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QUOTE (PachucoDesigns @ Apr 22 2012, 04:48 AM) <{POST_SNAPBACK}>
I tried my hand at fanfiction once. Though, it wasn't truly fanfiction, since the characters and setting were completely mine. Warhammer 40K, lots of room for creative license since there really is no dedicated storyline that follows any particular character. Even still, it wasn't for me. Dabbling in a world created by someone else is just not for me, especially when it comes to anything romance related.
I'm made to recall when Twilight fans blamed Stephen King for being jealous of Stephanie Meyer's success. lol I never laughed so hard.
So, anyone else have anything to share?
Here is something else I put together, the intro piece to a novel I'm currently writing entitled "Colin's Bishop."
“I have spoken with a legend.
He was a cantankerous, old Irishman living in a cramped, rundown apartment on Miramar Street. He was eccentric and troubled, as brilliant men tend to be. He often grumbled and muttered to himself, and he disapproved of this 'godless generation.' He chastised the youth, called them disrespectful. He complained of sex and violence in the media, called them shameless. He nagged of inflation and how candy bars were once no more than a nickel. He even complained about the bothersome noises of the big city, and he longed for the peaceful hills of the old Leesiders.
Colin McMichael was a cranky old hermit, but I swear that I saw a faint glimmer of happiness in his eyes as he lovingly cradled that ebony bishop in the palms of his hands.”
It was a wet day in March when Sean took his lonely walk through the Kings Chapel Cemetery. The thoughts on his mind were heavier than the day’s rainfall, which had by then slowed to a light drizzle. Even now, in his thirties, he had never attended a funeral. He had never even set foot in a graveyard, let alone deliver a eulogy. It was something he had never expected, nor even considered. When you're growing up, he thought, you just assume that your parents will live forever.
Now that the time had come, he found that he was neither sad nor afraid. At most, after the awkward heart to heart with his father a few nights before, his feelings were left unprocessed and sour. Perhaps that was why he chose not to join the line of mourners to the burial plot, or why he chose not to dress for the occasion.
He wore cheap tennis shoes, stone-washed blue jeans and a dirty jean jacket over a black University of Massachusetts hoodie, all slightly wet and muddy from the walk. He knew that the service would be formal, given the respect his father had earned over the years. The reputable people in attendance were sure to think it inappropriate; some may even think it was out of spite for his father, but that wasn't true. At least, he didn't think so. The psychology of these things escaped him.
In truth, Sean had been questioning if he should even bother to show up. Had someone asked him to attend a week beforehand, he would have said no. He likely would have scoffed at the idea, but things had changed. He had his father's legacy in his left jacket pocket, a precious heirloom he had been mulling over for many sleepless hours. A few moments of heartfelt sincerity could wash away years of bitterness in a way that he did not expect.
Sean's walk through the cemetery was long and depressingly scenic. He passed more than a few weeping willows and short ash trees overhanging more than a few headstones. Some were new and pristine marble or granite lined with flowers and widows tears. Some were ancient and filthy, watching over some forgotten ancestor, the engravings worn, and clearly unvisited for more than a century. He even saw a few of the cliché wooden crosses one would only think to find in ghost stories or children's haunted houses. Unlike their cartoonish parodies, these crosses were disturbingly real.
Lost in thought, he wandered over the grassy hills, footsteps crunching in weeds and remnants of trimmed underbrush. He accidentally stepped over a few graves along the way, and after the third, he decided it was best to stick to the paved pathway. Sean wasn't a religious man, but some things just sent an unpleasant chill down his spine. After all, he didn't like the idea of someone walking over his grave, either. Shuddering, and with hunched shoulders, he pulled his hood over his head and stepped down to the pavement.
Toward the end of the path, in a treeless and open patch of land, he saw where the mourners had gathered around his father's place of rest. The service had already begun, the preacher speaking at the podium over a small crowd of lowered heads; one of them belonged to his mother. Being so late certainly wouldn't help the amount of frowns and glares he was sure to receive.
