A Woman's Place (Working Title of my Novel)

note: all names that are not Melaine or Aiden are subject to change.

CHAPTER 1: THE BARD’S TALE

My son looks like his father, almost identical, except that he has my smile and my mother’s eyes. He is tall and strong with a set jaw that reflects a determined young man. And thankfully, he also resembles his father--at merely sixteen he is more highly respected than any person I know in our village. Adults and peers look to him for political advice, for intelligent banter, and for guidance in hard times. His father was every bit that leader…
Before the Queen arrived, and the hierarchy and aristocracy were turned upside-down, I know he would have married noble blood--merely through his respect. However, once the Queen establishes a new aristocracy, I do believe that he will be named noble, and, therefore, will still marry nobly.
This is my story… and yet it is not. It is a story of an infant who brought a world to its knees, and at the same time, a young woman who brought about a transformation…

I grew up in a small village, Xlton, just outside of the main city, and castle-town, of Lewa’oh. Our tiny kingdom, consisting of hardly three-thousand people was immoral and corrupt. Gambling, alcoholism, drug addictions and polygamy were supported--in fact, that was precisely how a new Queen was chosen… through polygamy, that is. The king was allowed as many wives as he wanted—all of them broodwenches for the breeding of the new prince—and whoever produced the most worthy son would become the next Queen and live a life of luxury. All other broods would either be slaughtered or left for the next generation. Most daughters of these broods were murdered upon birth; others were kept as slaves to the kingdom, to work as kitchen drudges and handmaids.
Women were not respected when I was a little girl; we had no future to look forward to. No life of luxury or hope for success—if you were born low-class, you would marry low-class. Men would work, gamble their earnings away, then return home, usually drunk, and beat their wives. Little girls were often raped by their fathers, and the Imperial Army did nothing to punish these offenses.
I was born low-class, I was to marry low-class, and if my father had wanted to take what was rightfully mine, I could not, by law, protest. However, I was a lucky child. My father, in that world of immoralities and cruelties, was still a moral man. He had always taught me to dream highly, and make a name for myself. After my mother died, he remained a widower, and cared for me as two parents in one.
My father educated me when he wasn’t working and taught me to think for myself. I became independent and proficient through his teaching… perhaps this is why I now feel compelled to retell this story.
Now that I have set my humble scene--now that you, as an audience, can understand the conditions a young woman was forced to live in, I may begin the actual tale. May the realities of Lewa’oh illuminate your mind and your heart as you read; perhaps you will find your own kingdom is just as corrupt.
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Melaine looked at herself in the mirror, thoughts focused on her new uniform—or, rather, the thin pieces of lace that were to resemble a uniform--and sighed. She hated her job, but not only was it the best paying, the king required it of her. She was forced to work as a bartender at a pub and brothel, The Bait-Shop. The name, itself, was a pun. The women who worked there, unwillingly and scantily-clad, were the bait to lure in those rich noblemen who had been noble before the Polygamy Clause of Year 17 of King Vhat’s Reign had gone into effect. These men were only allowed to marry once, and often came to The Bait-Shop looking for “a good time” as it was advertised.
Again, she absolutely hated her job. Man, woman, child, beast--none should be exploited for that kind of pleasure--it was immoral, corrupt, wrong and down-right dirty. How could these men not go home with guilty consciences? How was it possible for a man to take pleasure from forcing women into such degrading lifestyles? It sickened her, and every time she saw one of the Bait-Shop’s “customers” on the street, she wanted to murder them--it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to not slaughter them.
She had allowed her thoughts to slip away from her, and now she was running late for work. That was an offense punishable by death. Quickly, Melaine, fastened her nearly-lingerie outfit securely, and took off for work, her shoes in hand--she would don them upon arrival.
She appeared behind the bar literally seconds before her boss, a heavy-set man who closely resembled a pig, arrived through the front entrance.
“Good morning, Khot,” She said, as perkily as possible as she slipped on her black, high-heeled, stilettos.
“My, my,” He began in his chauvinistic, growling, make-one-want-to-vomit voice. “The new outfit is nearly perfect,” He smiled, his round little nose red with glee. “Nearly. You know my motto, Malaine…” He expected her to recite his demeaning semblance of a motto.
“Less fabric, more skin--it helps to bring the noblemen in.” Melaine recited, smiling as best as she could. She hated this place. She wanted to dissolve rat poisoning into every ounce of alcohol she served, and laugh as the men fell, writhing in pain before they died, slowly. The first to go would be Khot, she had always planned.
“Good girl,” He leaned across the bar, reaching to touch her shoulder.
“You’re such a pig, bastard.” Melaine muttered beneath her breath, eyes glowing in pride and anger; she could feel the heat seeping up her face.
“What was that?” He wrenched onto her shoulder with his stubby fingers, crushing the bone.
“I said, ‘I love ‘em big, master.’” She lied, convincingly, and sighed heavily as he released his clenched hand from her shoulder. She could have shot him right then and there and lived in prison happily…
However, despite murderous plans, Melaine smiled her best, provocative smile, until he left to unlock the front doors. It was going to be a long day--the overcast had reflected it, the unstill water had reflected it, the quiet canines had reflected it. All were bad omens.


