A Nerd with an Ocarina...

I've been playing videogames virtually all my life. My older brother, Sean was who got me into gaming, and for that, he's pretty awesome.
When I was little, too young to actually play our N64, I would hopelessly watch my brother as he hacked away at every level in GoldenEye, Star Wars: Shadows of the Empire, the Turok games, StarFox64, Super Mario64, and countless other games that shaped our childhood.
The game that always fascinated me, though, the game that I could never stop playing, once I was old enough, was The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.

We never really owned a copy of the game, but I would always beg my parents to let me rent it from our local Blockbuster. (Do they still exist...?)
The romanticism of the adventurous hero was what drew me in, I remember it specifically. The fact that I could play as the Hero of Time, save the Princess, save Hyrule! ...Made me feel invincible.
I wanted to be Link; To travel anywhere in Time, saving the world from the evils that lurk within it's shadowy depths.
For years, I played every Zelda game I could get my hands on, and when I really became entranced with the series altogether was when I played The Legend of Zelda:Twilight Princess, which, to this day, is my favourite game in the franchise. (I haven't been able to play Skyward Sword yet... *dramatic sob*)
After I beat Twilight Princess, I began scouring the web for anything Zelda related: Clothes, accessories, books, anything.
What I found was an ocarinist.
David Ramos, a YouTuber whose plethora of videos I found, enraptured me. I found his rendition of Zelda's Lullaby, in which he played on a replica of the Ocarina of Time, and immediately thought, "I need that fucking ocarina."
For months, I did nothing but watch his videos, listening intently to the ocarina and loving every moment. I dug through the internet and found dozens of sites from where I could order an ocarina, and fell hopelessly in love with Songbird Ocarina's replica of the Ocarina of Time.
I knew I had to have it.
I gazed longingly upon the ocarina whenever I had free time, comparing it's impeccable craftsmanship with those of other ocarina makers.
Nothing compared to it.

This very ocarina is my own, which I received for my 15th birthday, a little under two years ago.
I had finally become what I had so dreamed about for my entire childhood... I had the Ocarina of Time!

Since then, I have expanded my ocarina collection, now having three different ocarinas, including my OoT.
I've fallen in love with an instrument that I thought was a simple toy from a videogame, and learned that it's legacy stretches farther back than the history of Hyrule itself.

The ocarina is an ancient flute-like instrument that originated in Asia over 10,000 years ago, though the modern ocarina, which is what I have, didn't appear until little over 150 years ago in Budrio, Italy.
Giuseppe Donati, an Italian brick mason, introduced the modern ocarina to the world after he made his first ocarina in 1853.
Since then, the ocarina has exploded into Western Culture, making its name infamous in the aforementioned Zelda game.

The enchantment that this simple videogame has cast upon me will never die.
There are many people in the world that oppose videogames entirely, refusing their children to be exposed to such "mindless drivel".
Fuck that.
Videogames shaped my childhood and made me the woman I am today. Without videogames, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't nearly have the sense of stamina and--let's face it--hmour that I have today.
Playing Ocarina of Time, all the Zelda games in general, opened my eyes to a world beyond the walls of my bedroom.
When I wasn't reading Harry Potter, or drawing, or running along the beach, I was playing Zelda.
Link's adventures sparked the love of adventure in me.
And that spark has never faded even a little bit.

"Link, he come to town
Come to save
The Princess Zelda!
Ganon took her away
Now the children don't play
But they will
When Link saves the day!
HALLELUJAH!! 
Now Link,
Fill up your hearts
So you can shoot
Your sword with Power
And when you're feeling all down
The faerie will come around
So you'll be brave
And not a sissy coward!
Now Link,
has saved the day!
Put Ganon 
In his grave!
So now
Zelda is free
And now our Hero shall be
Link, I think
your name shall
go down into
History!"

OH, GOD, YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME.

I just received an e-mail from my friend Nieriel that stated that this very blog now has readers in Ireland! YAY! *victory dance*

I've actually checked the stats for this blog just now, and have seen that I've got readers from all over the globe! *stunned expression*
So, to all my foreign readers, I give you my thanks. *bows*
I love each and every one of you.
(Especially you, Eamonn. Yes, you. *virtual hug* I don't even know you, but you get a special shout-out anyway.)

Much love from the U.S.!
xoxo
Lónannûniel

Inheritance

So, I met Christopher Paolini the other night.

For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, here's a brief synopsis: 

Mr. Paolini is the New York Times Bestselling author of the the famed Inheritance Cycle, which consists of the four novels Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr, and Inheritance. On November 8th, 2011, Inheritance was released, finally ending a four year wait for the final book in the series. The next day, Nieriel and I trekked into Philadelphia, as we do, to get our beloved novels signed by the writer himself, Christopher Paolini. 

This is him. Ain't he cute? 

Unlike our last book singing adventure, we were able to get seats in the auditorium of the library, ones that were very close to the stage, actually. *epic squee*

And this time, we heard stories. Not just ANY stories, dear readers, but stories that proved how hard it is to write a novel. Allow me to demonstrate. 

After a brief introduction, Mr. Paolini told us the story of how Eragon came to pass. For those who don't know, Eragon was first written and published when Paolini was 15 years old, right after he graduated from High School. According to the story, it began with a Viking Mead Hall. 

Christopher Paolini: "After I graduated, the only thing on my mind was how great it was to be out of school. That lasted for about two weeks. Then... I got bored. Really, really, really, really, really, really bored. How bored was I? Well, I'll tell you. I was so bored... that I dug a hole. And it wasn't just any hole, this hole was 8 feet deep and 8 feet wide, and I insulated it with hay bales, chopped down some dead trees from the river near my house, lined them along the inside, and covered the thing with an old satellite dish. How did I get into the hole, you ask? I dug a tunnel. And it became a Viking Mead Hall."

(Quite honestly, given the chance, I would have done the same thing. Except, y'know... I would have made it a gaming sanctuary of sorts. With snacks.)

He also mentioned the original name of our hero, Eragon.

CP: "Eragon was not originally named Eragon. I've actually never told anybody this, and I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but... Eragon's name was originally Kevin. *cringes*
And he met a unicorn." 

Needless to say, the audience kind of... well, spontaneously combusted with laughter. 

(Yes, it's possible. Someone ran out of the theatre on fire, and it was funny as hell. This is my story, so shut up.)

