The Edited, the Finished.

Once upon a time, i put a very rough, very.... uncouth and strange version of Three Piles of White Ash. Here's the finished, and edited version of the story:

Three Piles of White Ash

1479, Spain
Curtained in long lashes and eyelids shadowed in black, the woman’s eyes were closed. She lay on the floor of the forest, the dead, leafless trees stretching into eternity before her. Her bloodless face the palest white and a ruby red cloak covered her body. Her long, dark hair, tangled with twigs and leaves, fell about her face. Lips the color of fresh blood whispering to the grey sky, suck approaching as quickly as the whispers she spoke.
Her name was Lorita, meaning sorrowful.
His name was Ricardo, meaning ruler.
He watched her seemingly lifeless body, waiting for her to breathe. She whispered, but breathed not. Impossibly still, laying as a corpse without breath. Ricardo gasped as she sat up. He watched, enticed by her dazzling features to look onwards. He admired her beautiful face. Lorita looked at him through her closed eyelids, but that vision failed to satisfy her curiosity, for the sight blurred and blackened. Opening her eyes and standing up, she expected to see him turn and flee. Ricardo’s face remained even, watching her. Lorita saw his face, his closed eyes and bloodless skin.
They were the same kind.
The urge to run consumed them both, but their feet remained still. Ricardo approached her, touching her head that hung from her neck awkwardly, like a dead person. He touched the skin around her white eyes. Lorita responded by touching his eyelids, swerving her head in an uncomfortably disturbing manner. The two otherworldly creatures thrilled at the burn caused by their touching skin, ignoring the black burn marks that smudged their hands and faces.
Lorita watched with fascination as Ricardo opened his eyes. She looked into the cool whiteness that lay between his eyes. Lorita reveled in the touch of his dry tree-like fingers. Lorita laced a hand through his dark hair and ran the fingers of her other hand along his red lips. She noted his neck, which hung as if he’d broken it. The moon rose in the background.
As their doom approached, the two interlocked their gaze, not seeing the end draw near.
“Fire!” Lorita screamed in a voice laced with a thousand voices. “Burn!” She began seizing haphazardly, her white skin turning black as if she where being burned.
“Ahhhh!” Ricardo screeched with the same unearthly voice, holding his hand in front of him. “Moon!” Then he, too, began to burn in the light.
The moonlight turned the world white, bathing it anew and ridding it of evil spirits. But at dawn the next morning the town’s hunters found two white piles of ash on the forest floor. The scent of burned flesh was intoxicating. Who, they wondered, or what could have possibly been burned without our knowing?
In their fright, they approached their pastor, Father Abella.

1472, Rome
Sent to a small village on the southern tip of Spain, Father Abella was a bitter man. The demotion too grave a pain to consider. He quickly befriended a monk and nun had entered the Holy Orders together. He resented the parishioners and his superiors for this demotion, cursing them a thousand times for their stupidity. His arrogance alienated the parishioners as well. Father Abella had two pleasure a day, praying matins with Sister Lorita and vespers with Brother Ricardo. Father Abella came to love his companions, until, in 1478 at the dawn of the Spanish Inquisition, he discovered they practiced witchcraft. He reported their treachery and watched as soldiers broke their necks and burned their bodies.
1479, Spain
Father Abella had become even more bitter since the loss of Sister Lorita and Brother Ricardo. He, as an educated city-priest, disliked the common folk, thinking their intelligence inferior to his own. When they approached him, begging him to bless the forests, he told them only what they wished to hear. But Father Abella did not believe the words he spoke, he did as they asked and cursed them for it.
The morning after Father Abella blessed the woods, the townspeople excitedly went to Father Abella’s rectory to determine if his blessing was successful. However, Father Abella was not in the rectory. Upon searching the town and roads, Father Abella was pronounced missing. The people glanced at the forest in fear. A few brave men dared to enter the forest. They did not find Father Abella, but they did find three piles of white on the forest floor.


Fini. :) Fare thee well, Cherrios.
A.

muahahahahaha

i love doing this to you, Cherrios. (how's that for an endearing pet-name?) Yes, I mean both the wierd pet-names and changing the layout. What can I say? They have new layouts - and they're coool. ;)

So I was going to put the ending of Three Piles of Ash on here... but I can't find it. Oh well, I'll put it up later - on a different computer...