“Yes sir, Good King Vhat,” A greasy looking man bowed before Vhat’s throne. The kingdom of Larthon was on its third King Vhat in a row. Vhat the 3rd, that is. Often the king would change his last name, in an attempt to separate from the line of kings before, but as everybody knew, the kingdom has belonged to the same family since the dawn of time, beginning with King Pelmy Larthon. From king to king, it had been a father-son direct descent.
“I will send Sir Aiden to Xlton immediately.” The greasy man bowed, once more, before looking up to the king with dark, almost-black eyes. His hair was slicked back, yet messy, and his nose was long and crooked.
“That is all; leave my court!” Vhat demanded, his piercing blue eyes staring coldly to his nobleman, Sir Ghalin Fresth. Watching the man scamper, Vhat sat back in his throne, his sand brown hair falling in perfect tendrils about his head. In all honesty, Vhat was the most attractive man who had ever graced the kingdom. He had beautifully healthy hair that always sat perfectly atop his head, accompanied by ice blue eyes. His jaw was strong and determined and met a strong, yet elegant neck. A muscular torso rest below Vhat’s neck and met with strong, athletic legs. He was perfectly proportioned, and an incredible sight, indeed.
However, Vhat was the worst tyrant of a king Larthon had ever had the displeasure of having. He was spoiled and ill-tempered, mean-spirited and cruel. He found joy in injuring helpless animals, and in bringing about the legalization community control, or the killing of children aged five and younger. Some truly believe that he had no soul.
He had no conscience, no morals, no ethics. Only pride and greed and anger. Money and power were important to him—not his people, not his commitment to his kingdom, nothing. He was the devil incarnate, and was destined to fall. Very soon.

More than Sci-Fi

Orson Scott Card is my favorite author; he wrote the book Ender's Game among other popular Science Fiction books. He is well-read and very intelligent. The Shadow Series that he writes as a spin-off series from Ender's Game are well-researched. His books imply a strong political knowledge and an enormous amount of research in military streategy. It was amazing, however, to read this and to see just how politically active he is. Orson Scott Card has always been two shakes short of genius in my opinion, but now I have developed a newfound respect for him.

He is a democrat but does not hide behind his party, nor support it unconditionally. He is a true free-thinker.