A brief Q&A followed, and I actually got to ask a question! :D  

Being a huge fan of Tolkien and his linguistics, I took it upon myself (while trying not to projectile vomit out of nervousness) to ask Paolini about his own language, The Ancient Language, and how he created it.


Me: "After reading your books, and really taking a look at the Ancient Language, I've noticed that it's really similar to Sindarin and Quenya, which are Tolkien's languages. Is language a passion of yours, like it was for Tolkien? You seem to feel very strongly about it."
CP: "My Ancient Language is based mostly on Old Norse, and Tolkien's, I believe, were based mostly on Finnish. There really isn't much of a difference between the two [Old Norse & Finnish], actually. *laughs* But, I wouldn't say language is a passion of mine, seeing as Tolkien dedicated his entire life to his work. I'd like to do something else with my writing. *laughs* I did enjoy creating the Ancient Language and using Dwarvish in my books, though. It was fun."

After the Q&A, we all migrated back upstairs to get our books signed.

What we so hopelessly forgot was that EVERY FUCKING PERSON IN THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA decided to attend this event, and the line to get stuff signed stretched all the out into the alley behind the library.
Thankfully, Nieriel's mom saved us a place in line, but we still had hour wait. (It actually didn't seem that long, though...)
(And I know you're probably reading this, Mrs. Mulreany, so thank you for your awesome spot-saving powers. *virtual hug*)


I'll skip to the exciting part, where I got my copy of Inheritance signed.

(He's actually signing Brisingr here, but IT STILL WORKS.)


It was almost as if it happened in slow-motion. I remember standing in line, and a woman taking my books and placing them on the table to be signed. My heart raced, like I was preparing myself to jump off a cliff. My hands started to almost tremble as the people in front of me moved on. I was repressing nervous giggles and excited squeals as I tapped my fingers against my thigh. 
He then called my name, a huge smile on his face as he said it. I made eye contact, briefly, but immediately looked away, almost as if I'd be turned to stone if my gaze lingered.
As he signed my book, our 'conversation' was as follows:

CP: "So, have you started the book so far?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I'm about ten chapters in, and so far, it's absolutely brilliant!"
CP: *laughs*  "Well, thank you, very much. Thanks for coming!"
Me: "Oh, it's no trouble...!"

Wow. I sounded like an idiot. *facepalm*

You have no idea how fucking excited I was when this was taken.
And, in case you care, it says Mein Teil on my hand. It mean's 'my part' in German, and it's also a song by Rammstein. Just in case you give a shit.

You probably don't.

Dark Horse

Music has always played a huge part in my life. As long as I can remember, my Dad has always played guitar, and his dedication to the instrument has always inspired me in my playing and love of music. I can still smell the strangely calming aroma of stale cigarettes and laundry detergent from our basement where Dad used to practice every night when I was little.

I remember the first time I picked up the violin, my first guitar; Listening to almost every type of music ever composed, and adoring close to all of it. 

Whether it be the wail of an electric guitar, the haunting sound of a sitar, or the enticing melody of an ocarina, the soul that is behind music is what makes it great.

Music that speaks such wisdom to me is the work of George Harrison.

George's work has always held a special place in my heart. With every song, he put his love, dedication, wisdom, faith, and humour. Listening to songs like Isn't it a Pity and Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) bring tears to my eyes, simply because of the heart and soul behind it. What speaks to me is not only the love within, but how George had changed millions of lives, including my own, with something as simple as song. 

"Love one another" 

Three words, their meaning clear as day.
Beautiful words from a beautiful man.
Spiritual in the truest sense of the word, though I myself am somewhat off the beaten path when it comes to religion, George Harrison gave me faith when I needed it most.

Music has an odd way of releasing emotions, no matter what they may be. When you're sad, you listen to mopey, sappy songs; When you're angry, you listen to hard rock and kick random shit. (Or I do, at least...)
When you're happy, you listen to music that makes you feel good. (As I write this, I'm listening to Layla by Derek and the Dominos, which, ironically, is about Eric Clapton's borderline obsession with George Harrison's then wife, Pattie Boyd)

Songs like this, with such feeling behind them that you can close your eyes and almost see yourself standing next to the musician in the studio, is what makes life so great, in my opinion.

If one can realize the true beauty of music that speaks not only to the heart, but to the soul, then one has truly reached a state of bliss, forever immortal in the romanticism of rock and roll's poetry.

George, you've changed my life. Rest in peace, love. 

Oh, hello.

You scared the piss out of me.

*sips tea*

So, I haven't written in a while. Apologies. 

My computer's an arrogant little *mumble mumble* and took a month to be fixed. I just recently got it back about 2 days ago, and have been pondering what exactly I should write about, now that I actually have the ability to blog again. 

I still have absolutely nothing to write about, which is exceptionally unsettling. Usually, I've got a few witty remarks that might make for a good article or two, but today... nothing.

That's what royally sucks about being a writer. Some days, you can't think about anything but writing. Most days, you know exactly what you want to write, but you can't get it down on paper...

Today, I've got nada. 

I've literally spent the last hour procrastinating on my homework by staring absentmindedly at this stupid computer screen, listening to The Who and pondering why this country is so fucking entranced by Nutella spreads. 

Writer's block is one of the most infuriating things I've ever encountered, and it seems that it gets its sick kicks by infesting my mind like a parasite whenever I sit down at my keyboard.

Usually, music helps me get rid of it, but not even Pete Townshend is helping me now, which he usually does. (Damn you, Pete. You and your adorably gargantuan nose. *weakly shakes fist*)

I keep hovering my hands over this stupid keyboard, waiting for my fingers to just make a masterpiece on their own. I've examined my bitten nails about ten times now, noticing every time a difference in the pattern of my chipped nail polish. There's still ink on my hand from where I smeared my biology notes today. My hands are cold. I have to re-paint my nails. I should really do my homework. My dogs need to shut up. 

t';]6\-04r67

I just smashed my head onto my keyboard. 

**47 MINUTES PASS**

I have completed my homework. Did you guys know that Nikita Khrushchev was an arrogant little man?

**12 MINUTES PASS**

I have learned that President Theodore Roosevelt was known to swim naked in the Potomac River in the wintertime.

I have also learned that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was forced by his mother to wear a dress until he was five years old.


...I am bored and my tea is now cold.

Connecting Science-Fiction with Reality.

