Part One ~ The Awakening -- Another Snippet

He waits
alone and encaged
in a flesh not his own

Waiting
to be Touched
and hear his name VoiceThought

from Within

~Journal Entry: Dellaseea N'Syis
~Date: Third Era -- The Awakening Years
~Displacement: Second

 

Comments and/or Questions are welcome.

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Blessings, LL Abbott

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Caged Heart--The Last Heartbound / The Forbidden World Chronicles ~L.L. Abbott
Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved -- Current Draft

 

Contemplation and Old Wounds

Never mind the reason.  But a Dream died years ago.  I put it to rest.  I packed it up in boxes and placed them in darkened places.  A closet. Under the bed. In a hutch drawer [which hasn't been opened in years], and then I mourned.  I mourned its passing into obscurity because it had consumed so many years and waking hours of my life.

Handwritten notes.  A manual typewriter. An electronic word processor; with Spellcheck.  And then came the advent of computers.  There are file folders and notebooks.  Index cards and floppy disks. CDs-- all brimming with visions of a grand story of Love and Contempt. Bargains and Death. Past, Present, and Future.

I was determined.  Stubborn. And relentless.  And then seemingly overnight-- it was all for naught. The wound of my decision ran deep.  Tears flowed. Wounds scabbed and time passed. And the fading glimmer of a once ever-present Dream soon gave way to other creative endeavors and concerns of Life.

It saw a brief revival.  But all too soon the shadow of its former self fell victim to nagging notions of relevancy and, "Why bother?"  And during the last two year's worth of concerted Spring Cleans, there were more boxes and even darker places of a more permanent storage.  Its final rest assured.

And then last week, I scrolled upon an innocent post on Facebook.  

To which I immediately replied, "I did once---- Now it all has taken a back seat." 

A subsequent PM conversation ensued, and ever since, my mind has been all a dither with the possibilities.  What I couldn't have fathomed though, that following afternoon, was the rush of pain [and tears] that followed as I gave credence to a Facebook Friend's words of encouragement.  The wound itself may well have healed.  But the emotions behind its cause was ever as strong.  

So here I am, once again, contemplating whether my storyline has relevance. Am I up to the challenge of seeing it to fruition?  Am I capable of readdressing its full intent. It's more than a handful, and means a huge refocus on my part.  And I've found a peaceable contentment in my current endeavors.  

And then I scrolled upon another picture quote this morning.  This Facebook Friend asked, "What dream(s) are  you working on?"  Mine? Has, for all intent and purpose, long been no more.  It's Awakening is fragile at best.  And it struggles to see the light of day.  Yet evidence of its existence grows. There is energy to its cause. But I struggle with my own resolve. Or would it be better stated as Fear? 

It was no easy decision to see such a dream to its rest.  Yet neither was it easy to pique a new-found interest.  I've shed new tears over the recent days, and wrung my hands with concern.  There is much to consider.

And then, as Fate might have it, my eyes rested upon one more quote; giving credence to my strife. The Forbidden World Chronicles was a Dream that consumed a huge portion of my life.  I can honestly say, it nourished my soul.  But is its time long passed?  Or still yet to come?

Much to think on. 

Blessings, Laura

Prologue One -- A Snippet

Prologue One [Current Draft]

The Traverse compound buzzed with activity. Members of the band’s road crew meandered in and out of the main house carrying equipment, instruments, and luggage to the caravan of trucks and buses parked out front. The clang of steel, squeaky wheels, jovial laughter and an expletive or three permeated the air. The band’s long-awaited Caged Heart compilation hit the stores only last week and they were readying to set out on their West Sector tour, ending a lengthy hiatus shrouded in mystery and debate.

Upstairs in her apartment, Perrie Stevens packed the last of her own travel needs. Two of the band's roadies entered the sitting room as she folded a couple of camisoles and placed them in a carryall. One slid a trolley under the steamer trunk while the other picked up the heavier luggage. “Anything else?” a disembodied voice, in EastSector brogue, called into the bedroom.

“One more trip.” Perrie answered.

“Bus or truck?”

“Bus.” she called back.

Perrie ignored the rant that ensued, but cringed when she heard the crack of wood against the doorframe as they made their way out into the corridor. The only equipment marked, ‘Handle With Care!’ the one she’d taken the most time and care to pack, already tested her fortitude. Despite the irritation, Perrie held her tongue. She wasn’t in the mood for their, ‘Suck it up and deal with it’ banter. Instead, she walked the carryall and a garment bag over and set them down just outside her bedroom door. On her way back to the dressing table, Perrie looked around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

She stopped at the bed when the little brown tiger-striped cat, lying on the ivory brocade comforter folded-down at the footboard, called out for attention.

"I know, my dearest Queenie.  It is much too noisy around here today."

