::big sigh::

All this time and I still really haven't accomplished much of anything except a lot of laziness. And, well, since I'll be even more distracted pretty soon, I figured I should try to get something out now while there's still time..

Her body moved as if possessed by the music. Those who watched on from all sides had long ago forgotten that the music was actually coming from the speakers and not the woman who moved before them. Her body was slim, and the dim club lighting shone off the sweat that laced her tanned skin. Long auburn hair lay in loose tower curls that were pulled up and clipped behind her head by a black abologne shell barrette. Her raven shirt hung precariously from one shoulder and tapered off just under the bust until it came to a tip behind her that just reached the waistline of the skirt. The skirt was a deep burgandy and clung low on her hips. The left came only a few inches down from the waistline on the side of her hip, then swooped down to her right knee. Her high heels were black with a dramatic angle that caused most of the women watching to cringe inside. The laces of the shoes ran all the way up her calves, made of a silky, transparent black material. Her face, though not always the focus of most watching, had an intense look upon it. The beauty of her features were breathtaking even to the women, and her eyes seemed to draw in anyone who looked into them.
She had no partner, quite alone in the middle of the club's floor, kept company only by the music that pumped through her very veins it seemed. And while it was quite obvious she had no partner, with the way she danced it seemed very much as though she did. She was sharing it with someone. Perhaps with all of them, some dared to ponder. The dance was almost gypsy-like, similar to nothing the pour souls there had ever seen, even among ballroom and latin dancing.
She was ever graceful, and yet powerful, as everyone who watched found themselves intimidated by the dance. It was seductive, even the women finding themselves rather 'out of breath' in watching her. And still none dared to approach, to join her in the dance, or to even go on dancing beside her. They could do nothing but watch.
Finally, the music halted, and silence appropriately followed. Even the d.j. was dumbfounded by the mysterious, namesless dancer. She stopped with the end of the music, standing still as she caught her breath and let her heart calm itself. Before anyone could drum up the nerve to approach her, she turned and left the floor, the people parting so she could walk without hassle, everyone left to wonder. And they would keep on wondering. She collected her things from her table, and left the club. She never returned, though the people who witnessed her dance came back every night for nearly a year in hopes of seeing her again. But they never did.

Mid-Hiatus Breather

((Whatever that means, ne?))

It had been over a hundred years since she'd been there. She wasn't really sure why she was coming back. She usually steered clear of graveyards, so to come to that particular one, full of so many memories.. The Russian countryside was inviting so late in the summer, with the cool breeze already sweeping in. It pulled at her hair and whipped the tails of her duster around her legs. The rolling hills covered in knee-high grass were breath-taking. The ones beyond the gate, that is. Here, where she walked, poking up between the long, slender blades of grass that hadn't been cut for decades, were the gray ghosts of those who fed the grass. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of the old stones there, peppering the hillsides for nearly a mile. The whole area was marked out by an old, stone wall, periodically broken by rusty, iron gates. She could still remember building that wall, fingers bleeding from the endless cutting, shaping, and laying of stone. She supposed the gates had been replaced once or twice. They wouldn't have lasted the brutal Russian winters for a hundred years if the tombstones themselves were in such a condition. The writing could barely be seen engraved on them, the faces were so badly weathered. But she knew each name by heart, and could remember, too, the faces that went with each name.
She continued to walk slowly across the hills. Such nostalgia came over her that she hardly noticed anything around her. There wasn't anyone else around, she suspected. The nearest town was ten miles south of there. She doubted any of them came near the old graveyard with the sorts of rumors she'd heard while there. As she climbed to the top of a knoll, she came to a stop, breath caught in her throat. There, at the base of the hill on a small plateau, was one grave marker she knew all too well. It stood out from all the others, made of unfinished marble rather than the granite the rest were hewn from. Not only that, but on either side of the marker hovered faded statues of angels, locked in an everlasting prayer. Their wings and the hands of one of them were broken, damaged during the winters, and the features of the faces were hardly recognizeable.
She took in a slow breath, then began down the hill. She cautiously approached the tombstone, standing before it for some time. Even though faded, she could remember the words plainly in her memory. "Here lies an angel among devils, Saviour of all those fallen, and all those saved. May the memory of Rhiannon Kolareny live on for all time." Memory, indeed. Rhia sat down before the tombstone, leaned back on her hands as she gazed at it. What an eerie feeling to gaze at your grave, yet to still be able to feel your heart beating within your chest. And at the same time, she felt an overwhelming peace. Her resting place. She smiled faintly and laid back in the tall grass. The sun was warm on her face and it wasn't long before she drifted off to sleep under the watchful eye and careful prayer of her guardian angels.

