I am Palestine –a poem

I am Palestine.

I duck as rocks fly at me,

thrown by those who scorn me.

Some say I should not exist

just because I follow the crescent

instead of the cross.

 

I am Palestine.

I hold my child to my bosom.

Blood pours from his wounds.

I cry out for help, but no one heeds me

for I follow the crescent

instead of the cross

 

I am Palestine.

My hands are bound behind my back.

The coarse rope cuts into my wrists.

They jeer at me and spit at me

because I follow the crescent

instead of the cross.

 

I am Palestine.

Where are my mother and father?

I am lost and frightened.

I just want to be safe. 

I call out for them, but my cries

are lost in the din of war.

 

I am Palestine.

I live in exile in the desert.

Walls of tanks prevent my return.

No one takes me in,

or even gives me water.

My pleas for help go unheeded.

 

I am Palestine.

My patience has reached its end.

I will not cower like a beaten dog

when they throw sticks and stones at me.

I can fight back too;

I have my own sticks and stones.

Let them know they cannot tread all over me

For my father was Ismail, the son of Abraham, a father of kings.  

I have been here since the beginning,

And I will remain until the end.

Angel

Disclaimer: I don’t own Kingdom of Heaven. It belongs to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan.

Heaven and Earth; the only difference is the relations between one person and another. In Heaven, no hate exists. It is foreign. I do not claim to know everything that there is to know about Heaven, nor do I know everything worth knowing about Earth. I just know more than most of you.

 

I have existed in both realms. I have seen the peace of Heaven and the bloodshed on Earth. I have seen men create paradise on Earth, and I have seen other men turn that paradise into Hell. Time passes, but human nature does not change.

 

I was sent down from Heaven with a mission.

 

No, I am not the Messiah, nor have I ever claimed to be.

 

As I have said, I was sent down to do God’s work, and my task was to give guidance to one who bore the mark of God; the problem was that he did not know it.

 

Men are strange creatures. The Truth is right before their eyes, in all its different incarnations, but most of the time, they are oblivious to it. They seem to like to convolute the simplest of things, warping God’s will with man-made rules and dogmas. There are those who believe they are doing God’s work by sticking strictly to their dogmas, when in actual fact, they go against His decrees when they discriminate against those who do not believe in their rules. They claim to love God and obey His commands when they preach hatred against their fellow men. Mankind has a way of distinguishing between one another using the smallest of differences, even though they have more similarities. They seek to exaggerate those differences. Perhaps it is in their nature to want to find others who are exactly the same. I do not completely understand it, and I do not think that I ever will. It is a funny business. Amongst them, it is easy to hide, for they cannot see anything that they do not believe, and no one believes that angels walk with men.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (part 16)

Disclaimer: I don’t own Kingdom of Heaven or anything else that you might recognize here. It belongs to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan, and history.

 

Chapter 16: Coup d’état

Guy knew that Raymond was not listening to him as he stated the reasons why he had decided to go to war — the main reason being that he was king and if he wanted to start a war then he would do so— and he did not care one little bit. Raymond of Tiberias was the past; Jerusalem had no use for an old cowardly Marshal who would rather make peace with God’s enemies than do his duty and eradicate them from the face of the earth. He had control of the army now, and he was going to use it as he pleased.

“There are some of you who might not agree with our succession,” he said, looking at each and every one of the gathered nobles. No one said anything. They all knew what had happened to Guy’s last opponent, and no one relished being left to die alone in the desert and becoming food for carrion birds. “But it is war!” continued Guy, his confidence swelling. This was what he had come to the Holy Land to do. “And I am…” Then his eye strayed in the direction of the desert, and his confidence evaporated like a puddle in the scorching eastern sun. “…the king,” he finished, and he knew he sounded pathetic, but no one was paying him much attention.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (part 14)

Disclaimer: I own neither the plot nor the characters of Kingdom of Heaven. They belong to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan, and history.

 

Chapter 14: Weeping Angels

 

Why? That was the question that Sibylla kept asking, even as she played her part in her bleak grey world of politics and intrigue. In her eyes, the colour and vibrancy of Jerusalem had been stripped away, leaving only bare hard rock. She would give up her power, her city, just to save her son. The thought of watching him become a masked ghost as her brother had done was unbearable.

 

The words on the piece of paper before her made no sense, even though she was the one writing them. Her quill moved slowly, sometimes pausing above the paper with a droplet of ink hanging from the tip.

