’t fall back down. She took the bucket and began the walk home.

Sorcha walked into the house to find that the pump was fixed. The room also looked like it had recently been doused in water. Her father also looked newly scrubbed. “I got the pail of water!” Sorcha announced as she entered the room.

“Put it up here on the counter and then you can make.”

“Um, I kind of had to make a bargain to get it.”

Sorcha’s father, Tom, turned around. “Ah, I see you brought a toad back with you. Not bad eating in the right stew,” Tom said cheerfully.

“Sir, I will have you know that I am no ordinary toad!” the Toad said.

“I, um, made a bargain with this toad that I would marry him if he freed the water from the well.”

Tom sighed. So much for toad stew for dinner.

“Fetch me some rags, my wife-to-be, and wrap them around me on the table. I grow cold!”

Sorcha sighed and gently placed the toad on the table before going to get a ragged scarf she had in the mending pile. She suppressed her anger as she wrapped the scarf around the toad. “Now, fetch me a small bowl of beer, for I grow thirsty!” Sorcha found her lips compressing as she walked to the cabinet, grabbed a small wooden bowl, and filled it with a tiny measure of beer. At that point, she began to make dinner for the three of them, including biscuits made with the water from the well.

Toad lapped at the beer for some time before the biscuits were done and he said “Wife-to-be, fetch me one of those biscuits and put it in the remains of my beer! And be sure to crumble it in!”

The three ate in silence. The food was meager, a simple stew and biscuits. Once the food was consumed, Sorcha gathered up the dishes and placed them in the sink to be washed in a little bit. “Wife-to-be! Take us to our marital chamber!” Sorcha shoved the bowls into the sink and, anger suppressed, scooped up Toad from the table, scarf and all.

Sorcha closed and locked the door, and placed Toad on the table. Toad looked at her over the scarf and said “Wife-to-be! Undress for me!” Sorcha looked at Toad and her anger came to near boiling, but thinking of her promise, she began to. “Faster, my wife-to-be, I must judge your beauty!”

Sorcha’s eyes narrowed and finally, she walked over to Toad, and with a quick grab, took the knife from under her pillow. “I think not!” With that, she used the knife to part Toad’s head from his body.

A light glimmered around Toad’s body as his head slowly fell down. The body dissolved and reformed. Sorcha blushed. “Um...um....”

“Oh radiant one, thank you!” the figure that had been Toad said. The light finally died away and the glitter faded. Standing there was a woman. Her red hair hanging down her shoulders. Sorcha felt her face burn and turn red. “I am Grainne.” She immediately bowed, which made Sorcha swallow hard against the lump in her throat.

Sorcha quickly grabbed one of her dresses and handed it to Grainne and stood there desperately pressing her hands against her belly trying to stop the flutters that were inside of her. Grainne thanked her. As soon as she was dressed, Grainne smiled and then turned to walk out the door. Once in the common room, she roared out “Thomas McBride! I have returned!”

Tom walked out of his room. His job dropped. “You had a curse put on me, Thomas McBride because I came to court your daughter. Admit it!”

Sorcha looked at her father for a moment, but did not need to hear it from his lips. It was there in his eyes. “Of course I did! I will not let my daughter marry a witch or run off with a woman!” Tom bellowed, hoping to scare Grainne.

“Then I shall return the favor!” Tom turned to grab for his sword, but Grainne was faster. She needed no instrument to call upon the Mother’s powers and wove a quick ball of energy around her fingers. Tom turned back towards her, his sword in hand as the ball of energy hit Tom. His clothes evaporated as he turned into a newt. Unfortunately for him, magic can do little against steel and iron. Cotton and wool and wood, yes, but steel or iron. . .

The sword landed with a thud on top of Thomas the Newt.

Grainne looked over at Sorcha and said “Um...sorry about that.”

“You. . .you. . .wait...you were that woman who stopped by earlier this year. And my father turned you into a toad? And...”

“I’m sorry I had to be so mean. I needed you angry enough to break the spell.”

“But why not tell me when we first met?”

“Would you have believed me?”

Sorcha stormed out of the room, but before Grainne could say anything or even move, she was back. In her hand was a dried bouquet of flowers. “It isn’t like I’ve had time to really catch up, but you gave me these flowers. If you had told me, I would have asked you what they were. I thought you had left me- that I wasn’t someone you fancied.” Sorcha let the bouquet drop to her feet as she began to feel tears on her cheeks. She wasn’t even angry any more. She was free. Free from the beatings. Free from the anger. Free from her father.

“Why are you crying,” Grainne said, stepping up to Sorcha.

“Because. . .” Sorcha stopped and just grabbed Grainne and kissed her.

And while they did not live happily ever after, they lived happily enough throughout their years.

[Weertangel]

Wauw, that a great story Artemisia!
Quite funny as well