Calling all Demigods! discussion
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Me: HAI THERE, AGAIN.
I'mana look for food. My mom calls three times a day to make sure I eat. e.O It's so annoying.
I'mana look for food. My mom calls three times a day to make sure I eat. e.O It's so annoying.
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message 2404:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
My friend has a pack of condoms that says on the box: 'Obama Condoms: For When Times Get Hard.'"
Me: Oh that reminds me.
my friend sent me a thing about insanity (oh gee, I wonder why). The last part was kinda disturbing, but there was one... "Go to a restaurant, order 'Diet Water' with a straight face."
I was like: "...xD"
There was this other one: "Skip across the parking lot" or something like that. Me: "Half the people I know do that anyways. o.O"
Me: o.O My friends tooks some condems and threw them around the neighborhood. Xeena: After she sparyed hairspray in them.
Rose: Plus, dyed some of her hair black, cut it, put that in
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My friend has a pack of condoms that says on the box: 'Obama Condoms: For When Times Get Hard.'"
Me: Oh that reminds me.
my friend sent me a thing a..."
Me: o.o I always skip across parking lots, I've never really thought about it till now..
Ew, Silv, that's gross. xD
message 2407:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
...
The stairs were not fun that day.
message 2409:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
I made sure no one was on the stairs when I did it. I looked like a complete spaz.
Me: That's what I told her. Where she found it amusing, I was trying not to puke. xD brb, dinnner
message 2412:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
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message 2413:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(last edited Jan 22, 2011 04:02PM)
(new)
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message 2415:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
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message 2416:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
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I made Basile!
message 2420:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
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Me: >.> LIKE, THE CHICKEN BREAST WAS HEART SHAPED, AND THE BREAD.
IT WAS UNINTENTIONAL.
IT WAS UNINTENTIONAL.
message 2423:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
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O.o THAT'S PRETTY SCARY. O.o
Me: Byebye, Whim.
I was freaked out. o.o I highly doubt my dad did it on purpose. LOL, I almost spelled that as 'porpoise'.
I was freaked out. o.o I highly doubt my dad did it on purpose. LOL, I almost spelled that as 'porpoise'.
message 2425:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Me: *clicks* :D:D:D
I have to go soon, and I won't be on until...oh...>.O' Tuesday?
I have to go soon, and I won't be on until...oh...>.O' Tuesday?
message 2427:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Me: AW, HE'S SO CUTE.
I have to do community service, auditions, tests and studying, bleh~
I have to do community service, auditions, tests and studying, bleh~
message 2429:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Ah yes. :/ *hugs*
Me: IK. As AVPM/S as this sounds, I love the shading.
*hugs* I'll be fine. ^^
*hugs* I'll be fine. ^^
message 2431:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
:) don't die~
Me: ILY TOO.
I love how Cassidy told Holly the same thing.
Holly: :D And I'm still alive!
I love how Cassidy told Holly the same thing.
Holly: :D And I'm still alive!
message 2433:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Cassidy: "I'm sick of summer and this waiting around,/ Man, it's September so I'm skipping this town."
Cullen: "Hey it's no mystery, there's nothing here for me now..."
Me: xD WE GOTTA GET BACK TO HOGWARTS~
Me: xD WE GOTTA GET BACK TO HOGWARTS~
message 2435:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Cassidy: ^w^
Me: I gotta go. :( See you Tuesday~
message 2437:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Me: I'm back!! And everyone is gone... ):
Me: IVI!!!!!!!!! YOU IS HERE!!!!
message 2441:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
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Me: :O NO I'M NOT~Rose: Are you serious right now? *headwall*
message 2443:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
what be you doing?
Mod
...POP.
HI GUYS.
I WROTE A STORY AND SUBMITTED IT IN A GR CONTEST.
Title: Wait
Genre: Historical Fiction
Rating: K+
Word Count: 1,911
Summary: The princess of Lesvos had been carried away to Troy by Achilles, fierce son of Peleus. After conceiving his child, he allowed her to flee back home, not wanting his second son to be born in war.
This describes the crimes of passion that brought the most famous war in legend to life, and the story of a girl that is irrevocably woven in Homer's epic.
This is a story of loss and life and love.
This is a story.
Wait
Black sailed ships mark the distance.
I cannot see the colour of their eyes, not even count how many they are, but they are familiar. Too familiar. The sight of those black dots fills me with grief.
So Troy has fallen.
