I Love My Dad

For the first time in years, my dad is going to be in the same town as me for Father's Day, and I am excited. I don't get to see him as often as I would like to, and he usually doesn't stay long when he comes to visit, so this is exciting. This time, he arrived today (Friday) and will be staying until Sunday afternoon. Yay! :)

Living 3 provinces away from my dad is sometimes hard for me. But I love Saskatchewan, and don't regret moving here, despite missing the mountains of BC. I never did anything with the mountains anyway, not being into mountain climbing, skiing, snowboarding, or any of that other stuff BC people are supposed to be all about.

My dad, on the other hand, loves the mountains. He grew up in Manitoba and will never live in the prairies again. So I have to drive a day and half to see him or he has to drive that long to come here. So having him here this weekend is really awesome.

How are you celebrating Father's Day?

Scroll down to see how much you know about Father's Day grammar! (Found on http://grammarly.com/grammar-check)

Dust it Off Bloghop - Excerpt

Dust it Off Bloghop Day 2: Post your favorite excerpt from Ol' Shelvy. 300-350 word limit.


For day 1, click here.


This excerpt is only 221 words. I've always loved this scene; it's the second scene of Chapter 1. Here, Shua finds out who he really is and that he's not fully human.


~*~
A figure stood in the middle of the room. His hair was long and black and he wore a robe so white it glowed. Shua couldn't have guessed his age, although he was definitely not a child. He seemed old and young at the same time. "Shua," he said again. "Shua, my son."

"Who are you?" Shua whispered.

"My name is Arcanin."

Shua's eyes widened and he fell to his knees. "My Lord!"

Arcanin smiled and lifted the young man to his feet. "You know who I am." He sounded pleased.

"Of course! Merofin taught me of you and your Brothers. But I never thought I'd meet you!"

"This is not our first meeting, Shua," Arcanin said.

"What?"

"You were very young and cannot remember." Arcanin's blue eyes took on a faraway look and he smiled fondly. "I remember you were a very curious child, always exploring." He focused on the young man's face. "Shua, what do you remember of your childhood?"

"Very little," he admitted. "There was a woman who smelled like flowers - but I don't remember what she looked like."

"Your mother, Sha'Nya," Arcanin said quietly. "She was beautiful."

Shua was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, "And my father? I remember nothing of him."

The Guardian put his hand on Shua's shoulder. "I am your father."

The History of Darth Quisling

I've been always been fascinated with that scene in Return of the Jedi where the Emperor is trying to convince Luke to kill Vader. He's trying to be tempting, and he just comes off creepy and pathetic. If Luke was going to kill somebody there, it should be him, not Vader. And this idea was born.

The History of Darth Quisling

After Luke's final battle with Darth Vader, he stood over the fallen Sith Lord. He had just cut off Vader's sword hand, sending hand and saber plummeting out of sight. The Emperor approached, praising the young Jedi and encouraging him to finish his father. Enraged, but suddenly realizing who it really was that he hated, Luke spun and threw his lightsaber at the Sith Master. Palpatine had no time to react. Luke's saber passed through his decaying body, leaving a smoking hole in his chest. As he stood stunned, Luke leapt at him, snatching his saber from the air as it returned to him, and slashed the Emperor's head from his shoulders. The lifeless body of the most powerful man in the universe fell helplessly to the floor.

Luke stood over the body, a strange joy coursing through him. He had liked killing this old man. Horrified at himself, Luke deactivated his lightsaber and stared in shock at the body. He didn't hear Vader approach, didn't know his father stood watching him until Vader spoke: "Luke?"

The young man raised his head and stared at his father. "You're free," he whispered.

But Vader shook his head. "No," he said, almost sadly. "And neither are you."

Luke and Vader escaped the Death Star just before it exploded. Vader set course for Coruscant. Luke was very quiet. He was unsure why he went with Vader. He did not seem to be a prisoner of the Sith Lord; in fact, Vader didn't order Luke to come with him and they traveled together companionably. Luke followed his father willingly and Vader didn't seem surprised.

Upon their arrival at Coruscant, Vader took charge of everything. With amazing skill, he stepped into the void left by Palpatine and gathered the reins of power into his hands (first, he had another robotic hand made to replace the one he had lost). Throughout all of this, Luke was by his father's side.

As soon as he had cemented power for himself, Vader declared himself Emperor. Then he began to train his son in the Dark Side of the Force. Luke wondered why he had ever feared the Dark Side; it was not like Yoda and Obi-Wan had said: he was only accepting a part of himself that he had long denied. He was finally complete. He was Darth Quisling.

Weakness

Another fanfic I wrote based off of my favourite line that was in the movies but not in the books.