Speaking from the philosophy of the Science-Fiction genre, if there is, indeed, a philosophy of such a thing, I came to the conclusion that the BBC's classic show Doctor Who not only creates a window to the populace when it comes to World History, but also mirrors World Conflict in a way that not many people seem to realize.
As said frequently throughout the 48 years the show has been running on the BBC, our hero and protagonist, The Doctor, is revered throughout the entire universe. His name alone means healer, wise man. As the lone superhero, The Doctor travels throughout time and space, saving planets, galaxies, even the entire universe from utter annihilation. But, as the saying goes, "With great power comes great responsibility."
The Doctor has many enemies as well as allies, which brings us to Global Conflict, and the imagery that a simple sci-fi television show impacts upon the viewer.
Starting with the oldest enemy of the Doctor: The Dalek.

The Daleks, which are Kaled mutants encased within a robotic shell, were the 'Master Race' created by the scientist Davros to end the thousand-year war between the Kaleds and the Thals. A Dalek has no emotions, save for Hate, which drives them to kill every creature in the universe that is not a Dalek. The Dalek has no pity, remorse, compassion, or mercy. When given an order to kill, the Dalek obeys.
To the naked eye, the Dalek may look ridiculous and bear a striking resemblance to that of a salt and pepper shaker, but inside, hatred burns freely.
How many times the Doctor has defeated the Daleks is almost un-countable, but what we do know is that they will not go down without a fight. From Christopher Eccleston's Dalek to David Tennant's Daleks in Manhattan to Matt Smith's The Pandorica Opens, the Daleks in the new series have become stronger and stronger by the episode.
To connect the philosophy of the Dalek with a single point in history is incredibly difficult. The Dalek acts of genocide against the fictional races of the Whoniverse are similar to that of any genocide carried out in reality within the past few centuries, but the most common, or rather the most disastrous genocide that connects to the ways of the Dalek is the Holocaust carried out by the Nazis in Europe during WWII.

Much like the Daleks, Nazis were ordered to kill to create the Aryan Nation, or "Perfect Race" as concluded by Adolf Hitler. As seen from the fan art to the left, "Victory through EXTERMINATION" is a play on the word 'Exterminate' which is the catch-phrase of the Dalek throughout the series.
Through Hitler's "Final Solution", Germany planned to exterminate the Jewish race by any means necessary, including murder in cold blood.
Much like the emotionless Dalek, the Nazis held no remorse or mercy for those they killed. Most of the high officers of the Gestapo and SS that were acquitted by the Nuremberg Trials or those who managed to take refuge in South America after the War never had an ounce of regret for the hundreds upon thousands of innocent people that they killed.
Connect the two, and the Daleks are nothing more than a sci-fi robotic version of the German Nazi.

(At right: Nuremberg Trials, 1945-46: Nuremberg, Bavaria, Germany)

"The Big Three" as they were called- Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin- were the leaders of the three most powerful countries in the world after WWII. The Nuremberg Trials, held by The United States of America, The United Kingdom, France, and The Soviet Union brought the Nazis to justice, ending their reign of terror throughout Europe.
The Time War, which was the Last Great War between the Time Lords and the Daleks, was the beginning of the end for the two races, all from The Doctor's own doing to save the universe from utter annihilation.

(Gallifrey, pictured at the left, in ruins during the Time War.)

Though these two races-one real, one fictional-have been connected on a level that is but a simple Science-Fiction television show, the harsh reality of it all is that all of this has actually happened before.
Race against race.
Religion against religion.
Man against man.
Hatred against humanity.

Midnight. (Contains Spoilers)

I sit at my desk writing this on Tuesday, July 26th, 2011 at 2:04 PM.
I have Hedwig's theme playing in the background, and my copy Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone resting in my lap. My "Mischief Managed" mug sits on top of my CD of Tommy by The Who.
My sharpie Dark Mark has long since faded, and the lightning scar I had drawn on my forehead when I was six lives on in spirit. The "Sorting Hat" from Brigantine, NJ's Public Library sorted me into Ravenclaw, from which I have never left. The "wands" my brother Sean and I used to use have been blown away by Brigantine's sea breeze, lost...

...However, my imagination, magic, and love affair with reading is not.

I am ready to share my secrets of the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II with the public.
Twelve days ago today, I began readying myself to venture to Nieriel's house to begin our night of rambunctious wackiness in preparation to transform ourselves from the pacifistic Witches that we are into Two of Voldemort's Death Eaters: Nieriel as Bellatrix Lestrange and myself as Narcissa Malfoy.

Let me begin by giving a bit of comedic fodder by telling the tale of my brother dropping me off at Nieriel's house.
I had everything I needed with me for the premiere. Dress, makeup, sharpies for Dark Marks, a pair of killer heels, my homemade Slytherin choker, and my love of Harry Potter deep within my soul, ready to burst right out of my body.
My older brother, Sean, (who is twenty years old, mind you) had just gotten his driver's license, and was rearing and ready to drive somewhere...so why not give your hyperactive Potter-obsessed little sister a lift to her friend's house? Sound's legit...
Well, we didn't die on the way there, thankfully, but what I didn't know is that Nieriel wasn't home yet when I got there; She and her mother were picking up her brother from camp at the train station from the city.
After knocking on Nieriel's door for a good 30 seconds, I finally realized she wasn't home. I turned back to Sean's car and blatantly signaled that she wasn't home. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk back to the car...
But my brother decided to speed off without me.
So, there I stood, on Nieriel's front porch, backpack slung over my shoulder, stilettos in hand, looking like a total dweeb.
Figuring that they'd be back eventually, I sat on the front step and waited, only to be stared at by a few of Nieriel's neighbors. I'm not exactly what one would call 'confident' when it comes to being by myself, so I felt incredibly uncomfortable sitting there with all my stuff, so I decided to walk around the block once or twice.
(I forgot to mention that I also don't carry a cell phone, so I couldn't call my brother to come back and wait with me or call Nieriel to tell her I was at her house.)
After rounding the block a few times, I turned the corner to go back to Nieriel's house and looked ahead, into the blazing glare of the afternoon sun, to see a figure sprinting towards me. I couldn't make out who it was at first, so immediately, I thought was that it was a rapist coming to kidnap me, or something.
As the figure grew closer, my heart beat faster with fear. Who in the right mind was running towards me at full speed?
And then it hit me.
Literally.
Nieriel barreled into me and wrapped me in a tight hug, crushing my lungs.
"I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!! WE LEFT YOU HERE, I'M SO SORRY!!"
Initially stunned and relieved that nobody was going to murder me, I smiled and explained the situation to Nieriel as we walked back to her house. She laughed, and and  mentioned that when she called my mom to ask if she knew where I was, my mom laughed, apparently. I was confused, obviously, so I called my Mom to tell her to yell at her son for leaving me there, stranded. She obliged. (Thanks, Mom.)