We saw the plumes of smoke from that once splendid city rise, a smoky grey against the serene night sky. Dotted with stars, the sky was. A lovely black velvet shrouded in mist: the origins of the ancestors of the golden gods.
Since he and that horrible red-haired man sacked our city ten years ago, since he took me to the Achaeans’ camp on the shores of Troy. I remember watching the waters when he was out fighting, leading his Myrmidons in the war. I remember how the water changed shape and colour and texture, from azure to lapis lazuli to a flat grey. The colour of his eyes. His mother, supposedly, had been a goddess, a daughter of the Old Man of the Sea. Nereus. I did not believe him until he killed my father, my three brothers. He killed Adrastos. He did it beautifully, dancing with his spear, lithe as the panthers they have on Mount Ida in Troy. He was a streak of glorious Death and could only be divine. If he had been human I would have strangled him with my bare hands in my fury.
I remember Briseis. Her lovely long dark curls, the porcelain skin. The hut we shared with him. Her large liquid eyes, her quivering tone as she subjected to his every wish. She did not fight against him like I did. She did not challenge him. I challenged him. I hated him. I spent seven years in that filthy war camp. It was seven years of seeing our friends and cousins of Troy die at his hands.
He held me with those hands. Stained with Trojans’ blood. He kissed me with the mouth that yelled insults from the battle line, sneered at Hector, at Paris, even at his own king Agamemnon.
The ships are closer now. With a sickening lurch of dread I realize the possibility that they’re here to sack us again. It is mere panic, however—there is no way we could have amassed any treasure worth taking since the raid.
I drift forwards. My dress is just pale dyed cotton, light for the sweltering season. Down the grassy hill, down to the cluster of people gathered around the shore, waiting for the ships to arrive. They will greet the heroes with the sullen sense of loss, but they do not feel the fear I feel.
I wonder if he is on the ships. He must be. Regardless of the prophecies made by Nestor, the old man I thought of as a fool, he must be alive. He was the strongest warrior of them all, by far. I don’t want to see him step onto the shores of my Levsos, because then I will stumble forwards into his bronzed and muscled arms. Arms that killed so many people. He hated me with a desire, an ardent passion. I remember the day by the ships where I nearly drowned myself. It was the second week of war. He was angry.
“Life should be lost to glory, you fool, not a cowardly escape.”
Briseis was a beautiful object. I was a person. I was not as beautiful as Briseis. Or Patroclus.
Patroclus was his lover. He was taller than him and he looked like a god. Golden hair, golden skin, blue eyes like the vases my mother bargained for from the east, called glass. Bluer than glass. Patroclus was the only one he ever loved.
I am walking forwards, mingling with the crowd. My mother has probably put on her best robes, the earrings from Crete engraved with little bulls, made of purest gold, the pearl hairnet to cover her golden hair, streaked with silver to greet the men that killed her husband. Irony is the sweetest part of war.
Surveying the crowd with weary eyes, I can see that we do not have enough men. Nearly no men. Plenty of children and women, jostling each other, assembled. My mother is dignified as an august beauty, the widowed queen of the island, and she brings me back to the palace so I can wash and prepare myself. I do not see why I need preparing. The Achaeans have seen me at my worst. Our city sparkles, but it is nowhere near the magnificence that Troy had. That they destroyed.
I think about Helen as the ships come. Others are growing restless under the relentless beating of the sun. I think about the woman whose beauty I have never seen, the beauty many will never see. It is a beauty that will survive nonetheless. I know it will. Mine will not, but I am glad. The time for heroes is over; it reached its peak with this war, this massacre.
My son is at the front, pushing with the few other boys. He is the youngest of the lot. An illegitimate prince. Now that the ships are near, I see the green eyes on the ships of the Myrmidons, lined in glistening black paint on the dark wood of the ships. There seem to be fifty; I am too dizzy to count. Damon does not know that these are the ships of his father’s. He will never know, because no one will ever tell him. He is the constant in my life. Though he was born on Lesbos, he was conceived at Troy, conceived with war. With him. Somehow I feel as if he was part of me the entire time, like Athena was with Zeus before springing fully-grown from his crown. Damon is not fully grown. He is a small child, not yet two years old.
The silks of my dress are a gauzy green, a false colour, for it signifies freshness and luxury, none of which I have. I am twenty-six years old. I was sixteen when I first gazed upon his bloody nobility. I will never be married, for I am a spoiled virgin, princess of nothing but an invaded isle too close to the destruction of Troy.
