Okay sorry that I have not been able to up-date any of my stories (turns out writing a novel is way easier to talk about than actually do). I wanted to provide an sample of what I'm writng so below is the prologue and chapter one. For those of you who have read Glass Roses yes the style and peom are both the same. Just so there is no confusion there.
Sorry about the grammar and there is some Italian. Remember this is only the rough draft and not the final copies so try not to kill me too badly.
Just be honest in what you think and lemme know if you like it.
This is totally orginal work here.
Last thing I was debating over whether or not to write a new Naruto fanfiction and a Supernatural one. You be the judge of it and let me know.
Naruto:
Gaara, Temari, Kankuro, Naruto, Sakura, and Sai are all sent to an alternate world to help a stranger kill a half-breed monster. But, its hard though to kill something who beauty causes Venus to shudder in pure jealously. And even if they were able to kill this unwanted creature, could they? After all how can one kill the child of a demon and of an angel? Sacrifies have to be made to preserve the world, even if the sarcifice is ones own heart.
Supernatural:
Kiera is twenty-two years-old, and she lives in the Buleo Thorn Mental Hospital for the Ill, in Oklahoma. She was born on a Indian Reseveration near the state border, through the help of her grandmother, prietess of their tribe, she discovered at a very young age she could see demons, speak to the souls of the dead, and even talk to angels. Driven "insane" by her deadly gift, Dean and Sam must rush to her aid to stop the swarm of demons that have come to claim her life.
ENJOY!
Prologue:
Sinners & Saints
"911, what's your emergency?"
Sometimes when bad things happen, the receiver of this bad thing, whatever the bad thing might be, lose their hope in whatever benevolent force that they had once looked upon for help.
"Oh my God, someone's shot her! Someone has shot my daughter, my baby girl!"
The storm, which they are in, forms into a harsh one; advancing itself into a tiny hurricane spinning wilder and wilder out of control. Tearing and splintering apart all things that happen to be in its path.
"Ma'am, Ma'am please calm down! Who has been shot?"
And as the tears of the sky fall, no pour- down onto our bodies, running across our cheeks into our nose, slipping into our throats, we start to drown. However this drowning sensation tends to be a fluid one, at a slow pace.
"My daughter, she's been shot! Someone shot her! How could this happen?"
And we feel everything.
"Ma'am please calm down, can you tell me where you are?"
The gasping- much like the one of a flopping fish on the edge of the river bank on a hot summer's day- fast, full of panic and regret. Struggling, an automatic compulsion has to go on, because we, as human beings, challenge the notion of giving into our mortal bonds.
"4251 Bolivar Drive, what should I do? What should I do? Oh god she's not breathing! Why isn't she breathing?!"
And the idea of dying, of releasing our immortal soul from our mortal body, signifies an unforgivable sin to us. Materializing to the mind, the biggest flaw of us humans, whether dead, alive, living, or dying, we fight the "good" fight when we want to live even though in the end it ultimately kills us, and we allow ourselves to live a pointless, meaningless life when we want to die.
"You're going to have to calm down Ma'am…"
Our turmoil, our storm, grows more violently as the seconds pass. The lightening flashes ripping the onyx sky apart as the wind pushes against us, trying with all its might to knock us down, killing our spirit, dreams, and aspirations.
"Are you even listening to me? MY DAUGHTER HAS BEEN SHOT! There's blood everywhere, I don't even think she's breathing!"
When the rain indicates to us that the end claims abruptly comes forth, and death tightens it's beastly claws clutching our tender, soft throats, leaving it's victim, our humanity- our mortality, breathless, and inches from death the hurricane dissipates.
"Are you sure she's not breathing? Check her pulse."
That's when it all ends.
"What do you mean check her pulse?! All of her blood is one the floor she has no pulse!"
Our body, frozen with despair, stiff with a sense of death, lays motionless on the ground, mud covered from the rain, and surrounded by salty tears of the pain. Immediately in the middle of this breaking twilight, during all this torture, a seed had been sown.
