Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

Here is the first installment of my fantasy story, Flight of the Black Swan.  I know it's short, but at least it's a beginning.  Please, please tell me what you think -- I thrive on constructive criticism!

 

* * *

 

Three tides had turned since Andrynnor lost her king, and unrest was thriving within every province.

 

Not a soul had foreseen the tragic event; not even the Ancients, who prided themselves with their knowledge of the past, present, and sometimes the future. Who, indeed, would have been able to predict that something so shocking would occur right when peace had been just within the country’s grasp?

 

Peace. It was all the king had ever wanted, and he had pursued it onto dangerous grounds – never knowing that it would eventually lead to his untimely death.

 

There were those who had resisted when the king had first announced his plan to create an alliance with Selta. Who could blame them, after all? It had been nearly a century and a half since the Andrynnorian-Seltanese war had come to a bloody end, but there were still many who had never forgotten what the barbarians from across the Eastern sea had done to their forefathers. Wounds of the flesh may heal in a fortnight, but wounds of the heart are far more difficult to mend.

 

The king, with all his good intentions, had let this slip his mind.

 

The day that would alter the course of the proud island country’s history had begun like any other spring day. After the king had broken his fast, he expressed a desire to go walking along the parapets of the royal castle. Ondhyrinn, proud capital of Andrynnor, never looked so breathtaking as it did bathed in the rays of the rising sun, with the sea stretching out from its docks like an endless expanse of liquid gold. The city had been built during the reign of King Markus, and had survived hundreds of years’ worth of storms, assaults, and the occasional plague. Still it stood dazzling and firm, a jewel in the crown of the Northern Kingdom.

 

It was no secret, the love that the king bore for the city of his birth. While standing on the ramparts of the royal castle, he could look past the many rooftops to the hustle and bustle of the dockside marketplace as vendors advertised the day’s catch, to the dock itself where ships were born, and beyond that, the spacious bay of Hollfast where those same ships would later learn to fly. If he chose to gaze further, he could drink in the most spectacular sight of all: the great Eastern sea.

 

So it was that on that beautiful morning, the king was so caught up in his daily greeting to his beloved city that he failed to notice that no guards were on duty that day. Something was terribly amiss – that much could be sensed by those who had worked in the castle the longest – and yet, nobody thought to look where the king was most likely to be. The next anybody saw of him was a prostrate form lying in a scarlet pool near one of the battlements, a long, black-feathered arrow protruding from between his shoulder blades. An unfortunate servant girl whose job it was to clean the ramparts was the first to discover the gruesome corpse, and within an hour the entire city of Ondhyrinn had received the woeful tidings.

 

The king of Andrynnor had been assassinated in his own castle, and by an unknown hand.

 

* * *

 

Part 2 is in the making, so stay tuned!  For those interested in Andrynnor, I have created a story blog where I will post bits of information as well as the full chapters once they are completed.

 

Edgar Allan Poe

Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

I have a question, one that many of you have no doubt faced in your writing 'career'.  When it comes to narratives, do you prefer first-person or third-person?  The reason I ask this is because I am beginning a new story, but cannot decide on which narrative to use.  I have been longing to experiment with first-person for quite some time now, but understand that it has its limits.  On the other hand, I am more familiar with third-person, and it gives you more freedom.  (When you're writing first-person, only one character's point of view (POV) is usually open to you, whereas when writing in third-person, you can write from the POVs of many different characters.)

In case you're wondering what on earth I'm talking about, here are some examples of different narratives:

First-Person
I turned to behold a strange sight.  There, standing right in front of me, was a creature of the likes of which I had never seen in all my days.  Shocked, and more than a little frightened, I immediately took a step backwards, only to find myself tripping on a jutting tree root...

Third-Person
Miranda turned to behold a strange sight.  There, standing right in front of her, was a creature of the likes of which she had never seen in all her days.  Shocked, and more than a little frightened, she immediately took a step backwards, only to find herself tripping on a jutting tree root...

You get the idea.  Sorry if my examples were a little long -- I couldn't help showing off my prowess with words!  (Haha, just kidding.)

So, which narrative do you prefer?  Any tips are greatly appreciated!

-Edgar Allan Poe

Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

1. What time frame does your story take place in?

Given the fact that my story is set in a made-up country called Andrynnor, there isn't really a time frame, per se.  However, the atmosphere is very similar to the Medieval period.

2. Who is the main character in your story?

Laenna is a young princess who has been thrust into the role of queen after her father's untimely assasination at the hands of those who have (successfully) attempted to wage civil war.  Growing up without a mother has made her strong, but as her country's politics begin to crumble, so does she.  She yearns for deep companionship that her courtiers and politicians cannot offer her, and fears that she won't be able to make the right decisions as a ruler.

3. What three words best describe your main character?

Melancholy, Imaginative, Hopeful

4. When was the last time you had inspiration for your story? 

A few hours ago

5. What caused your inspiration?

The sun was setting, and it was drizzling heavily at the same time, creating a hazy curtain of mist...