 

It pained Raymond to see Sibylla like this. This was but a shadow of what she had been. This disease was not only slowly taking away the young king’s life, but it was also leeching the life from his mother. He watched her write, knowing that she had to acknowledge the truth soon. A king’s mother could not afford to live in a dream. And in Jerusalem, the gossips had been hard at work. He did not doubt the physician, but someone else must have seen the young king’s reaction to pain; someone like Heraclius. Something had to be done, or else the storm would be enough to raze Jerusalem to the ground.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (part 13)

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything that you recognize. The characters and the plot of Kingdom of Heaven belong to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, and History.

 

Chapter 13: Why?

 

Rumbling drunken snores penetrated the darkness. Sibylla lay wide awake, staring at the canopy above her. The sweaty sheets were twisted around her body, hiding her shame and nakedness. Beside her, Guy snorted and then rolled over so that his back was turned to her. That was better, but only just. Her body still hurt from his brutish touches, and she knew she would find bruises blossoming on her pale skin the next morning. It hadn’t been like this with Balian.

 

A lump grew in her throat as she remembered the tender touches of her gentle knight. Every caress had spoken of love. She supposed that she would never feel those caresses again. He had rejected her, and hurt her pride in every way possible. She had expected him to return to his little fief at Ibelin and stay there, becoming just another baron who regarded her with cold distant courtesy. Why he was still in Jerusalem was a mystery, for he never showed his face at court, probably because he was loathe to see her. Perhaps he was still here because he had business to settle before he could go back to Ibelin? That was the only rational explanation. However, in her heart, there was a little voice whispering to her, telling her that he was here because even though he did not want to see her, he was even more reluctant to leave her.

Ten things I want for my birthday…

My birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks, and I thought I’d make up a list of ten (as yet non-existent) things which would make my life easier, or simply breezy. Just a little bit of silliness really.

1. An automatic essay writer–just plug in the information and it will produce a well crafted essay. Better yet, plug in the topic and connect it to your brain so it knows your point of view, and then produces the essay.
2. A real automatic car–Just tell it where you want to go, and it will take you there. You can sleep in the back seat and sleep.
3. A portal maker–Even better than the automatic car. Just say where you want to go, a door will open and you can just step in. Very eco-friendly as there is little to no fuel used.
4. Writer’s block medication–A pill which will get rid of the most enduring of writer’s blocks.
5. Automatic note taker–takes notes in class automatically and without needing any effort on the user’s part. Includes accurate diagram drawing mode.
6. Automatic computer doctor–a robot which can fix all computer problems; just tell it what’s going on and it will diagnose and get rid of anything which makes the computer malfunction.
7. Automatic cooker–Just throw in the foodstuffs, raw, unwashed and unsorted, and watch it produce a six course meal, complete with dessert and coffee.
8. Automatic cleaner–it just cleans, and does it the way you want it.
9. Music writer–All I have to do is plug myself in and it will write down any weird tunes/symphonies which I create inside my head but can’t reproduce manually on paper. Watch as the world becomes a society of Mozarts and Beethovens.
10. Automatic researcher–will read all boring textbooks for me and when I plug myself in, the information will be magically transferred into my head. Better yet, plug it into the essay writer and do no work other than just the plugging.

A Portrait of the Joker as a Young Man

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything that you recognize. Batman belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. I’m just playing with the characters.

How had it come to this? Delirious with medication and only slightly aware that he was in a white room, Jack Donahue repeated this question over and over again in his head. As the anaesthetics wore off, he became aware of the tubes connected to his body and the soreness of his swollen face. Slowly, he reached up. His fingers came into contact with stitches on his cheeks. The memories came back. Jack groaned and tried to sit up, but his body was still uncoordinated for the anaesthetics were still in his system.

 

“Mr. Donahue?” said a voice. “Don’t try to move. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” A hand pushed him back down onto the hospital bed. Jack did not resist. As consciousness returned, so did the memories. A tear slid down his face. He wished he could forget.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (part 12)

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters or the storyline. This is just my interpretation of Sir Ridley Scott’s film, Kingdom of Heaven.

 

Chapter 12: Price of Power

Sibylla’s mind was reeling with all the changes. There was so much she had to do, but she was not ready to deal with the affairs of state yet. First, there was her brother’s funeral. Simply thinking about Baldwin’s death made her want to weep again, but she knew she couldn’t. She was the greatest authority in the kingdom now, as the mother of the uncrowned king, and she had to be strong; stronger than the foundations of Jerusalem itself.

 

Outside her window, the sky blue standards of the kingdom fluttered against a pale grey sky. The sun, usually blazing brightly down on the Holy Land, was nowhere to be seen. The princess could not help but feel as if God had turned away from her and the kingdom.

 

‘You mustn’t think like that,’ she told herself. There was no time for morbid thoughts. She had to prepare for her brother’s funeral and for her son’s coronation.

 

“Youmna!’ she called. The maid came in and curtseyed.

 

“Milady?” she said.