An hour or so passed, and our friend Devin joined the pack, ready with as much makeup as I was to attack Nieriel with.
We passed the time to wait for our friend Kellyn by sipping "Butter Beer" (Root Beer with print-out labels)
watching A Very Potter Musical, and getting our make-up done. By the time Kellyn showed up, Nieriel's make-up was finished, as was mine and Devin's, so we had to attack Kellyn with eyeliner, shadow, blush, concealer, and lipgloss. It was only around 10:00 PM by the time we were ready for the Golden Snitch cake that Nieriel's mom had gotten for us, and this is what we looked like, pre-Potter.

(Kellyn's in the purple, Devin's wearing the tie, Nieriel's on the floor, And me, with my Rocky Horror Picture Show T-shirt...)
But, we still had to get our costumes on and get to the theatre. I'll skip about an hour of running around Nieriel's house finding wands for us to bring, and get right to the theatre.
TA-DA!!


And now...for the movie itself.
Words simply cannot describe it.
The entire time, I sat glued to my seat, holding my wand in my hands so tightly I thought it might snap. I had chills crawling up my body every second; I just wanted to scream.
And scream I did.
From the very start of the film, people were cheering. From the siege at Gringotts, to the search for the Horcruxes at Hogwarts, to Neville's bravery to Voldemort's demise. And of course, Molly Weasley's famous line of "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!" to Bellatrix Lestrange, which recieved the most applause I've ever heard in my life.
And I cried more than I laughed. Some tears of sorrow, others of happiness.
From Snape's death to Fred Weasley's, to Remus and Tonks, lying dead, hands still clasped within each other's.
But the greatest part was that in the theatre, you could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. There weren't chatty teen sluts laughing it up about us crying, people weren't getting up every minute for a smoke, people weren't asking what was going on...nothing.
And that was the beauty of it.
I was in a room surrounded by people who loved Harry as much as I did.
I wasn't being ridiculed for something I loved, for once in my life. And that was good.
I cried until my eyeliner was rushing down my cheeks, and even more so afterwards.

"Albus Severus...You were named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew."

With a final cry of "Mischief Managed!" Myself, Nieriel, Devin and Kellyn said our goodbyes to the Wizarding World, and crossed our Dark Marks for one last time.


Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

Thank you.

Transvestites, Star Wars, and Bastille Day.

I never thought I would cross the threshold into Death Row. It was atrociously hot, like any other day in July. My heart raced. I feared it might skip a beat.

Stepping through the mouldy, decrepit archway into the fenced-in cell block, one can easily imagine the countless inmates who had walked through the very same archway to await their death.

Murderers.

Rapists.

Theives.

Con-artists.

And me, a sixteen year-old hippy-at-heart, linked arm-in-arm with a friend whose Napoleon Bonaparte finger puppet was her only protection against the spirits and specters that haunt Eastern State Penitentiary's dilapidated halls.

Nieriel and I decided to venture back into Philadelphia last Saturday to witness a re-enactment of the storming of the Bastille at Eastern State Penitentiary. I had never been inside the decrepit, some would say haunted, prison before, so Nieriel's mother decided to let us take the audio tour. Being a resident of the 'burbs of the City of Brotherly Love, I felt like a total toolbag walking around with the stupid radio and headphones, but Steve Buscemi was the narrator, so that made the toolbag-ness deflate to zero. 

Nieriel and I went on our own separate way, and her mother and younger brother went the other way.

Starting outside the prison, in front of working guillotine, no less, we began our adventure.

(I'm the ginger. Nieriel's the brunette. Her brother is the abnormally tall one.)

When one first sets foot inside of the first maximum security prison in the States, you immediately get slapped in the face with a sense of uneasiness. Not only because of the thought of how many people once walked through these halls, but of the fact that the cells are just as they were so very long ago: Cold, dark, damp, and very, very scary.


This picture proves how powerful the flash from a camera is; This cell had no skylight and/or any source of light at all.
Unlike the cell above, most of the cells inside Eastern State have a total of 5 things:
Cot
Toilet
Skylight
Bible (Or other book for entertainment, depending on the prisoner)
Cell door

If I had a choice of being decapitated with a guillotine, being eaten by the Shelob, and being stuck in that cell, I'd choose the guillotine. (Which you can see in the background of the first picture.) :D

While we barreled down the many different cell blocks of the prison, Nieriel and I had our fill of creepiness after a few hours of listening to Steve Buscemi drone on and on about Al Capone and other notable inmates. While that was interesting and all, we didn't come to learn about the prison.
We came to storm, bitches.



Eastern State Penitentiary was modeled after the French Bastille, so, logically, the entire populace of the Museum District of Philadelphia acts out the Storming of the Bastille from the French Revolution every summer, complete with Imperial Storm Troopers, Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and a Transvestite.
Yes.
You read that correctly.

After our tour, Nieriel's mom got us some pizza, and we fueled ourselves for an evening of yelling at Marie Antoinette, .
(And Lil' Napoleon was with us, too.)

Aren't we just ADORABLE?! *violent twitch*

After about an hour or so of prancing around the vendor tents, petting the occasional friendly dog, yelling random spew in what little French Nieriel and I know, playing my ocarina, and taking a gratuitous amount of pictures, the Storming began.
Now, for those of you brilliant, BRILLIANT snowflakes who have no idea who/what Marie Antoinette/The French Revolution is, here's a brief synopsis:
Marie Antoinette was fourteen when she took place on the throne in Versailles in 1774, declaring herself queen when her husband, the chubby and quite stupid Louis XVI took place as King. The people of France were initially charmed by her beauty and wild personality when she first took to the throne. But as time progressed, and so did the brutal winters, the peasants of France began to accuse the promiscuous Queen, or 'The Austrian', as they called her, of 'fornicating with the enemy' so to speak, as she harboured sympathies for her native country of Austria, whom France did not dwell with positively.
The Bastille, which was the symbol of Noble and Royal Hierarchy in France, harboured only seven inmates when the storming took place on the morning of July 11th, 1789, but the sheer impact of the destruction of the prison symbolizes the beginning of the Revolution. (Hence the name, 'Bastille Day').