6. What music do you usually listen to when writing your story?

Movie soundtracks, particularly the Lord of the Rings, Gods and Generals, and Passion of the Christ

7. What book/movie most influenced your story?

That's a difficult question.  I'd have to say the Lord of the Rings trilogy (books and movies), closely followed by Gods and Generals.  The latter helped a great deal with its portrayal of civil war, and as for the former...do I even have to explain?   It's Tolkien, for Pete's sake!

8.  How long have you been working on your story?

A grand total of... *calculates* ...two weeks!  Actually, maybe not even that long.  I haven't written any of the actual story yet, but the plot itself is pretty well constructed.  I've also been drawing maps, character portraits, and writing down lists of names that will perhaps come in handy in the future.  No harm in being prepared!

9. Do you think better while laying down or sitting up?

Depends.  Usually sitting up, though I have come up with a lot of great ideas in bed after everyone else is asleep.

10. Which place inspires you most?

For this story, I'd have to say the beach, especially when the weather is stormy.  Andrynnor is an island country, so when I'm at the beach I can easily imagine myself in my story.

 

Hope you enjoyed!

- Edgar Allan Poe

Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe here!  I know it's been ages since I posted something on here, so I thought I'd start with a poem I wrote a few months ago.  It's called When Shadow Fled and is heavily inspired by Tolkien's The Silmarillion, for those of you who are familiar with his works.  (And I'm sure most of you are!)  I entered it in a poetry contest at my local library, and learned a few days ago that it made the finals!  How about that?

Anyway, enjoy!

- Edgar Allan Poe

~ ~ ~

Long ago, when Earth was young,
And Death was but a name,
A fair folk dwelt beneath the stars
Their raiment silver-gray.
Withheld were they from mortal woes,
Their hearts were glad and free;
Until the day that Shadow came
Ensnaring every tree.
Its icy grip---so cruel and cold---
Laid siege to every heart,
'Til fair from fell, and fell from fair
Not one could tell apart.
Then days grew dark, and ‘neath the stars
Strife ran thick as blood.
Where now abode the Light of old
To quench this evil flood?
Yet e’en as Shadow preened and claimed
Its aim of darkness won,
Hope remained in hearts unbowed;
The light was yet to dawn!
For out of the east, a faint glow emerged
Piercing Night’s thick veil–
Soft fingers of light grew steadily bright
While Shadow’s forces quailed.
With bated breath the faithful watched
As evil’s bane drew nigh
Until, at last, the burning sphere
Rose to fill the sky!
Shadow’s ranks were seized with fear
And fled the piercing light--
Smote was the shroud from o’er the land;
New blooms came into sight.
Now hearts are warm, and fair is fair
And Shadow but a name;
Free folk still dwell beneath the stars
Their raiment silver-gray.

Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

Here are a few poems I wrote last year.  I am immensely proud of them as I normally never write poetry unless extremely inspired.  Enjoy, and do comment!

- Edgar Allan Poe

~ ~ ~

Angels

Do you believe in angels?

Seen by few,

felt by many,

they are our silent guardians,

driving away the terror

which threatens to engulf our souls.

Perhaps you have heard

their nightly whispers,

gentle and soothing,

surpassing even the most tranquil lullaby;

or felt their invisible arms,

shielding you from the dangers and turmoils of the world.

Or perhaps,

on a quiet day,

you have felt the sweep of their wings

as they fly overhead,

assuming their tireless vigil

over mankind.

There are those

who entertain angels

unawares,

never imagining

that the old beggar,

with his shabby garments and gnarled hands,

could have a heart of gold

hidden beneath the soot and grime,

or that the librarian,

with her feeble eyes and graying hair,

could have a tireless spirit,

always willing to lend her knowledge

to those that need it.

These celestial beings,

who are so often under disguise,

are all around us,

touching us with their presence,

and soothing our ruffled minds.

Look hard enough,

and you may find an angel

in your very midst.

I am

I am the echo of thunder on a midsummer day

I am the pattern on a butterfly’s wing

I am the waves lapping upon the prow of a ship

I am the flash of lightning in an empty room

I am a tender sprout poking my way up out of the soil

I am a metronome, keeping pace with those around me

I am the velvet on a horse’s nose

I am a cluster of emerald moss, spongy and moist

I am the innocent smile of a young maiden

I am a standard, proudly fluttering in the wind

I am the luster on a pair of newly-shined shoes

I am a cat, lazy and nonchalant

I am the dew bejeweling the grass

I am the spirit of all these things.

Motes of Dust

Sitting upon the base of a lamp

are motes of dust,

countless in number,

each a minuscule grain of next-to-nothingness.

Switch on the lamp,

and they become visible,

anticipating the puff of air

that will send them on their merry way.

There!