Cherio, Cherrios!

haha. that makes me laugh.
<3 A.

coffee + Ingrid Michaelson + a beautiful day = summer

I realize it's been.... ages :) but it's finally summer. bring on the boredom - fun boredom, but its there still. okay, so i'm here to say that I am so confused on what to write. I really am LOOOOOSSSSSSTTTTTTTTTT!!!!! and there's this artist (afore mentioned Ingrid Michaelson) that i'm raving about. A friend recommended her to me and now i'm kind of obsessed ;) how typical of me... look her up (The Way I Am and You And I are my favs)

SO. anyways. if you have an idea for a story you'd like to see, please comment and i'll try and work on it - because i really have NO IDEA where to start. kaythnxbai :)
A.

nonsensical.

I love wierd words. Nonsensical, aquiest, cloister, phantasmigorical, sardonic (which means the same thing as sarcastic), sarchasm (the void between the sarcastic comment and the person who doesn't get it), silence, paperclip?, sweetheart, prohibition. anyone thinking about quizes? And I love the names of cities. Barcelona, Jerusalem, Cairo, Kiev, Moskow, Tokyo, Montreal, (Niagra falls, if it comes down to it), San Domingo?... okay, so my quiz? What's your favorite words and names of cities. (And, V.T., I think Hell should be on your list :P) I was totally going to say something remotely important concerning a book, but am having short term memory loss. OH WELLZ! Oh, here's another 2 quiz-questions: Favorite book titles and If someone were to write a book about you what would its title be??? kk. Book Titles: the Life of Pi, Jane Eyre (for obvious reasons), I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be your Class President (I've never read it, but seriously, that's a badass name and its sequel: I Am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to Take You to the Eighth Grade Formal :P) Okay, I'm going to delve into and re-read some Writer's Digest (God knows, I practically live out of that magazine...) and get some much needed info... Which leads me to the upcoming book... Our STILL UNNAMED Kristy's Story. I will post more shortly (and I do truly mean shortly). Good Morrow, Cuz. :P Romeo and Juliet is going to my brain... DEATH!
Asiat.

Coffee Beans, Nicknames, Homework, Book UPDATES!

Yeesh. Long time no talk, Minions. BTW, I've been thinking about nicknames. Minions is Heather Brewer and Lady Gaga called her followers "monsters". And I think that we need a new name for you guys. Dragons (meddling in the affairs of dragons...) or Meddlers? Coffee beans? Laptops? Parisians (idk where I go that...)? Warm-bed-lovers? FoRM-etts? Tonix (Tonia and Calix (formerly Adam) shippers)? Adyess (Adyin/Tess)? Leave a comment, V.T.!
Okay. All know my wierd, creepy, abnormal obsession with the caffine-god, Coffee. And what good has that brought me? My own coffee grinder, coffee cup (which I've started collecting, apparently), and Chocolate Coffee Beans... and don't forget the coffee-themed socks! I have a bunch of those little beans by my bedside, too. I just had a wierd thought, but can't remember it anymore. OH well. Oh, wait, nvmd. I was thinkgin about a poem I was going to write. Maybe will write now b/c I'm just rambling... AND that I can't spell the word t-o-n-g-u-e. on the first try. wierd.
My homework to-do list:
finish paper on first memory (2 to-be verbs, one page)
finish Coconuts, 141 (btw, I messed up the rules for that)
start writing daily
start doing something over the weekends (aka get a life)
The End.
Book update on FoRM. It's going to be a series (I can't accomplish everything in just three books, Coffee beans... we can't use that as a nickname.
Asiat
PS: is it sad I'm getting tired of using Asiat? Thinking of changed to the reverse???? HOW wierd is THAT???? lol. Give impressions on this wacko post.

A thousand apologies!

A thousand apologies is right, tomorrow is Forgiveness Vespers (aka the beginning of Lent). Some part of me wants to run away from this - wants to seek refuge in another religion that doesn't require fasting. Unfortunately, I know of no such religion - that I would like to become, that is. Without further adieu, the long awaited manuscript I was inspired to touch. I'd like to see if you can tell what it is. I have changed a majority of the "normal" names because they were, well, normal. Too normal.