Natives of Philadelphia, however, decided that this was the perfect reason to fuse comedy with history and give you this:

Marie Antoinette, standing atop Eastern State Penitentiary, with Imperial Storm Troopers, Boba Fett, and Darth Vader.

(Did I mention she rained Tastykakes down from the sky while screaming "LET THEM EAT CAKE!"?
Nieriel cringed as this happened, and no sooner had I mocked her for doing so that a Butterscotch Krimpet smacked me right between the eyes, accompanied by a shout of "GAH, MOTHER F**KER!!" by me. I received applause.)

A Transvestite narrated Marie's kidnapping from the prison, (I'm not kidding) and led her to the dreaded guillotine. Tastykakes littered the streets, and a young child decided to lob one at the Tranny. He stopped in mid-sentence and called out, "YOU'RE NEXT!". (Might I add that this man pulled off a skimpy black dress and stiletto heels quite well.)
Tranny man led Marie to the guillotine and read the Queen what could happen to her head, if the crowd so desired her fate. We so decided.
A watermelon was chopped in half to test, and Marie's fate was imminent...
Except we couldn't really chop off her head.
The Tranny sentenced her to be Arnold Schwarzenegger's House Maid, instead. (Not much better than getting decapitated, if you ask me.)
 

After the performance, Nieriel and I decided to snap some photos of Marie's posse.
(Again, Nieriel's on the left, I'm on the right. My hair is particularly red in this one...)

One with a Stormtrooper....


And one with Darth himself. Notice our happiness.

And with these snapshots, I leave you for now, my lovelies.

As always...and with just enough wit, I remain
                                                                              --Lónannûniel
         

Twenty Four Hours Until it will Begin...

In twenty-four hours, I will be applying my more-than usual gothic make-up to my face and also Nieriel's, sprucing up my Sharpie Dark Mark, chomping on RedVines, singing "Get Back to Hogwarts" and "Voldemort is Going Down", attempting to make butterbeer, elbowing little kids in the face to get to my seat, screaming unforgivable curses at Muggles, inhaling buttery popcorn, gripping the sticky movie theatre seat thrillingly, and wiping away my tears as Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II comes to a close.
Although the thought of the series ending makes me misty-eyed, the sheer impact of it all didn't quite hit me until just now. I've spent such a long time with Harry that it's almost as if I'm losing a family member.
However, now is not the time for such sad things.
Tomorrow will be a day of epic proportions and preparations.
Nieriel, myself, our friends Valpantiel and Devin, and Nieriel's mother and younger brother have had this day planned for months. Hell, we've had it planned for years. 

The midnight release.

Standing outside the AMC Theatre my older brother manages, waiting in anxiousness, terror, and enough excitement to piss ourselves, we will show our love for Potter.
Costumes!
Make-up!
Cheesy fake accents!
SONGS FROM AVPM/AVPS!
Everything a die-hard fan (or any fan) could want.
We will make it so.

Sadly, I will leave you here for tonight, my dear readers. I will return in the next few days with pictures, videos, and other random spew.

*hat tip*

Toodle pip, my loves.

A Childhood of Potter, a Childhood of Magic.

"I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you." -Albus Dumbledore


"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure." -Luna Lovegood


"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." -Sirius Black


"When a wizard goes over to the dark side there's nothin', and no one matters to 'em anymore." -Rubeus Hagrid


"The thing about growing up with Fred and George," said Ginny thoughtfully, "is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve." -Ginny Weasley


"Sometimes you remind me a lot of James. He called it my 'furry little problem' in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved rabbit." -Remus Lupin

     These quotes are just a select few of many which spawned my love for Harry Potter. When I was five years old, my mother decided to read me the first chapter of Harry Potter & The Sorcerer's Stone one night before bed. I distinctly remember listening intently to J.K. Rowling's first description of Albus Dumbledore... 


"Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore." (Rowling, Philosopher's Stone, 8) 

     That passage has been super-glued within my psyche since I first heard it 11 years ago in my bedroom.
 But why, indeed, is Harry Potter so important to me? Why has it formed a place in my heart that nothing else could ever compete with?
Magic.
Joanne Rowling opened up a world of magnificence and adventure beyond my wildest dreams within the first few pages of her debut novel. Even at only five years old, I wanted to know more about this strange, bearded old man who called himself Dumbledore. I wanted to know how a simple Tabby cat could transform herself into a strict and powerful witch with a soft side. Who was this lightning-bolt-scarred 11 year-old named Harry James Potter? Why was he so famous? 
When would I get my Hogwarts letter?
Which house would I be sorted into?
Would I be in Slytherin?
Or Gryffindor? 
Or maybe Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff? 


     As I sit here writing, wiping away my tears, I look down into my lap and see my tattered copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. The dust jacket is torn at the top, removing completely the previously gold lettering of Harry's name, the cover itself is stained with small blotches of tea. The pages have begun to slowly yellow. A few small teeth marks from where my dog had gotten a hold of it rest on the edges of a few pages. And, honestly... I don't think there is a book in my personal collection that has ever been loved so dearly. As bunged up as my book may be, it has been through almost 13 years of chaos. 
     Being carried around school first by my older brother, and then by myself as I grew older, surviving a move from New Jersey to Pennsylvania, just barely making it through an encounter with a steaming mug of tea... the lot of which, simply shows how much this book has been loved. 

     I sat for ages beside my bedroom window when I was little, wishing my hardest that an owl would swoop onto my windowsill with a letter from Hogwarts clutched in it's talons. 

     (I know now that my owl has simply lost their way, and my letter will arrive soon enough...)

     I don't think I can even remember a time in my life when there wasn't Harry Potter. Every year, from back as long as I can remember, there was always, without fail, something Potter-related being released, whether it be a book, film, videogame... something. 

Every new school year meant more Potter. I would wait anxiously for the next movie or book to be released, always hoping to see The Weasley Twins doing something greater and more ridiculous than ever, or listen to Remus Lupin and Sirius Black exchange stories with Harry about their days at Hogwarts. 