An open letter to the local daily paper — almost every local daily paper in America:I remember reading All the President’s Men and thinking: That’s journalism. You do what it takes to get the truth and you lay it before the public, because the public has a right to know.This housing crisis didn’t come out of nowhere. It was not a vague emanation of the evil Bush administration.It was a direct result of the political decision, back in the late 1990s, to loosen the rules of lending so that home loans would be more accessible to poor people. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were authorized to approve risky loans.What is a risky loan? It’s a loan that the recipient is likely not to be able to repay.The goal of this rule change was to help the poor — which especially would help members of minority groups. But how does it help these people to give them a loan that they can’t repay? They get into a house, yes, but when they can’t make the payments, they lose the house — along with their credit rating.They end up worse off than before.This was completely foreseeable and in fact many people did foresee it. One political party, in Congress and in the executive branch, tried repeatedly to tighten up the rules. The other party blocked every such attempt and tried to loosen them.Furthermore, Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae were making political contributions to the very members of Congress who were allowing them to make irresponsible loans. (Though why quasi-federal agencies were allowed to do so baffles me. It’s as if the Pentagon were allowed to contribute to the political campaigns of Congressmen who support increasing their budget.)Isn’t there a story here? Doesn’t journalism require that you who produce our daily paper tell the truth about who brought us to a position where the only way to keep confidence in our economy was a $700 billion bailout? Aren’t you supposed to follow the money and see which politicians were benefiting personally from the deregulation of mortgage lending?I have no doubt that if these facts had pointed to the Republican Party or to John McCain as the guilty parties, you would be treating it as a vast scandal. “Housing-gate,” no doubt. Or “Fannie-gate.”Instead, it was Senator Christopher Dodd and Congressman Barney Frank, both Democrats, who denied that there were any problems, who refused Bush administration requests to set up a regulatory agency to watch over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, and who were still pushing for these agencies to go even further in promoting sub-prime mortgage loans almost up to the minute they failed.As Thomas Sowell points out in a TownHall.com essay entitled “Do Facts Matter?” ( http://snipurl.com/457townhall_com] ): “Alan Greenspan warned them four years ago. So did the Chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers to the President. So did Bush’s Secretary of the Treasury.”These are facts. This financial crisis was completely preventable. The party that blocked any attempt to prevent it was … the Democratic Party. The party that tried to prevent it was … the Republican Party.Yet when Nancy Pelosi accused the Bush administration and Republican deregulation of causing the crisis, you in the press did not hold her to account for her lie. Instead, you criticized Republicans who took offense at this lie and refused to vote for the bailout!What? It’s not the liar, but the victims of the lie who are to blame?Now let’s follow the money … right to the presidential candidate who is the number-two recipient of campaign contributions from Fannie Mae.And after Freddie Raines, the CEO of Fannie Mae who made $90 million while running it into the ground, was fired for his incompetence, one presidential candidate’s campaign actually consulted him for advice on housing.If that presidential candidate had been John McCain, you would have called it a major scandal and we would be getting stories in your paper every day about how incompetent and corrupt he was.But instead, that candidate was Barack Obama, and so you have buried this story, and when the McCain campaign dared to call Raines an “adviser” to the Obama campaign — because that campaign had sought his advice — you actually let Obama’s people get away with accusing McCain of lying, merely because Raines wasn’t listed as an official adviser to the Obama campaign.You would never tolerate such weasely nit-picking from a Republican.If you who produce our local daily paper actually had any principles, you would be pounding this story, because the prosperity of all