As he stepped up to the gathering, he saw them dressed in the formal wear he had expected. Most wore the traditional black of mourning; a few sober browns here and there, but nothing disrespectful. It was definitely a coat and tie occasion, and just as he knew he would, he stood out from the crowd in a very crude manner. The stares and whisperings of disapproval came right on cue, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t there for their sake.
Sean buried his hands in his pockets and pretended not to notice the glowers. Instead, he focused his attention on the warm voice of the preacher. Father O'Leary, a stout and stern, yet kindly man of the cloth, was an Irish immigrant from the Short Grass County of Kildare. He had spent much of his youth in Dublin as a bartender and womanizer before turning to God, and he met Sean's father there many years ago. They had become close friends, and they grew old together.
Father O’Leary was a dear friend of the family. He was there the day that Sean was born, sitting in the waiting room at his father’s side, and just as nervous. He had performed the baptism, and he been there every step of the way for Sean’s journey toward manhood. Even after Sean had abandoned his faith, Father O'Leary had been there as a sympathetic ear during times of hardship, and a second father figure to share pride in his success. He saw Sean's father as an older brother, and he saw Sean as a beloved nephew. Father O'Leary was a good man.
Despite all of their common history, however, Father O'Leary conducted the service with a stalwart heart. He had promised to send his good friend’s soul to the gates of heaven with proud integrity befitting such a good Catholic man, and he delivered. As grim as these affairs tended to be, he was an old hand in their practice. He delivered his readings with the composure and compassion of any Sunday morning sermon. Without tears, he recited the words with bold authority. Unfortunately, to Sean’s later shame, his mind had been wandering too much to pay the reading the attention that it deserved.
“God has made everything appropriate to its time,” Father O'Leary declared, “but has put the timeless into their hearts so they cannot find out, from beginning to end, the work which God has done.” He spoke the words with conviction, and without lowering his gaze. He turned his eyes to Sean and paused, that same caring look with which Sean had become so familiar. Sean returned a blank, conflicted glance of his own. The father smiled half-heartedly and continued.
“I recognized that there is nothing better than to rejoice and to do well during life,” the Father continued, “Moreover, that all can eat and drink and enjoy the good of all their toil-this is a gift of God.” Father O'Leary certainly hadn't lost his touch. This wasn't the first loved one Sean had lost, nor was it the first reading he had heard from their friendly parish priest. The man's voice just seemed to make sense of the world. It was the voice of a man who would give no advice that wasn't from experience, nor inspire a belief in which he had no faith himself. It was a voice of age and wisdom.
“I recognized that whatever God does will endure forever; there is no adding to it, or taking from it. Thus has God done that he may be revered, “ he concluded, “What now is has already been; what is to be, already is: God retrieves what has gone by. This is the Word of the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God,” the mourners replied in monotone, some through sniffles and sobs. Sean’s reply was the distant last, quiet and hesitant, like waking from a daydream.
Father O’Leary closed the book gently and with humility. He stepped down from the podium, and he placed his hand on the casket lovingly as he passed. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said almost in a whisper, “You gave my life direction, and I never thanked you. I’ll be here for your boy now. So rest in peace, and I’ll be meeting you at Saint Peter’s gates.” He smiled as he walked away, and he approached Sean with open arms. Sean met his embrace.
“You seem uncomfortable, my son,” Father O’Leary said, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Everyone would understand. I’d understand.”
“No, no…,” Sean replied shakily, “I…I have to. I have to do this. I have to confront this; I can’t leave this chapter in my life open forever.”
“You’re doing the right thing, boyo. Your da would be proud.” Father O’Leary patted Sean’s shoulder approvingly. “Don’t worry about these people. Any of God’s children are rightly welcome at a gatherin’ of His affair, with or without a fine black suit. Tell your da’s story to God, my son. He’ll be listenin’ with an open heart, to be sure.”
Sean nodded and stepped up to the podium with a lowered head, slowly and awkwardly. He ran his finger over the gold stenciled cross on the bible cover, reminiscent of younger days. He looked up at the frowning faces in the crowd of mourners; even his mother wore a look of disapproval. His relationship with her had been strained in recent years. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.