Now they are off, floating and cavorting

through the air,

resembling the tiniest of dancers.

Airborne, they wander aimlessly,

ever travelling downward,

until, at last,

they once more come to settle upon

the base of the lamp, there to wait

until the next puff of air

comes their way.

Ode to a Magnolia Tree

Planted on a knoll

like a bride in white

is a magnolia tree,

its supple arms bent under the weight of

a myriad of blooms.

Swaying in the breeze,

their bobbing heads are full of visions;

visions of spring and endless sunshine,

of warm, balmy breezes

and cool, tranquil nights.

Their petals are fingers,

creamy and soft

as a baby’s skin.

All who drink in their perfume

are overcome

with a sense of euphoria.

Most precious magnolia,

surely your beauty cannot be matched

by any mortal thing;

your purity is exquisite.

Many hands will reach for your blossoms,

and you will give them freely,

so that your innocence and loveliness

may be drunk in by all.

The Rat

Up in the garret

I hear a noise.

A subtle noise,

like tiny paws

scurrying across the rafters.

Do you see what I see?

A rat;

ambling along the edge of a beam,

his bare tail delicately poised

for balance.

Suddenly, he freezes–

every limb held stock-still,

save his whiskers,

which twitch curiously,

as if they are alive.

Don’t move, or he’ll see you!

See how he sits on his hind legs

revealing a creamy white underbelly,

soft as silk.

Sniffing the air for predators,

his sharp, intelligent eyes scan the room,

black orbs of liquid darkness

wary of every moving thing.

He is all-seeing.

His vigil is interrupted by a sound--

someone is climbing up the stairs!

Without warning,

the rat is gone.

Disappeared?

I cannot say.

Posted in Posted by Edgar Allan Poe

Greetings, one and all!  *bows*  I thought I'd pop in and post a rather old story of mine, but one I enjoy nonetheless.  Any critique would be greatly appreciated!

Sincerely,

- Edgar Allan Poe

~ ~ ~

It was a frigid winter’s night when I saw her.

Earlier that day, I had been banished to my room with no dinner for pulling the cat’s tail, and I was determined to play the rebel. Burying myself up to my chin in quilts, I stuck out my jaw resolutely and prepared to stay up as late as I could as a form of protest against my parents.

I must have nodded off, for when I awoke, the clock had just struck five o’clock. It was still dark outside, and deathly still. Nothing could be heard throughout the entire house — not even a creaking floorboard. I felt a shiver running down my spine, but it only lasted for a moment.

A sudden movement out of the corner of my eye caused my heart to leap into my throat. Something — someone — was stirring by the window sill. I rubbed at my eyes and looked again, thinking that perhaps my childish imagination, combined with lack of sleep, could be conjuring the image. Unfortunately, the Something was still there...and, to my dismay, it was staring at me in an intense manner. Somewhat frightened, yet curious, I stared back. It appeared to be a woman; stately and tall, with thick lengths of hair pinned atop her head. Her clothes were lacy and white, and she looked like one of the people in my history books who had lived many years ago. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she started walking — no, gliding towards me. I wanted to cry out, run away, ask her how she got there...anything. But I was transfixed. Unable to move, I lay in bed, simply watching her.

It was now that I saw something that had escaped my notice before. To my astonishment, I found that I could see almost directly through her, as if she were made of frosted glass. If I stared hard enough, I could make out the window and its sill behind her, and the potted petunia which I had been given on my birthday two weeks ago. A sudden thought struck me, and I couldn’t help but think of all the times my older brother had told me of ghosts living in old attics and garrets. He had been teasing — I had no doubt of that — but to a child of seven years, the stories seemed quite real. And now, as I watched this unearthly being approach, I observed that there might be some truth in them after all.

She stopped about a foot and a half away from my bed, and stared at me in a hollow, empty sort of way that made my blood freeze. I clutched at my sheets, wishing that she would speak...anything to convince me that she was real. But silent she remained, and presently she began to finger the antique locket that was pinned at her throat, never taking her eyes off me. It was then that I decided to do something — anything — to break the cold, heavy silence which lay between us, and gathering up my courage, I spoke.

"Who are you?"

My voice must have had some effect on her, for she stiffened all of a sudden, and her eyes widened — seemingly empty, yet full of fear. It almost seemed as if she was afraid, though I could not guess what of. For a moment, we both stared at each other, and somehow, I ceased to be afraid of her. Looking into her pale, deathly eyes, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. I didn’t know what kind of life she had led as a living, breathing person, but I thought it must have been a horrible one for her to be doomed to wander about as a ghost, unable to touch or feel.

Her lips were moving. I strained my ears to hear what was issuing forth, but no sound reached them. Without warning, she began to fade from the bottom up; slowly, but surely. Before she vanished completely, she reached towards me with one hand, as if to touch my face. But I felt nothing, and then she was gone.

I blinked. The sun had risen.