 

“Send for the Lord Marshal,” said the princess. “I must consult him about matters concerning the coronation.”

 

“As you wish, milady,” said Youmna. As she dipped another curtsey, she glanced up at Sibylla. The maid had never seen her so haggard, as if she had not slept well for many nights. Underneath the face powder, her complexion was pale and she seemed almost translucent, as if she was fading away from exhaustion. The maid opened her mouth, and then hesitated. Sibylla was a princess, and she was only a handmaiden. What right did a handmaiden have to tell a princess what to do? However, Youmna knew that it was her duty to serve her mistress’ best interests. “Milady, perhaps you should rest for a while,” she ventured.

 

Sibylla sighed. “I cannot rest, Youmna,” she said. “There is too much to do.”

 

“You cannot work if you are half-alive, milady,” said the maid, more firmly this time. At least Sibylla had not snapped at her; that was a good sign.

 

“Very well. Send of the Lord Marshal. I shall rest after I have seen him.”

Heaven

I just watched the second half of Kingdom of Heaven again today, and it was still an amazing experience. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I’m even more in love with Balian. The acting was beautiful and touching. I could feel his shock when Sibylla declared that she didn’t really give a damn about what she did as long as she had power. I know I’ve already written that scene in ‘With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla’, but I’m wondering whether I should write a very short piece from Balian’s point of view at that moment in time. For all the stories which I’ve written about him, I’ve never written his perspective in first person before. I’m a little afraid of the first person perspective, because it doesn’t sound like the character, but it sounds like me talking. It’s also rather limited. However, considering this is Balian, and he’s been my muse ever since I started airing my work, I’m willing to give it a try.

I also managed to skip out that very emotional scene when Sibylla takes off her brother’s mask and sees his ravaged face. How did I manage to skip it? Probably I was too busy thinking about Balian and the creosote bush. Maybe I should do a oneshot of that as well, just to fill in the gaps. Actually, there are lots of things that I could write if I want to elaborate on Sir Ridley’s masterpiece. Too many ideas; too little time.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (Part 11)

Disclaimer: All the characters and events of Kingdom of Heaven belong to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, and, of course, History. I’m just borrowing them and writing my own interpretation.

 

The walls and hangings muffled the sounds from outside. Many candles burned, but they did nothing to dispel the shadow which was falling over the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. It took a while for Sibylla’s vision to adjust to the darkness of the king’s chamber. It had been so long since she had set foot in here. The scent of incense could not conceal the underlying smell of decay which permeated the room.

 

She approached the bed where her brother lay; a pitiable and wasted figure. One bandaged hand rested on his chest. The other arm was outstretched; it was in the same position which the physician had left it. The silver mask was still in place, however. It was the same cold emotionless face which he showed the world; the face which was supposed to hide weakness.

 

With a shaking hand, the princess reached out and rested it on her brother’s bandaged one, unsure of whether he would feel it or not. Baldwin stirred, and with what seemed like a great effort, opened his eyes. “Hello,” he said. His voice was breathy and weak, but Sibylla’s heart lurched at the sound of that benevolent tone. It was the same one which he had used with her all those years ago, before he had put on the silver mask.

The Complicated World of Fanfiction

I realize I haven’t written much about my writing and creative life in this blog, and it’s supposed to be a writer’s blog. What can I say? I’m just a bit ditzy like that, and I am a professional when it comes to going off topic. Just because I haven’t been writing about being creative doesn’t mean I haven’t been creative though. I’ve spent the most of the past three weeks trying to think of how to go about writing my latest fanfiction creation, Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age. I’d been consulting all sorts of Tolkien experts and discussing options with them; I’d even read bits of the Silmarillion. While it has been hailed as one of Tolkien’s greatest works, and I loved his other great work, The Lord of the Rings, the Silmarillion was a really dry read, at least for me. I’m the type of person who latches onto a character and then attempts to put myself in the character’s shoes. The Silmarillion is more like a history text.

Anyway, I read the relevant bits, did a lot of discussion, and that was just for the back story. It really goes to show how hard writing is when you want to do it well, and fanfiction, just because it can’t be published, isn’t what douchebags write. You need to do a lot of research or else they’ll flame you to kingdom come.

Speaking of flames, many people can’t tell constructive criticism from a flame, which is sad, because while flames are sometimes just copy-and-pasted messages, constructive criticism is designed to help the writer. Sure, it doesn’t feel great when you first read it, but after you’ve absorbed it, you realize that you were doing something wrong, and you learn from that other person’s experience.