“My father…,” he began. He hesitated for a moment, a pang of stage fright in his gut. He gripped the precious charm in his jacket pocket, and he continued. “My father…was a man of faith. He was a man of tradition, and a proud man of Eire.”
I'm made to recall when Twilight fans blamed Stephen King for being jealous of Stephanie Meyer's success. lol I never laughed so hard.
So, anyone else have anything to share?
Here is something else I put together, the intro piece to a novel I'm currently writing entitled "Colin's Bishop."
Colin's Bishop - Intro --Click here to view--
“I have spoken with a legend.
He was a cantankerous, old Irishman living in a cramped, rundown apartment on Miramar Street. He was eccentric and troubled, as brilliant men tend to be. He often grumbled and muttered to himself, and he disapproved of this 'godless generation.' He chastised the youth, called them disrespectful. He complained of sex and violence in the media, called them shameless. He nagged of inflation and how candy bars were once no more than a nickel. He even complained about the bothersome noises of the big city, and he longed for the peaceful hills of the old Leesiders.
Colin McMichael was a cranky old hermit, but I swear that I saw a faint glimmer of happiness in his eyes as he lovingly cradled that ebony bishop in the palms of his hands.”
-- Thomas Klein for the New England Chess Inquirer, November 1998
It was a wet day in March when Sean took his lonely walk through the Kings Chapel Cemetery. The thoughts on his mind were heavier than the day’s rainfall, which had by then slowed to a light drizzle. Even now, in his thirties, he had never attended a funeral. He had never even set foot in a graveyard, let alone deliver a eulogy. It was something he had never expected, nor even considered. When you're growing up, he thought, you just assume that your parents will live forever.
Now that the time had come, he found that he was neither sad nor afraid. At most, after the awkward heart to heart with his father a few nights before, his feelings were left unprocessed and sour. Perhaps that was why he chose not to join the line of mourners to the burial plot, or why he chose not to dress for the occasion.
He wore cheap tennis shoes, stone-washed blue jeans and a dirty jean jacket over a black University of Massachusetts hoodie, all slightly wet and muddy from the walk. He knew that the service would be formal, given the respect his father had earned over the years. The reputable people in attendance were sure to think it inappropriate; some may even think it was out of spite for his father, but that wasn't true. At least, he didn't think so. The psychology of these things escaped him.
In truth, Sean had been questioning if he should even bother to show up. Had someone asked him to attend a week beforehand, he would have said no. He likely would have scoffed at the idea, but things had changed. He had his father's legacy in his left jacket pocket, a precious heirloom he had been mulling over for many sleepless hours. A few moments of heartfelt sincerity could wash away years of bitterness in a way that he did not expect.
Sean's walk through the cemetery was long and depressingly scenic. He passed more than a few weeping willows and short ash trees overhanging more than a few headstones. Some were new and pristine marble or granite lined with flowers and widows tears. Some were ancient and filthy, watching over some forgotten ancestor, the engravings worn, and clearly unvisited for more than a century. He even saw a few of the cliché wooden crosses one would only think to find in ghost stories or children's haunted houses. Unlike their cartoonish parodies, these crosses were disturbingly real.
Lost in thought, he wandered over the grassy hills, footsteps crunching in weeds and remnants of trimmed underbrush. He accidentally stepped over a few graves along the way, and after the third, he decided it was best to stick to the paved pathway. Sean wasn't a religious man, but some things just sent an unpleasant chill down his spine. After all, he didn't like the idea of someone walking over his grave, either. Shuddering, and with hunched shoulders, he pulled his hood over his head and stepped down to the pavement.
Toward the end of the path, in a treeless and open patch of land, he saw where the mourners had gathered around his father's place of rest. The service had already begun, the preacher speaking at the podium over a small crowd of lowered heads; one of them belonged to his mother. Being so late certainly wouldn't help the amount of frowns and glares he was sure to receive.
As he stepped up to the gathering, he saw them dressed in the formal wear he had expected. Most wore the traditional black of mourning; a few sober browns here and there, but nothing disrespectful. It was definitely a coat and tie occasion, and just as he knew he would, he stood out from the crowd in a very crude manner. The stares and whisperings of disapproval came right on cue, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t there for their sake.