     That is why the simple thought of the series ending makes me teary-eyed. Having grown up with so much magic and wonder in my life, having it all end while the fandom is at its peak makes me incredibly sad. (If you read my last post, my friend Nieriel and I discussed this in detail). We cannot and will not let the populace forget about Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, or Hermione Granger. The world will not forget Hogwarts. The world will not forget Dumbledore. We will never forget the wizards that sacrificed their lives in the Battle of Hogwarts. We will never forget the infamous Malfoy sneer, nor Neville Longbottom's courage and bravery.

     To every single person who has stuck with Harry until the very end, raise your wands and rejoice. Never let the magic leave you. Ever.     


To Harry James Potter, Ronald Bilius Weasley, and Hermione Jean Granger.
We will never let you go.

"Keep calm and hold hands. The magic will never end."

Letters Between Two Potter Fans

As many of you are aware, the final part of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is to be released in ten days.
My good friend Nieriel and I grew up with Harry Potter, and are not at all ready to have it end. These e-mails are our discussions on the topic.

Me: I... I just can't completely grasp that it's actually over. I can't imagine a life without Harry Potter. Just looking back and remembering everything about our childhood... it all wouldn't have been so great without Potter. Every new school year, there was something new: A movie, book release...something. Everyone made friends because of a mutual love of the series. Nobody hid their love for it. Ever. 
I can just remember reading the first book every night before bedtime, going to the first movie with Sean and my Dad, and we were the only ones in the theatre... Hiding from Voldemort at night, staring out my window for ages hoping to see an owl instead of the occasional seagull. If someone you knew hadn't read or seen any Potter, you lent them the book and waited for their obsession to start. 

    We are the leaders of the Harry Potter generation, Nieriel! Think about it: We grew up and matured as Harry grew up and matured. We learned as Harry did. We loved, lost, and gained many a friend and loved one just like Harry. What would our lives be like had it not been for Harry? Had it not been for Hermione? Or Ron? Or The Weasley Family? Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye, Snape, Hagrid? WithoutDumbledore? Would we still be reading what we are, writing what we are today without the Potter series? 

    It's a world-wide phenomena that we made famous, Nieriel. Us, the young readers, the bookworms, the buyers of useless merchandise, the people with posters, the children who wished they had glasses just so we could be like Harry, the children who ran around speaking in a fake British accent just so we could be like our favourite characters. We, the Fans of Harry Potter. 

I just don't want it to be over. Ever.

Nieriel: I don't think I can remember a time in my life without Harry Potter. As a child, my mom would read it to my brother and I every night, and she fell in love with it so much that she would keep reading to herself and got farther than Ryan and I, and she would keep hinting to us that awesome things happen in the other books, or reading really funny scenes to me from the other books, and we'd laugh imagining it. I saw almost all the movies in theatres, saw all the midnight releases from the fifth one up, play pretend with the Harry Potter characters when I was in second grade......

 

My mom and I always love this, but think about it: there were NO midnight releases for books before Harry Potter. It all started with that. I remember going to the midnight release of the Order of the Phoenix dressed as Hedwig (my mom made the costume....in fact, I think I still have it in the attic), and the same for the Half-Blood Prince. The one I'll remember best, though, is definitely the Deathly Hallows release. That was when I had officially become a completely ballistic fan of the series and had read all the books, so I got all the costumes and jokes and everything. It was such a magical night (no pun intended), and in some ways I'm glad the night was so amazing for me, because it was the very last one, for the books at least, and the book releases had a special magic to them then the movie ones. I guess because half the people at the movie midnight premieres hadn't read the books, so half the crowd was just not into it. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish to be able to go to just one more book release for Harry Potter. If I could go back in time, I would go back to the midnight release of Deathly Hallows and drink it all in, just one more time.

 

GOD, I.......I don't want it to end, either. You're right. We are so lucky to have been a part of the Harry Potter generation.

This post from AverageWizard made me cry, but not as much as your email has:

To those who cried when they counted up the deaths. To those who waited in line for hours at midnight to get the first copies of the book. To those who watched every movie. To those who were very annoyed when some of the movies just didn't match up. To those who cried the second time they read the book, and Fred said, "When I get married." and they realized it wouldn't happen. To those whose books fell to pieces from being read to much. To the Harry Potter generation. To Dumbledore's Army. To the Muggle branch of Dumbledore's Army. To Dobby, Fred, Hedwig, Tonks, Lupin, and all of the nameless dead wizards. To The Greatest Series Of All Time. To Hogwarts, and To Dumbledore and Sirius. To everyone who will cry after the movie. To Us. The Harry Potter Generation. LONG LIVE HOGWARTS!!!

Me: Oh, Lord, that made me misty-eyed. :)

The wonder of it all is that it will never really be "over". Hogwarts will never die. Harry will never leave our hearts. 

(Back in Brigantine, my local library had a "Harry Potter Day" every year during the summer. We would go in, get sorted in our house, get our wands, schedules, and tour the library as if it was Hogwarts. I remember fondly making slime in "Potions" class... I was a Ravenclaw! :D)

But for people to say that it's just a book series honestly makes me ill; It's so much more than that! 

Yes, we make fun of Twilight endlessly (mostly because it's detestable) but their fanbase is nothing compared to the Harry Potter Generation! The people who make fun and scoff at Harry Potter are the ones who fawn over Edward and Jacob and write horrendous fan-fics about them.

It's different for the Potter fans. Yes, we are all guilty of writing HP fan-fiction, but the majority of them are remarkable! Stupendous, even! Without Harry Potter, I wouldn't be a writer. Without Harry, I wouldn't enjoy reading as much as I do. Without these books, I don't think I'd have ever become who am I today without the confidence that Jo Rowling gave me through her writing. 

To quote Andrew Futral: “Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength, and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is how important it is to have a boyfriend."

Nieriel: I swear, I am keeping every last ounce of HP memorabilia, and when I have kids I am going to read Harry Potter to them as early as possible, pass down my Harry Potter memorabilia to them when they're old enough, let them see it as soon as they grow old enough to be able to show some interest in it, and I WILL make sure that they have read all seven books and seen all eight movies by the time I die. I will quote Harry Potter to them, I will play the movie soundtracks to them while they're infants (and even in my womb), and I will put up the posters in their bedrooms. When they're teenagers, I will show them AVPM and AVPS (assuming Youtube is still around) and eagerly engage them in HP/AVPM/AVPS-related jokes and puns whenever possible. 