Americans was put at risk by the foolish, short-sighted, politically selfish, and possibly corrupt actions of leading Democrats, including Obama.If you who produce our local daily paper had any personal honor, you would find it unbearable to let the American people believe that somehow Republicans were to blame for this crisis.There are precedents. Even though President Bush and his administration never said that Iraq sponsored or was linked to 9/11, you could not stand the fact that Americans had that misapprehension — so you pounded us with the fact that there was no such link. (Along the way, you created the false impression that Bush had lied to them and said that there was a connection.)If you had any principles, then surely right now, when the American people are set to blame President Bush and John McCain for a crisis they tried to prevent, and are actually shifting to approve of Barack Obama because of a crisis he helped cause, you would be laboring at least as hard to correct that false impression.Your job, as journalists, is to tell the truth. That’s what you claim you do, when you accept people’s money to buy or subscribe to your paper.But right now, you are consenting to or actively promoting a big fat lie — that the housing crisis should somehow be blamed on Bush, McCain, and the Republicans. You have trained the American people to blame everything bad — even bad weather — on Bush, and they are responding as you have taught them to.If you had any personal honor, each reporter and editor would be insisting on telling the truth — even if it hurts the election chances of your favorite candidate.Because that’s what honorable people do. Honest people tell the truth even when they don’t like the probable consequences. That’s what honesty means . That’s how trust is earned.Barack Obama is just another politician, and not a very wise one. He has revealed his ignorance and naivete time after time — and you have swept it under the rug, treated it as nothing.Meanwhile, you have participated in the borking of Sarah Palin, reporting savage attacks on her for the pregnancy of her unmarried daughter — while you ignored the story of John Edwards’s own adultery for many months.So I ask you now: Do you have any standards at all? Do you even know what honesty means?Is getting people to vote for Barack Obama so important that you will throw away everything that journalism is supposed to stand for?You might want to remember the way the National Organization of Women threw away their integrity by supporting Bill Clinton despite his well-known pattern of sexual exploitation of powerless women. Who listens to NOW anymore? We know they stand for nothing; they have no principles.That’s where you are right now.It’s not too late. You know that if the situation were reversed, and the truth would damage McCain and help Obama, you would be moving heaven and earth to get the true story out there.If you want to redeem your honor, you will swallow hard and make a list of all the stories you would print if it were McCain who had been getting money from Fannie Mae, McCain whose campaign had consulted with its discredited former CEO, McCain who had voted against tightening its lending practices.Then you will print them, even though every one of those true stories will point the finger of blame at the reckless Democratic Party, which put our nation’s prosperity at risk so they could feel good about helping the poor, and lay a fair share of the blame at Obama’s door.You will also tell the truth about John McCain: that he tried, as a Senator, to do what it took to prevent this crisis. You will tell the truth about President Bush: that his administration tried more than once to get Congress to regulate lending in a responsible way.This was a Congress-caused crisis, beginning during the Clinton administration, with Democrats leading the way into the crisis and blocking every effort to get out of it in a timely fashion.If you at our local daily newspaper continue to let Americans believe — and vote as if — President Bush and the Republicans caused the crisis, then you are joining in that lie.If you do not tell the truth about the Democrats — including Barack Obama — and do so with the same energy you would use if the miscreants were Republicans — then you are not journalists by any standard.You’re just the public relations machine of the Democratic Party, and it’s time you were all fired and real journalists brought in, so that we can actually have a news paper in our city.http://www.bittenandbound.com/2008/10/22/orson-scott-card-rhinoceros-times-article/