Sean buried his hands in his pockets and pretended not to notice the glowers. Instead, he focused his attention on the warm voice of the preacher. Father O'Leary, a stout and stern, yet kindly man of the cloth, was an Irish immigrant from the Short Grass County of Kildare. He had spent much of his youth in Dublin as a bartender and womanizer before turning to God, and he met Sean's father there many years ago. They had become close friends, and they grew old together.
Father O’Leary was a dear friend of the family. He was there the day that Sean was born, sitting in the waiting room at his father’s side, and just as nervous. He had performed the baptism, and he been there every step of the way for Sean’s journey toward manhood. Even after Sean had abandoned his faith, Father O'Leary had been there as a sympathetic ear during times of hardship, and a second father figure to share pride in his success. He saw Sean's father as an older brother, and he saw Sean as a beloved nephew. Father O'Leary was a good man.
Despite all of their common history, however, Father O'Leary conducted the service with a stalwart heart. He had promised to send his good friend’s soul to the gates of heaven with proud integrity befitting such a good Catholic man, and he delivered. As grim as these affairs tended to be, he was an old hand in their practice. He delivered his readings with the composure and compassion of any Sunday morning sermon. Without tears, he recited the words with bold authority. Unfortunately, to Sean’s later shame, his mind had been wandering too much to pay the reading the attention that it deserved.
“God has made everything appropriate to its time,” Father O'Leary declared, “but has put the timeless into their hearts so they cannot find out, from beginning to end, the work which God has done.” He spoke the words with conviction, and without lowering his gaze. He turned his eyes to Sean and paused, that same caring look with which Sean had become so familiar. Sean returned a blank, conflicted glance of his own. The father smiled half-heartedly and continued.
“I recognized that there is nothing better than to rejoice and to do well during life,” the Father continued, “Moreover, that all can eat and drink and enjoy the good of all their toil-this is a gift of God.” Father O'Leary certainly hadn't lost his touch. This wasn't the first loved one Sean had lost, nor was it the first reading he had heard from their friendly parish priest. The man's voice just seemed to make sense of the world. It was the voice of a man who would give no advice that wasn't from experience, nor inspire a belief in which he had no faith himself. It was a voice of age and wisdom.
“I recognized that whatever God does will endure forever; there is no adding to it, or taking from it. Thus has God done that he may be revered, “ he concluded, “What now is has already been; what is to be, already is: God retrieves what has gone by. This is the Word of the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God,” the mourners replied in monotone, some through sniffles and sobs. Sean’s reply was the distant last, quiet and hesitant, like waking from a daydream.
Father O’Leary closed the book gently and with humility. He stepped down from the podium, and he placed his hand on the casket lovingly as he passed. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said almost in a whisper, “You gave my life direction, and I never thanked you. I’ll be here for your boy now. So rest in peace, and I’ll be meeting you at Saint Peter’s gates.” He smiled as he walked away, and he approached Sean with open arms. Sean met his embrace.
“You seem uncomfortable, my son,” Father O’Leary said, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Everyone would understand. I’d understand.”
“No, no…,” Sean replied shakily, “I…I have to. I have to do this. I have to confront this; I can’t leave this chapter in my life open forever.”
“You’re doing the right thing, boyo. Your da would be proud.” Father O’Leary patted Sean’s shoulder approvingly. “Don’t worry about these people. Any of God’s children are rightly welcome at a gatherin’ of His affair, with or without a fine black suit. Tell your da’s story to God, my son. He’ll be listenin’ with an open heart, to be sure.”
Sean nodded and stepped up to the podium with a lowered head, slowly and awkwardly. He ran his finger over the gold stenciled cross on the bible cover, reminiscent of younger days. He looked up at the frowning faces in the crowd of mourners; even his mother wore a look of disapproval. His relationship with her had been strained in recent years. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.
“My father…,” he began. He hesitated for a moment, a pang of stage fright in his gut. He gripped the precious charm in his jacket pocket, and he continued. “My father…was a man of faith. He was a man of tradition, and a proud man of Eire.”
I just read your story! it's amazing as it always is!
great job man! 