Prologue

Master Al’ead took the small figurine out of a leather pouch and ran his rough hands over its worn surface. He pressed his lips to it and held it in his hand as a single tear slid down his cheek.
“Myra,” he whispered. “My love, I am eternally sorry. I will atone for it.” A hand knocked against the wooden door to his room. His eyes opened. He gently placed the figurine in his pouch and walked to the door. “Who is it?”
“Adela, Master Al’ead,” came the reply. Al’ead opened the door and a small, dark-haired girl wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Adela, child,” he whispered, sitting her on his cot. “What is the matter?”
“Father,” she sniffled. “Father came to me and said that the Duke wished to see me wed to his son. His son is near ten years older than you, Master Al’ead! But then he and Mam got in a fight, and Mam was saying that we should wait until I was ten-and-four before we considered a marriage proposition. And Father said that then it would be too late to make such a good deal. And he slapped my mother for her intolerance and stupidity.” Adela continued to cry, sobs shaking her small body.
“Shh, Adela,” he soothed. “Be still, child.” She looked at him and cried harder. Master Al’ead thought quickly of a way that Adela would he put at peace. “Would you like a story, Adela? To take your mind off of it? I am sure that your father will heed your mother’s advice.”
“Yes, Master Al’ead,” she whispered hoarsely. Master Al’ead stood and brought Adela a small cup of water to her.
“Do you know the story of our lands?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“Well, before the division of the lands, we were one: Mec, Theo, Dragon Island, Kila, Nethalat, the Kar Nar Islands, the Desert Islands. All the countries bound with a loyalty, love, and respect for one another, but there was a man whose hunger for power drove him to begin the divide. Da’lea was his name. Da’lea began spreading lies about each country to pin them against each other with the help of his wife. He was, for the most part, successful.” Master Al’ead reached into the leather pouch tied to his belt. He pulled out the small figurine. “Here she is,” he showed her. “She was a very beautiful woman, and he had, at one point, loved her more than life itself. However, now he began to view her as a tool.” Master Al’ead stopped his story, his grey eyes transfixed on the figurine in the girl’s hands.
“Master Al’ead,” she questioned. “Are you alright? Master Al’ead?” He blinked and smiled quickly at Adela.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Anyway, he began to seize control of the islands with the help of his mistress, you see, she was a witch. Together, they created war and chaos amongst the islands. Eventually he came to rule the islands, for they saw him as a way out of the violence. He was a horrid leader. Finally, diplomats from the other islands decided that enough was enough. They met Da’lea and his mistress at the Lost City.
“The four couples stood hand in hand at the center of the City. Silver rain crashed down on them and lightning stroked the skies like a paintbrush on canvas. Da’lea clenched his teeth at the others, yelling that this land was made for war and war shall be its destiny.
“The man leading the four couples responded ‘I will not let you do this. I will not let you destroy this land with your lust for power.’ Da’lea replied, ‘I had no need to destroy this land, it destroyed itself.’ He then commanded his mistress, ‘Do it, do it now.’
“The mistress began a rhythmic dance, a wicked chant escaping her lips. Snakes rose up from the ground and killed the four couples where they stood. His mistress held the darkness in her hand, but even the darkness suffers when life is taken from the earth. After all were dead, she ceased her vile dance and collapsed unto the floor as the darkness tried to recover its life force. Try as she might to help the force, her work was to no avail. The guilt of murdering eight people in cold blood came crashing down. The guilt and the force became so much that she died as well…” Al’ead stopped his narration when he saw that Adela slept. He laid her on his cot next to the fire and covered her with a wool blanket. He sat on the ground and leaned his back on the cot. He stared into the fire.
“Please, Master Al’ead, continue with your story,” Adela said quietly, touching his shoulder with her small, warm hand.
“I will, I will,” he whispered, taking her hand in his. “The wicked man was… grieved… to see the one person he loved and who loved him lying dead. He began grieving as no man ever had. He began to repent his evil ways. He began a simple life, not wanting or lusting after power. Deep inside, the man hated himself, cursed himself, for killing the only people who brought peace to the Islands. As much as he tried, the lands would not stop their war. He prowled the land and the sea in search of peace and of death. He grew old searching. He grew old…but would not die.
“The darkness made the man prowl the earth – sometimes in the guise of a young man, but other times as an old one. Even now he prowls the earth…” Master Al’ead stopped. He turned to see the child sleeping peacefully. He brushed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead. “And that man changed his name, moving the letters once to the right: Da’lea, Al’ead,” he whispered. “That man is me, Adela. Would you forgive me if you knew?”
Master Al’ead stroked Adela’s cheek where her tears made little dried streaks. Al’ead gathered her up in his arms. He carried her back into her room and, as he closed the door, silent tears fell down his cheeks. The morning afterwards, Master Al’ead took his leave of the castle. He was never seen again in Nethalat.

Now - which of my many manuscripts do you think it is???

POTATOES!!!!
Asiat.