I will make sure they know, with pride, that their mother was a major member of the Harry Potter generation.  And who knows, maybe--JUST maybe--they'll start up a whole new generation of Potter fans.  

Me: Do it! So am I! 

And who knows? You or I, or any other Potter fan could be the next J.K. Rowling. 

It's just such a magnificent series! (Even the Doctor loves it! You saw that scene from Doctor Who when he quotes it, yeah?)

I don't think there will ever be a series as successful and as loved by so many as Harry Potter is, but mark my words, our writing will come VERY close! 

Nieriel: Yes, Harry Potter will forever go down in history as one of the greatest book series of all times.

Me: Indeed, my elven friend.

**EDIT**

No, my friend's name is not really Nieriel. For her sake, I use her name in Elvish when she is mentioned to make sure she is comfortable with what she is being mentioned in.  

Spidery things.

I have never been what one would call 'neat'. Quite in fact, I don't think I've ever cleaned my room without being forced by my parents. I find that wading through a sea of clothes and, quite possibly, a few dens of mythical creatures, make my life exciting. (How else would I have conquered that dragon last week?) But the other day, I woke up, looked about the Sea of Crap, and frowned. I mean, when the dragons nesting in your room are becoming angry with the mess, perhaps it's a sign that you should tidy it up a bit.

So says the dragon that formerly lived amongst a pile of CD's and videogame controllers.

So, I finally decided, against my better judgement, to clean my room.
The magical things that were unearthed cannot be described in words. Remember the scene in The Hobbit where Tolkien describes Smaug's lair, and the mound of treasure he slept upon? Sort of like that, but with Holy Relics, too.
Nieriel and I always joke that, if in the fact that I ever tidied my room, that I would find not only the Ark of the Covenant, but also the Holy Grail and Jesus. Just chillin' in my room. Waiting to be found by someone brave enough to venture into the Sea of Crap. (I haven't been smited just yet, so bear with me for the time being.)
But, in the gloom of the deep, murky Sea, I came across not another dragon or sea serpent... but an arachnid of sorts.
Unlike my father, I don't have a distinct fear of spiders, but they still make me uneasy. (Probably because of reading Tolkien at such an early age...)
I was equipped with only a vacuum and a can of lemon Pledge. I chose the lemony freshness spray.
My enemy slumbered inside the shadows of my closet, watching me with its multiple eyes, just waiting patiently for me to move in for the kill.
I knelt down beside my eight-legged foe, and aimed the mustard-yellow Pledge bottle in its direction.
I pressed down the trigger. Maniacal laughter erupted from the creature that was now me. I grinned evilly as the tiny creature writhed underneath the force of the spray of lemony wood polish.
Pleased with my accomplishment, I stood and turned to leave, when I caught something, just for a moment, out of the corner of my eye.

A small, wax-coated spider, scuttling up the wall of my closet.

I sprinted across my room and grabbed my only other weapon: the Dyson vacuum.
With a final war-cry of "DIE, YOU SON OF A DOG." I aimed the hose at the waxy pest and sucked it into the barrel of dusty doom.

Immediately thereafter, however, an obnoxious and unyielding sense of guilt washed over me. That poor spider was probably guarding my room from the infestation of summer insects that would have most likely crawled out of Hell to kill me in my sleep! HOW COULD I?!
I mean, LOOK at this little guy:

HE'S ADORABLE!!
HOW COULD I END THE LIFE OF SUCH A HUGGABLE LITTLE CREATURE?

I'm going to go cry myself to sleep now.

A Story about the Bolsheviks....

For Father's Day, the present I gave my awesome, guitar-playing, X-Men-obsessed Daddy was a story I wrote about the Bolshevik (Russian) Revolution of 1917.
The prologue of the story, which I am sharing with you, spins the tale of Konstantin, a seventeen year-old peasant revolutionary in Moscow. In this section, Konstantin and his friend, Ermolai, are witnessing a rally led by Lenin. Please excuse my poor Russian, as I used a translator.
Enjoy, and comment, if necessary. :3

"Comrades! Gather!" The man's voice was loud, menacing. He stood on a makeshift soapbox podium, his black felt overcoat stained at the bottom with dirt and salt. He had a weathered face, pockmarked at the chin, though covered with a wispy black goatee, being the only hair he had. He wore a pair of black trousers that were much too large for him and beaten up brown boots. His shirt was torn at the bottom and hastily tucked into his belt–the tie around his neck knotted improperly. A queer sight, he wore a brand new Ushanka atop his bald head. He went by the name Lenin, and led the Bolsheviks, as they called themselves. As menacing as Comrade Lenin was, he was a short little man, hardly threatening at all had he not been standing above the Serfs of Moscow.

            Konstantin shoved his way through the buzzing crowd, tripping over his own dragging trousers through the blackened slush along the alley, his friend Ermolai close on his heels. Melting ice seeped through Konstantin's worn boots, numbing his already cold and blistered feet. "Damn it all," Konstantin mumbled, kicking slush off his boots and accidentally knocking an old man in the rear. "Oi, watch it!" The elderly man grumbled, cursing in Russkii.

            "Konstantin, podozhdite!" Ermolai called, sidling against his friend as they huddled for warmth to hear their leader speak. Konstantin coughed and sniffled, catching the horrid stink of the people around him. None had bathed in God knows how long. The closest Konstantin himself had come to a warm bath in the last several months was when he was caught in a rain storm.

            "Yebut the Czar, eh, Konstantin?" Ermolai grunted, shivering. "Making us live in this filth for years..." Konstantin shivered, too. His thin coat and tattered Ushanka no longer kept him warm; On the contrary, it made him even colder. Ermolai had the blessing of pure luck. He had a paying job, and could easily afford to buy his family food for the winter when he worked.          

            Konstantin was the polar opposite. He supported himself and his ailing mother on a measly salary and could barely make ends meet. He could afford rations for he and his mother, and could always take the ax and go chop the trees for firewood, but Konstantin's life was a poor one. Never changing.

            "Yebut the Czar..." Konsatantin murmured, rubbing his numb hands together. Ermolai kicked the slush at his feet and hacked, spitting at his feet. Konstantin could have cared less about Lenin's speech tonight; Any other night, he would have been rioting and cheering with his fellow Bolsheviks, but tonight was just too cold. His hands were numb, his nose too painful to breathe through; His teeth chattered endlessly. All he wanted was to return home to try and light a fire to keep warm for the night.