Perrie had leaned over to rub Queenie’s cheeks. But when stopped, seemingly all too soon, the petite feline trilled melodically. As Perrie bent to sit on her heels, Queenie stretched her lithe neck. Her long black whiskers lurched forward and each met the other nose to nose. Perrie couldn’t help but smile as Queenie’s equally long and swoopy eyelashes tickled her face. Queenie’s task as protector and constant companion during her sojourn here had now ended.

“I will miss you little one.” Perrie whispered.

The purring grew more audible as Perrie cupped her hand over Queenie’s delicate face, ran it down her back and along her silky plume of a tail. Reluctantly, Perrie then rose to resume her packing. With whiskers drawn back to the sides of her face, Queenie laid her head down between her forepaws in a solemn resolve.

Perrie gathered and deposited the last of her hand baggage by the door. As she turned one last time, Perrie surveyed the room’s lush surroundings. After her release from the hospital, band members moved her into this suite to convalesce. Perrie would miss the comfort and security the compound had afforded her. And joining Traverse on tour meant a loss of the most precious to her of all gifts, privacy

Prior to her arrival, though they’d known each other only from Within, Traverse’s Frontman—a man who bore a striking resemblance to her former husband—kept the suite in a constant state of waiting and specific to Perrie’s known tastes and interests. In a premeditated anticipation of her needs, the entire apartment—which included a design studio and the mysterious White Room where she wrote the forthcoming novel, The Last Heartbound—had been decorated in period antiques.

Furnished with ornate walnut and burl wood furniture, the bedroom had been dressed in lavish  lace, crocheted, and heirloom bedclothes. Walls papered in a muted floral print added to the ambiance and warmth of the room, and the verdant boudoir garden brought the outdoors in-- especially   until she recovered enough to walk those of the courtyard below.

‘Dellasseea N’Syis,’ a tranquil voice beckoned from Within

Perrie closed her eyes and lowered her head.  And with her chin angled toward her left shoulder she endeavored to search out the source. But there were so many voices barking commands or raising further questions.  Not to mention the swell of emotions that ebbed and flowed. But no answer to her silent inquiry.

'Too much chaos.' Yet, she continued reason it could not have come from any one downstairs.

At a loss, Perrie went on with the matters at hand and gathered up the last of her more immediate work-related items: a tape recorder; her portable workstation; laptop; and date planner. She slipped each inside their respective pockets of the tapestry portfolio that sat on the bench in front of her dressing table. She hesitated and then reached for her most recent journal. The hand- pressed paper of her own design, bound in sueded leather, recounted the latest of her visions and moments Within.

Before securing it away, Perrie lifted the front cover and removed a neatly folded, yellowed news clipping. Distracted by the warm breeze wafting in through the French doors, Perrie laid the journal back upon the bench and made her way across the room. The tonal ivory and silk embroidered drapery billowed softly and brushed at Perrie’s leg as she walked out onto the balcony. She walked past the white wicker chaise and stopped to rest her hands upon the balustrade.

Swirls of fog lingered in the shadows of the grounds and a hint of salt rose up from the bay. The terra-cotta tile felt cool underfoot as Perrie stood and let the warmth of a new day caress her. Loose wisps of hair fluttered about her face as she stared across a cloudless autumn sky.

Perrie raised her right hand and drew it up her breastbone. Her fingertips traced languorously at a circular indentation; a scar left by a would-be assailant. Nearly a year to the day since the shooting, scars left by the entry wound and the surgical removal of the projectile and fragmented bone was all but hid by the couture, baroque-style bustier of linen and fine lace. Up until this morning, she’d kept them entirely hidden from public view. Today, Perrie chose to wear her scars.

Taken aback by a sudden pang to her chest, Perrie let out a soft grunt. As she closed her eyes and drew a clenched hand, fisted to her heart, Perrie inhaled deep and released a long, hard-drawn breath. In an attempt to refocus on the moment, Perrie exercised her breathing to a slower pace and concentrated on disconnecting from the others; but, given the gravity of their circumstance, her heart remained unsettled.

Truth be known, she didn’t really want to disconnect. It made everything all the more real— And besides, she couldn’t ignore or even be sure how much of her own all-consuming angst factored in to the emotions this particular day fostered. Somewhere throughout the compound, three other Heartbounds engaged in the day’s goings-on and all were feeling exceedingly anxious. The suffering of any one Heartbound increases ten-fold upon the others. On this day it grew in intensity the closer it gets to actually hitting the road.

Upon remembering the warmth that bathed her face, Perrie opened and fixed her eyes—long marked by its fire—to the mid-morning sun. Feeling the heat envelop them, she watched as the sky changed to its truer affect. Something that went unnoticed by the masses, unless they shunned their societal conditioning and looked, eyes wide, upon the sun. The yellow-orange orb radiated into a rosy-pink that spread vast into the outermost atmosphere of brilliant blue. A color combination utilized by the Allied Bands—primarily as cover art and a key piece of the ever-growing puzzle during her Awakening.

......... If you want to read the rest of the Prologue, go to Facebook and "Like" The Forbidden World Chronicles, and then PM me for an Encrypted Copy of the PDF.
You may also leave a Comment in this blog post.  