Climb Every Mountain

Thank God for the end of Mid-Term week! I mean, sure I've got a Music History III test on Wednesday, but I think it will be manageable, as long as I keep a clear head and get some sleep. This week I have officially gotten circa fifteen hours of sleep. But, alas, after Probie court tonight this week will be over. I have a few things to do this weekend, but I can psuedo-relax for a couple of hours.

I hate to sound whiny, but this week as sucked. LoL.

I wish I had some deep words to leave you with, but I don't.

Top Ten Things I Like
In no particular order

1. Playing in the rain
2. Snow
3. Reading on a quiet afternoon
4. Lying next to my horse and falling asleep on her
5. Philippians 4:13 and Psalm 18:3
6. Mexican Food
7. Harry Potter
8. Fireside Chats
9. The rush of adrenaline from a scary movie
10. Jesus Christ

Returning Home

Very few people know this about me, but I love to write. More importantly, I'm working on a book. This is one of my favorite chapters that I've written, thus far.

Returning Home

“Japheth,” Melaine’s bell-like voice rang out over the lull of the crystalline river.
“Japheth, sweetheart, I’m going further into the woods, stay here with Nanny, okay.”
Melaine excused herself from the clearing to trek further into the woods. Each tree was familiar to her; each tree held within it part of her past, part of her soul. She allowed her hands to graze the rough bark of evergreens as she followed the familiar path.
Tears were welling in her eyes as she approached the threshold of her most treasured possession: her home. The oaken door was shut, secure as she had left it, and for a moment, she swore she could hear Aiden’s voice singing from the paned window. For a moment she could hear his lullaby:
“When you close your eyes
I’ll be there.
When you take a breath,
I’m in the air.
And with every tear I’m at your side.
I will be with you ‘til the end of time.”
Though she could not back her tears, she felt stronger than she had in years. She had forgotten Aiden’s lullaby to her; she had forgotten her strength. Silently, she mustered up all of her strength and pushed open the heavy door, listening to the loud creak of the neglected hinges, wishing so badly to see Aiden standing on the other side, in the foyer, awaiting her long overdue return.
What she found, however, were merely memories, the ghost of her husband. As she turned about in the dusty, long forgotten living room, memories filled her mind. On the goose-down couch she could see Aiden, hard at work on his bookkeeping logs before beginning his journey to Lewa’oh to deliver his tax collections to King Vallin.
Sighing, she entered the kitchen where she could see; Aiden blessing the dinner which she had prepared. She sat atop the dusty stool at the table and started upward at the place where Aiden’s family crest still hung. Smiling, she remembered the way she had felt when she had first seen the crest hanging. She had been so overcome with joy when she had found out that he, too, was a Christian. He would have understood Japheth’s name.
Slowly, she rose and walked, dazedly into the bedroom in which she had slept so many nights. She allowed her hand to meet plush velvet of her comforter. Smiling and caring not about the flood of tears rolling down her cheeks, she sat upon the bed that had once been hers. Feeling the rich velvet crumple beneath the weight of her body, Melaine closed her eyes and allowed her mind to be taken once more, into the past.
“It was in this very room that I fell in love with you.” She caught herself saying aloud.
She could remember opening her eyes and seeing the scared man with whom she would fall in love just as vividly as if it had happened the day prior. He was so concerned for her. He had been so pale, so distraught it had taken her by surprise. She had hardly known the man, yet he had fought to save her life. He had saved her from her life that day. God had blessed her with a beautiful gift that day—a new life.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Melaine rose at last and left her bedroom, walking slowly, as if in a funeral procession until she came upon the threshold of Aiden’s room. This room had not been disturbed in four years. Not even when Nanny had been sent to collect Melaine’s belongings—Melaine had left specific instructions not to enter Aiden’s room.
Quietly, reverently, Melaine pushed open the door to Aiden’s sleeping quarters. Breathing deeply, she prepared herself for the mental and emotional breakdown that was inevitable, and entered the room.
It was hard to ignore the chills creeping up her spine, to shake the goose bumps spreading across her arms. She had only been in his room three times before that moment: on her wedding night and the two nights following. She was supposed to return the day she had found that she was pregnant.
She spun around the room, scanning it slowly, soaking in each memory. A pair of trousers and a tunic lay, forgotten, where he had shed them to sleep the night before he had been murdered. Reaching down to pick up Aiden’s clothes, Melaine hugged them closely, hoping that, despite four years’ time, his scent hung closely to the discarded clothing.
As she faced the bed, at last, she noticed a sheet of parchment lying upon what would have been her pillow, beneath the shriveled stem of a long-dead rose. For what felt like an eternity, Melaine just stood there, stunned, her jade hues fixated upon the folded paper. Cautiously she crept toward the letter as if afraid that a quick movement might cause the letter to spontaneously combust.
Melaine felt like her lungs had been frozen solid—her breath stood still, and she could neither exhale, nor inhale. A lump lodged itself into her throat, and she physically hurt as she pined for her husband. With a trembling hand, Melaine reached for the note addressed to her, careful not to disturb anything around it.
Her entire body shook uncontrollably as she carefully unfolded the stiff parchment. Her eyes scanned the page as if searching for something, but she was merely soaking in his scratchy handwriting. After a few moments, she began to actually read the letter.
My beautiful bride,
I’m sorry that I wasn’t home when you arrived—I was called to the castle for an emergency meeting with King Vallin. I promise to return as soon as I can. I just want you to know that since you came into my life, I have been the happiest man alive. God has blessed me unendingly by putting you in my life. Even when I am not with you, know that my spirit is at your side. You will always have my heart; we are never apart.
I love you so much.
Aiden
Aiden’s voice rang in Melaine’s head like an ethereal narrator, echoing his promise: “My spirit is at your side…we are never apart.” There it was, in ink as blue as sapphires, his promise—what she’d always prayed was true. What shocked her the most, however, was the fact that she no longer desired to cry, the pressure behind her eyes had been alleviated and she had long since regained control of her lungs.
“Aiden, my husband, I love you. We will be together again, one day.” She voiced, at last, a genuine smile creeping along her face. She finally, for the first time in four years, felt complete again, felt whole.
“You always did have a way with words. Even in the afterlife you know exactly what to say.” Melaine spoke softly, a newfound resolve bubbling up from within her. Carefully, Melaine folded the parchment back up and slipped it into the pocket of her flowing summer dress. After drying her face on Aiden’s tunic, the raven-haired beauty discarded his clothing back onto the floor. She would take with her four things: her dagger, which she soon found on Aiden’s nightstand, Aiden’s family crest, her letter and Aiden’s spirit. She no longer needed trinkets of his to keep him close, she was a bold, new woman.