Weakness

You're the weak one. You've never known love or friendship. And I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you.


The Dark wizard paced up and down the long room, his followers standing back against the ornate walls watching him. He could feel their fear, fear of him, but he ignored them. How dare the boy? How dare he feel sorry for him? It was ridiculous that the child he had orphaned would pity him. As if he were a pitiable figure! He was the greatest wizard alive, and he would soon prove it to all, muggle and wizard alike.


But how had the boy fought him off? No, it couldn't have been the boy; it had to have been a trick. It must have been Dumbledore. The old man was smarter than he looked; he always had been. There was no way a mere child could have forced the Dark Lord out of his head and caused such pain to the invader. At the memory of the agony that possession of the boy had caused him, Voldemort paused and flung out his wand hand at random, casting the cruciatus curse on one of his Death Eaters, inconsiderate of which one he struck. Momentarily distracted from his fury, he watched the masked man convulse in pain.


Call me weak, will you, Harry Potter? He fumed silently. I'll show you. Everything you've been through up until now will seem like a stroll through your puerile Honeydukes compared to what's coming. You will lose everything. And perhaps now was the time to get rid of a certain meddlesome headmaster as well. Voldemort smiled at his followers. Who needed friendship with such devoted slaves? "Lucius," the cold high voice said, "you have a son, don't you? A son who attends Hogwarts?"

David's Lament

I really love the poetic form sonnet, which consists of 14 lines and can be written in stanzas or all together as I have done here. The following is a Shakespearean or English Sonnet of what I imagine King David's feelings were after his rebellious son Absalom was killed while trying to wrest the throne from his father.I'm not sure why I used King James English for this - it just sounded right.
2 Samuel 18:33

David's Lament

My son, my son! Would I had died for thee!
If only I had saved thee from thy pain!
God, if You would, return him and take me--
My life without him is a life in vain.
My son! Why didst thou do this awful thing?
Didst thou not know my love for thee, my son,
Or was it more important to be king?
Now, though thou hast lost and I have won,
I feel that I have lost, and so I weep.
In ashes and sackcloth I clothe myself,
(My sins I sowed, this pain I now do reap)
I tear my hair, I disregard my wealth.
My son, I wish that I had died instead;
If only it was I who'd lost his head...

Never Look Back

I also write fanfiction. Here's an example of something set in the Harry Potter universe:

Never Look Back



Molly Weasley was on her knees scrubbing at the carpet in the living room. In the kitchen, on the stove, a pot of soup was bubbling madly. As it began to boil over, she sat up and pointed her wand at it, lowering the heat enough to stop the imminent mess. Impatiently pushing her hair out of her face, she bent over the spot once more.


"Molly?" a voice behind her said quietly.


She jumped, and put her hand over her heart. "Oh, Arthur, you scared me!"


He knelt beside her and put a hand on her arm. "What are you doing, dear?"


She leaned forward and began scrubbing again. "It's so hard to get blood out of a carpet! I never should have let it dry." Her voice broke.


"Molly." Arthur caught her hand, and turned her to face him. Tears were streaming down her face.


"Oh, Arthur, I'm so scared for them! Why did I let George go like that? And he's probably not the only one that will be hurt, and what will I do if – if –" She broke off with a choked sob. "What if –"


"Sshhh." Arthur pulled her into his arms, and gently rubbed her back as she wept into his shoulder. "George was proud to help Harry, Molly."


"I know, I know. And I would never want Harry hurt, either!" Molly pulled back slightly, and looked up into her husband's eyes. "I wish this stupid war would end! I want all my babies safe."


Arthur wiped the tears from her face with his fingertips. "We all have to do what we can to stop him, dear. For Harry and our boys, that means they'll be in danger, and there's nothing we can do about it."


"I just wish –" Molly cut herself off and straightened her shoulders. "No. No point in wishing. You're right, of course, Arthur. We must do what we can do, and stop worrying at what we can't do anything about." She smiled tremulously at him. "Never look back," she whispered.


Arthur took her hand, and helped her to her feet, and they stood for a moment, wrapped in each others' arms.

Daughter

Written 27 December 2011

He closes the fridge and stares at the picture stuck to the door with a magnetic banana, the milk carton in his hand forgotten. A ten-year-old girl with brown pigtails grins at him from the small photo. Her skinny freckled arms tightly encircle a longsuffering golden retriever's throat; her unselfconscious smile is framed by shiny braces; her clear blue eyes sparkle with joy and life. Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, he reaches out and strokes the glossy print and his eyes burn. For a moment, he tries to hold back the tears -- something from his childhood whispers "big boys don't cry" -- but he is a man now, and besides there is no one around to see the tears that slide silently down his cheeks.