So, if you ever get a flame (generally goes along the line of ‘your writing sucks big time, and you’re so bad that you should jump off a cliff’, or something like that), you should just reflect a bit before replying. Is your writing really bad? Have you checked your spelling and grammar? Have you totally warped the fandom you’re writing in? If you answered yes to the first, no to the second, and yes to the third, then maybe you should change the story, or go to someone else for advice. If you get a flame, you’re probably going to get concrit as well, if your story needs changing. If you only get that one flame, you might also have to check whether the flamer hates you. There is a lot of faction struggle going on in the fanfiction world, and some people flame each other because they hate each other. You might be the friend of someone who has an enemy, and the enemy will see fit to flame you because you are their enemy by association. Also, don’t reply to the flamer. It just makes them happy.

So, yeah. That’s my advice for the day.

And now, I should be writing some concrit for someone, and then go off to eat breakfast/brunch, and write in my journal. I finished my first Moleskine notebook yesterday, and now I’m going back to the cheap stuff for a while before I continue with the rest of my Moleskines.

Democracy doesn’t always work.

No, I’m not going to go off on another political rant. This is actually about fanfiction. (surprise, surprise) I put up a poll asking which crossover I should write after I finish Chance Encounter and, to my surprise (and a bit of dismay), my least favourite option got the most votes. Of course, I do like all of the choices, but the one I actually prepared for didn’t really get very many votes. It’s a matter of which one I should write first, but still. The most popular choice was a Lord of the Rings/Star Wars crossover. Just as well I have decided that the super technology of George Lucas’ creation does not work in Middle Earth, or else I would be so lost. I’m a technophobe, despite everything.

I still have to finish the latest chapter of With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla. There are seven hundred words to go, and I intend to post it tomorrow, preferably in the morning. It’s been over a week since I’ve updated the story, and I’m feeling guilty about neglecting it. For me, after an author has started a story, he or she has a responsibility to finish it and not leave readers hanging. I’ve been annoyed more than once at authors who start brilliant stories and then abandon them. An update once every three months is also not good enough for me. Imagine watching your favourite TV show. How can you wait three months for the next episode? A weekly basis suits me well enough. My readers know exactly when I’ll have a new chapter for them, and it keeps the story in their heads so they’re actually interested enough to read it.

I have also decided that getting up late is BAD. Sleeping in is comfortable, but I miss the tranquility of the hours just before dawn. I am going to try my very best to get myself tired tonight so that I will go to bed early and get up at the right time tomorrow.

Thursday is my busiest day this semester. I have class from nine until four in the afternoon, with one two hour break in between. Still, I’m much freer this semester, so I should be able to give each subject a bit more time. History sounds hard (I’m doing second year History and I’m still in my first year), but fun. Well, History is always fun. I love the passion of the lecturers. They make even medieval economics sound interesting.

And the fanfiction feud continues.

I admit, I lurk a bit in other people’s forums, if only to better my understanding of the so-called ‘enemy’. Mind you, while I respect a lot of them as wordsmiths, I have no respect for them as people. They tend to like to stick their noses in other people’s business. One of them, I’ll call her N for the sake of her right to anonymity, attacked my friend for writing a parody of a really bad story. Now, I only write parodies of other people’s stuff if I have reached the end of my patience with them (that occurs when the author has refused to accept any helpful advice which people have given them and has rudely said so), and to my knowledge, that bad story was the only story which my friend has ever mocked, and the author doesn’t care. 

As a result, the parodies and MST’s of other people’s stories have now been banned on the site, where N is a moderator. To add insult to injury, N has been gloating, yes, gloating about her victory. Not that it’s much of a victory to speak of. I was actually thinking of giving up my MST because frankly, I don’t have the time to MST twenty-one or more chapters of a bad story. However, after this little episode, I’m determined to finish the MST no matter what, if only just to spite those who think they have won. We’ll not stop just because the site has banned us. That’s why my friend made a site, and I’m advertising it. If you’re interested, you’ll find the site here. I’ve also made my own MST blog, called Mockfiction. That’s just my nature. I’m not doing this because of the story. I’m doing this because I refuse to admit defeat to those women who are acting like children. Yes, I know I’m being immature, but hey, I’m a teenager; I’m allowed to be immature. Those women are mothers or are over thirty. They shouldn’t be having bitch-fights with teenagers.

It is an author’s right to write bad fiction. It’s called ‘Freedom of Speech’. It is also someone’s right to mock bad fiction; that is also called ‘Freedom of Speech’. No one complains about parodies of Star Wars or Lord of the Rings, simply because they’re published works. When someone puts his or her work on the internet, it is open to scrutiny, and readers have just as much right to write parodies of those as they do to write parodies of actual published works.

Our parodies might not be well-written, but some of them are very well written, and it’s a way to relax, to let off steam after having read bad fiction, or just to try and convince the author that they have made some stupid mistakes if they won’t listen to nice suggestions.