So This is Goliath

Orginially Written: October 3, 2o08

Sometimes--most times, in fact--I wish that I had faith like David's. He was the poster-child for pure, unrelentless faith; just study the book of Psalms for your proof. His soul is always finding joy in the Lord, and when he is sad, he seeks solace in God. I know in my heart of hearts that I should rejoice in the Lord for all things, but I find it so difficult, when things are going wrong, to rejoice.

Yet, the expert Psalmist had the ability to do it. His son betrayed him and was later killed, but David wrote a Psalm of rejoicing in the Lord. With the Lord's strength, David defeated a giant. I find myself struggling to climb the mountain that is school. He defeated a GIANT with only a sling and a stone. Maybe his is the faith that I should have!

I know that God didn't make me David for a reason, and I know that I will never physically face a giant in combat, but I've come to realize just how I should grow in my fraith. So from now on, I will. I can't guarantee that my faith will be perfect, but I -will- grow.

My First Post

So--we all knew that it would happen, right? That somebody as strongly opinionated with, until today, no soapbox to stand on would turn to the virtual soapbox of Blogger, right? I like to write, and while I am not particularly fond of blogging, it will be nice to have somewhere kind of "grown-up" to post my writings. Kelli Fontenot (my amazingly talented friend) and I were just talking the other day about how Blogger is the adult version of Xanga. So I suppose I'll join the "adult world" of blogging.

My soapbox topic of the day: acceptance. This will be a recurring theme, no worries.

Why is it so difficult for us, as the Human Race, to merely accept individuals? Why is it so hard for us to love one another, to value one another? Is there something in our genetic make-up that causes us to naturally flee from differences, to run away from individuals, to hide from the unknown?

Why do we feel it necessary to label each other with demeaning titles, to make fun of one another for the way we dress or talk, to ridicule one another for being just a tiny bit different? And I'm not saying that I am left out of the equation. I am the first to talk about somebody, and I know it, but now I'm striving for change. I don't want to talk about people, I don't want to hardor hostility and to breed hate. I really do want to love everybody, and I feel as if I'm doing well at that. Sure, there are a few people who my soul absolutely rejects. Sure, there will always be somebody that I cannot even force myself to love, and that is my human flaw. But I will try my hardest to love everybody.

I only wish that everybody could love each other, or even try. Imagine how much easier that might make life.