            Snow fell lightly upon the heads of the Serfs, and Lenin finally began to speak. Ermolai raised his fists and cheered as the bearded Revolutionary called out his plans for the Mother Land.

            "Comrades, listen!" Lenin bellowed. "The Czar has ruled Mother Russia for centuries under an iron fist! The land is ours! We, the poor–the hungry–the cold–the sick–the dead!" He pointed out towards the crowd with each word. "We have lived in poverty for far too long, my friends!" The crowd roared. Ermolai cried out, "Yebut Czar Nicholas and his swine of a wife!" Everyone around Konstantin and his eccentric counterpart exploded in cheers and battle cries for the Mother Land. Lenin himself turned to Ermolai and nodded.

            Konstantin had never before seen Ermolai grin as wide as he did that night. For the next week, Ermolai talked about his deep, intellectual conversation with Comrade Lenin, though everyone knew as well as he that Ermolai was illiterate, just like every other Serf in Moscow.

            As the duo trudged home in the brutal cold, Konstantin and Ermolai passed by a recently abandoned liquor store. Estranged, frozen bottles of vodka and wine littered the windowless building. Konstantin eyed the liquor nervously. He could just take it and sell it to a nobleman, given the chance. Ermolai saw his friend ogling the bottle and stopped. "You want it?" he said. Konstantin shrugged. "Of course I do. I could sell it." he said, rubbing his already raw nose with his old wool mittens. Ermolai cocked a thick black eyebrow. "Then take it. Nobody cares anymore, moĭ drug." he said, nudging Konstantin.

            Konstantin was always the more sensible of the two. Ermolai was always so incredibly impulsive, almost to the point where Konstantin wanted to vomit. Anything Ermolai wanted, he managed to get; Clothes, alcohol, women. He had this bizarre way of fooling people into thinking that giving him whatever he wanted would make their lives better. He once managed to haggle a pair of obuvʹ off of an old blind man during one of the earlier Bolshevik rallies. 'He didn't need them,' Ermolai had told Konstantin. 'He's blind, never leaves that spot on the wall. What the hell does he need them for?'

            Konstantin shivered and shook his head. "Net, Ermolai. Just leave it. Like you said, nobody cares for alcohol anymore." he said. Ermolai rolled his eyes and sneered. "You may not want it, but I do." he said, stepping through the broken windowpanes and emerging with three unmarked bottles of wine and vodka. He quickly stuffed them into his jacket lapels and the two kept walking.

            Konstantin looked at his friend. Ermolai was still shorter then he was, at least by 5 inches, though that would never change. His thick black brow stretched all the way across the bridge of his nose, making it look like someone had painted a black line over his face. Stormy grey eyes rested underneath, always sarcastic and sinful. His long, crooked nose always had made him look like a bird. A falcon, perhaps. He wore a size 13 shoe, which made his feet look remarkably disproportionate from the rest of his body.

            Ermolai's eyes eventually wandered over and found Konstantin's. "What are you staring at?" he asked. Konstantin coughed uncomfortably. "N-nothing." he said, looking away.

            They reached Konstantin's home after a few more minutes of walking. Ermolai handed over one of the bottles of wine. "Give it your mat." he said. "She might want it." Konstantin clapped Ermolai on the shoulder and nodded in thanks. "Spasibo," he said. Ermolai nodded and popped and cigarette between his chapped lips. "Do you have a match?" he asked. Konstantin dug into his coat packet and fished out his matchbox. He handed one over and watched as Ermolai lit his cigarette and let a thick cloud of smoke leave his lungs. "Come out tomorrow, Konstantin." he said as he handed Konstantin back his matchbox. "I hear Comrade Lenin has something vazhnyĭ planned." Konstantin nodded and coughed again, this time violently. "I'll try, moĭ drug." he said, wheezing. Ermolai gave Konstantin a strange look, almost that of concern, if that were possible. "Get inside," he ordered. "Light a fire. I can't have you die before we take out the Czar!" Konstantin smiled and bid his farewells to his friend.

            He watched intently as Ermolai walked back down the road, unscrewing the cap of one of his vodka bottles and taking a swig every now and again. When he could see Ermolai no more, Konstantin entered the shack that he called home.

            His mother Nadya lay in her bed, head resting against a hay-stuffed pillow. "Privet, Mat." he said, removing his ushanka and hanging his coat on the chair by the fireplace, where a fire slowly died, the flames licking the sides of the charred bricks, clinging to life in the cold. Konstantin knelt in front of the fire and added some tinder, stoking the flames with a wrought iron poker. The flames began to dance freely among the small fireplace, lighting up the tiny two-roomed house. Konstantin rose and greeted his sickly mother with a kiss on the forehead and pulled her blanket up to her chin. Nadya smiled, her bony, yet still beautiful face glowing. Konstantin silently chuckled. "Hungry, Mat?" he said, grabbing the loaf of bread from the morning and breaking it in half. "Net, Konstantin." she said, coughing. "You go ahead and eat, you're a growing boy." Konstantin frowned. His mother certainly needed the strength more than he did. His mother sensed his frustration and waved her hand. "Don't you worry about me, dorogoĭ, eat up." Konstantin stuck his ration of bread onto the fire poker and held it amongst the flames, melting the ice and toasting the middle. He watched, entranced as the flames grabbed at his supper. He missed the warmth of a spring day in Moscow. He missed the sun, the warmth beating down upon his skin, the greenery surrounding the grand city, the roses and tulips sprouting out of the window boxes along the broken windowsills of Konstantin's neighborhood.

            A vicious gust of icy wind blasted through the cracks of the door, making Konstantin shiver. His mother shuddered and pulled another blanket over herself, then drifted off to sleep. Konstantin pulled his supper out of the fire and topped it with the last of the margarine. What he missed the most was the taste of meat. In the spring, Konstantin was able to sell more goods, work more because of the pleasant weather. He was able to buy meat for he and his mother. His prayed to God every winter that he would be able to buy decent food for his family, though he knew it was all in vain.

            Konstantin slowly savoured his bread and margarine before going to bed. Ever since his mother had taken ill, he had shared the bed with her, just in case. He sat on the edge of the mattress and removed his wet boots, setting them by the fireplace to dry. He tucked himself in next to his mother and held her close, feeling her heartbeat in sync with his.