It seems as if half of the palace city has come out to greet the warriors, eager for news of Troy. Colourful head scarves bob and flutter in the breeze, sandals scraping against the sand of the beach. My mother and I stand back. We are all that is left of the royalty of Levsos: my sisters have been married off to various foreign husbands before the war had reached its peak. My father, my brothers, had been killed by him. Ten years ago.
He sailed with me himself to Levsos two years ago, once Damon had become apparent in my womb as a ferociously kicking bump.
“And he is my child?” he’d asked with unaccustomed doubt in those grey eyes of his. Yes. There was no mistaking him for the child of any other man who had violated me. What a shell I had become over the past decade. Cold as the winds that Boreas sends from the north. I did not expect the sudden voyage to my hometown, the island that had been so tantalizingly close the whole time. But he deposited me there during the night, cool Nyx’s arms enveloping us in a last embrace.
Still I find it hard to decide whether I love him or despise him. Both, probably. With a heavy fluttering my eyes adjust to the now moored ships. There are so many of them—not the whole fleet, for some reason, but they seem to hug the curves of the island for as far as the eye can see. They have not beached themselves but rather anchored at a short distance from the shore. This is a good sign; they are merely visiting. Asking for a night in a bed before setting off for their long journey back to Sparta, to Mycenae, to Ithaca. The Achaeans had come from everywhere, all the suitors for the most beautiful woman in the world come to her rescue. I wonder if she wanted to be rescued.
He was from Phthia. Hard to pronounce, but he did it with a strange look in his eye and a softening of his harshly cut mouth. He was a man made of fire and steel and ice.
They are approaching now, getting off the small little boats that carry them over the distance between the black ships and the water. The sound of water lapping at hollow things is my favourite sound. I have never gotten tired of it. But not all of them have dismounted. I see the familiar tall king Agamemnon and his brother, not as huge but striking nonetheless. I do not see Odysseus: his flame-coloured shock of hair is easy to spot over long distances.
My mother glides forwards to greet them. There is no disguising the cold in the line of her jaw or her gaze. The kings bow to her, the woman whose family they slaughtered ten years ago (do they remember? Yes, they do) and we lead them up the hill to our city.
The conversation is stilted and I only remember bare gaps of it. I am desperately searching for Damon’s father with my eyes. None of the kings recognize me and I am glad Odysseus is not here. As the craftiest of the lot he would know my face immediately. He is not here. He would recognize him in Damon.
It is as if we are playing the parts of different people than the ones who met each other ten years ago. My mother makes no remark of the slaughter of her people or the enslavement of her daughter, and neither do I. I am silent, for the most part. The weary kings tell us a marvellous story of a wooden horse, their best fighters concealed in that horse, ready to strike on unsuspecting Trojans. Massacre. Odysseus had commissioned it.
Conversation floats in awkward gaps and pieces. I am only half at the table, staring into the dregs of wine in my golden cup and immersed in memories. So many women have been lost in either death or love. Helen. Her abandoned Hermione. Iphigenia—sacrificed by her father before leaving for Troy. Cassandra. Hecabe. Me.
Living and loving and loss. The three are all connected—the age of the heroes has passed and yet time continues. It all goes on, a godly cycle. You can damn the gods and damn the fates to the darkest pits of Tartarus, and still life will go on. So I wait. Wait for the kings to leave or recognize me—worse yet, recognize him in Damon, who sits unnaturally obedient at my feet, never knowing that his half-brother, the son of his father who took his place in battle at age fifteen, sits mere feet away garbed in battle gear.
He has none of Achilles’ fierce elegance. He is a coward, a coward that lusts for blood. Damon... Damon is not weighed down by family names. He will grow up to be a prince and a poet, a marvellous storyteller. Or a beggar. Whatever makes him happy—the time for heroes is gone. And so I wait for the story to end, wait for life to go on.
Waiting in silence and wrapped in memories.
message 2446:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
HAI FREGE.
I NEED ONE MORE PAGE FOR MY PORTFOLIO. e3e they changed the requirements.
Mod
Aw, dammit. That sucks.
message 2448:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Mod
You can take any of my poems/writings.
message 2450:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(new)
Mod
Cassidy: You really shouldn't.
Me: Thank you, dear little voice in the back of my mind. -.-"
*off to search through writings*
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Calling all Demigods!
Books mentioned in this topic
Paper Towns (other topics)Boy Meets Boy (other topics)
Will Grayson, Will Grayson (other topics)
Night (other topics)
Happy Birthday to You! (other topics)
My friend has a pack of condoms that says on the box: 'Obama Condoms: For When Times Get Hard.'