~Dellasseea N'Syis, First-born Daughter of the Primal Elements.
Prisoner of that which is most commonly referred to as The Forbidden World.
Third Era/Third Displacement of Time/The Alone Years.

 

 

Comments and/or Questions are welcome.

______________________________________________

Blessings, LL Abbott

Follow me to Facebook

Caged Heart--The Last Heartbound / The Forbidden World Chronicles ~L.L. Abbott
Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved -- Current Draft
 

 

GiveAway Alert!

Visit Gleeful Things for a chance to win:

Giveaway! Win A $50 Gift Card From JoAnn

Blessings, Laura

By the Heart ~ A Brief Rumination

I have shared the following quote on numerous occasions:

"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars." ~Kahlil Gibran

I have thought on this passage quite often; as to where those scars can lead.  And having recently needed to sign into Wordpress [the account was necessary in order to Comment on other Wordpress blog posts.] I was reminded of the Writer's Journal that I set up merely to brainstorm ideas, back in 2008, but never even composed a first or introductory entry.  Until today:
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It is by the brain that we receive our reasoning and motor skills. Our technological or creative skills. Where we rumage through, store, and/or hide our Memories. But it is by the Heart that we either exist or physically cease to be. It is by the Heart that our emotions rise and/or tremble. Swell or fall. While tears roll free of our eyes, it is the Heart that aches with either the pain or joy of any given moment.  It is by the Heart that we chose either Love, or the preservation of Self. It is by the Heart that our voices sing, and/or rally to a cause. And there eventually comes a time when we chose to live by a Heart filled of Compassion, or one fueled by anger. It is by the Heart that great pain is tempered, and scars of past wrongs are healed. And by the Heart that we forgive.  It is also by the Heart that our future is revealed, once we chose to see.

"Look at things not with the eyes in your face but with the eyes in your heart." ~Leonard Crow Dog

Blessings

GiveAway Alert!

Here is a chance to win some really cool hand dyed Merino Top, and the book Get Spun, by Symeon North, from Beesybee Fibers!  Visit her website and Enter.  Blessings, Laura

Fiber Artist's Giveaway

You are in for a treat! Visit Neauveau Fiber Arts for a chance to win on an Art Batt.

http://www.handspunartyarn.com/p/giveaways.html

Getting Back into the Grove of Things

As the title infers, albeit slowly, I am working my way back from dealing with online identity theft, blue moods, and health issues, etc. That said, I also need to get a handle on some of the online games I've been playing at Facebook. Though they've helped in maintaining my sanity, they can also be a huge distraction.
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This post is to introduce the following coding [a necessary required placement], in hopes of winning a Janome 350e Embroidery Machine, [Oh! What I would LOVE to do with machine embroidery.] sponsored by The DIY Dish:
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They are also giving away a Janome DC4030 Sewing Machine. Believe it or not, I'm still learning my way around my Viking 200, so I would re-e-e-e-e-e-ally like to opportunity to [win, and] work with an embroidery machine. And I know that Janome is synonymous with quality.
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Wish me luck!
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More soon. Blessings

My Muse has Returned

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Though Life has a way of interrupting even the best of a writer's or artist's intentions, my not following through in last year's NaNoWriMo had nothing to do with an unavoidable diversion. I merely began to question the relevancy of it all.
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What changed my mind from November 2009 to January 2010? I now know why the subsequent Fire Orbs were created!
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More soon. My Muse calls.
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Blessings

It is Risk-taking Time

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My Muse showed up yesterday and we waltzed through Time and Space. Today I though it time to bear a writer's soul and share a snippet of the work. The following rough draft is history to:

The Forbidden World Chronicles

by L.L. Abbott

There is more of this storyline drafted out under the a working title:

The Fire Orbs

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was a time when all was new. And another, when in the vast and great darkness there shone a light. A fire orb breathed into existence by the Old One. The Primal Element of Creation, and first of the First Ones.
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In that light smaller orbs of earth, water, and rock came into view; an on-going experiment and tinkering of the mind. Done long into his exile from the rest of the Primal Elements of the Universe—the First Ones, the Ancients—they existed as a testament to his self-imposed aloneness.

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Though all of the First Ones bear the responsibility of creation, each effort took on different and unique forms. While some are considered as Beauty, there are those considered as Horrid. But what is simply is. Beauty, or otherwise, is forever held in the eye and soul of its maker. But. While the other Elements busied themselves in their own directions, and children—the Creator Race—the Old One brought light and shadows into the farthest and emptiest regions of the Great Darkness.
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Assured of his secret (it would, after all, take millennia before even the faintest of glimmers of light betrayed him), he traversed his creation to observe the strange happenings. Waters warmed upon the smaller terran orbs. Loam sprouted green. Organisms enveloped by the new-found warmth flourished in unexpected turns. And in his uncorrupt wonder of it all— the Old One tinkered more.

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Comments and input are welcome!