I know, I know..

I've been neglecting the site, I know.. It seems throwing out all of those long samples drained my creative-ness. I had a friend over for quite a while during this hiatus, too, so there was a bit of mental-overload on anime... Watching all of Evangelion (minus the movies, thank God) in one sitting tends to melt the brains. And, unfortunately for many reasons, I got another idea two nights ago, something aside from Rhia (*gasp!*) that's been demanding my attention. I've been having trouble continuing the first novel anyway, so perhaps breaking away for a week or two until I get bored with this project would help me get back on track.

So, what is this big new idea? I'm not really sure if I should say on here or not. Then again, the pictures for it are in the gallery... Well, if I change my mind about having that assosciated with The Author, I'll just delete everything. Aren't enough of you reading this now anyway.

I'm not sure how many of you reading this ever heard of or watched Rainbow Brite back in the eighties. Well, my parents didn't let me watch tv normally, but instead rented a ton of cartoons for me. Of course, they handily set up two VCRs and recorded the cartoons while I watched them, so I have quite the abundance of old eighties cartoons and movies still on VHS... Including eleven of the thirteen Rainbow Brite episodes and the movie. About three or four days ago, I threw around the amusing idea of turning the cute little Rainbow Brite into an anime character, just a simple drawing, like fan art. Well, I did that...then...got the crazy idea to do a fan manga -_-;; Well, I've drawn out just about all the good guys, and am working on the bad guys today. Yeah, I know, I'm pathetic. And of course, this morning, I got the even stupider idea to do the same thing for an old children's book series, The Boxcar Children. Who knows.. One thing I do know is that this won't be a waste. I intend to do a manga for the early days of Rhia and Jason for kids once my stuff is known, so doing this will help me a lot in learning how to set up pages, condense storylines, direct different panels, etc. Not to mention my drawing ability is going to be greatly tested throughout the little project. And, hey, if I get good at it, and enjoy it, and it's any good overall, who knows what kind of PR I could get with it. That is, if I keep it under the name of The Author. Which is kind of a bad name for a manga artist. We'll see. I'm not sure if I'll put it up on the web anytime soon. I don't want to end up like all you poor manga artists slaving over the frames trying to pull a page together for the deadline. I may get a whole chapter done and put it up or pass it around among friends. We'll just have to see if it gets anywhere at all. I do know, also, that by focusing on one project, my mind gets excercise and is able to think up things for other projects. This may help the KChronicles yet.

Just a quickie.

"Say what?" "You're still doing it wrong." "But I'm doing everything you're saying!" "Silence! You ungrateful apprentice!" Rhia swallowed uneasily and lowered the pistol. She looked back out at the target. Not a single hole in it at all. With a sigh, she turned to the man standing beside her. He was middle-aged, a bit of gray mixed with his auburn hair. His eyes were a stoney gray, and they looked at Rhia with a hint of disgust. His clothes were dusty, as that was about all that the new West consisted of. He adjusted the big-rimmed hat and spat off to the side. He reached into his shirt pocket and tossed her a handful of bullets. "Do it again. This time do it right." She caught them and went about fumbling them into their places. Taking a step forward, she raised the pistol and took aim. Before she could even squeeze the trigger, he stepped over to her. "No, no, no! What the hell am I going to do with you, woman?" She grit her teeth, growling faintly when he called her 'woman' with such distaste. But she was quickly silenced when she felt him stand right behind her, closer than he'd ever stood before. She gulped when he took her hand, adjusting her grip. His hands were rough from working his farm, calloused after years and years of tightening girths and hammering shoes. And yet, he used such great care while fixing her grip on the pistol, knowing of the delicacy of a woman's hand. If only her hands were so delicate, she thought. She found herself embarrassed by his concentration. His other hand went to adjust her stance, even shifting her chin to fix how she looked down the pistol's sights. Her cheeks flushed, though luckily her hair enjoyed hiding her face. "There. Now, squeeze the trigger." She licked her lips, noticing he wasn't backing off. She took a deep breath, then, as she released the breath, squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, and at the same moment, a hole appeared in the center of the target. Her mouth opened, awed that he'd so easily caused her to make a bullseye. She glanced back at him, mouth still open. "How did...?" She stopped when she saw the little smirk on his lips. He backed away a couple of steps, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm going to go start lunch. You make three more bullseyes, then chop the day's firewood. When you've finished and washed up, lunch will be ready." She nodded some and stood straighter. "Yes, master. Thank-you." He hmphed and turned away, heading into the small farmhouse.