"I'm sending an emergency team over right now, please hold."
As our eyes open, blinking from the burning light of the breaking dawn, we realize something; the tiny seed that had been planted blossomed, into a perfectly beautiful rose.
"Ma'am, Ma'am are you there?"
The notion of it not able to maintain a steady pour rationalizes in our minds: eventually the sky had to quit crying; hence we, ourselves, insist on releasing all the pain in our heart, and stop crying too.
"Yes, I'm here."
But even though our flower of hope has bloomed, it does not necessarily reinforce the common idea that we have physically survived our turmoil. It does not mean that we can return to our lives as that had been before the storm, this hurricane. Because how can we return to our lives of we have already died during this chaos? What if death, contrary to popular belief, is our salvation…?
"A team is on their way, I'll say on the line until they get there."
Death and salvation what a funny combination…
"Thank you! Please hurry!"
Chapter One:
Broken, Beaten, Battered
In my line of work I find that most of humanity, struggles with letting go of that which they struggle so fiercely fight to hold on. They fight so hard against the tides of age and of death that they do not even realize that these temporary fountains of youth mean nothing, absolutely nothing. In the end their bodies will be lain down to rest in the Earth's core and their mortal shells will mold themselves within all life, the plants and the animals, the bodies of oceans and seas, and even with the sky. It is the cycle. It is the way of the world; it always has been and always will be.
My sight as an entity beyond death reasoned what any other immortal would: life on Earth influenced the afterlife, think of it as a silent insisting on where you wanted your final destination to be, if you will. Permit me to explain to you that I could never conceive to make sense of the mortal struggle to stay alive since I, myself, developed a distant relationship with the living since I had been alive. Even though I had once been mortal too, the result of my death changed me into a man who viewed human life as a pirate would view a port inhabited by enemy soldiers through a telescope: with eyes full of distain.
But perhaps I jumped into my ideals and rationalizations before I introduced myself properly to you, please do not consider me rude of this transgression against you. Try to understand that when I begin to tell this tale, to whisper the events of her story aloud, I find myself trapped in the past, reliving what I already have lived like an old movie replaying on a screen. My name is Mors, and believe me when I say in telling you our story I am honoring you in the highest possible way. I reinforced death; if I may venture to say I have many names in my native tongue I am known as Morte, or death, but mostly I am known as a grim reaper. Why am I telling you this you may ask yourself? Simply put because as I sit here on my perch- which as you can see barely meets the requirements of a brass bed post, waiting for the last breaths to escape your dying lips I was reminded of her. There is no doubt in my mind that you are confused- I can see it in your dimming eyes. Shall I explain how the memory of this particular girl was stirred in my mind? Yes? Well then I shall. She and you, you and her have the same taste in music. Odd is it not, so many years after her I find you here in your room with that song vibrating in the air, the beats pounding against the wall? It is an odd song to sing when you are upset, and yet she did every time she wanted to cry or run away she began to hum it and then slowly melt into the aspartic rhythms. However I will digress and move forward in my tale since we still have a few minutes before your soul is released from your body.
To tell this story I must go back to the first night I made my descent to Earth in search of her soul. The location of this land fall proved to be nostalgic adventure; I had not heard nor smelled the ocean since my own life was brutally snatched away from me. I could not say I did not enjoy it, revisiting something so lively and powerful that existed not only in my immortal life but my mortal one as well. However the small enjoyment was a dull one. It was then I heard the lyrics of her most fascinating song.
Insert Song
Her voice was that of a siren, so entrancing, so beautiful it instantly caught my attention. In a way I knew that her song would have the same effect on me as the siren's song affected the pathetic men she lured to their deaths. For so many years, for so many decades, I had forgotten what it felt like to be intrigued but her song reminded me of my home. I could feel her ghostly lyrics swirl the air around me as I took in the city that I had arrived in. Sounds of street sirens of the police officer's cars echoed like the shrilling voices of the dead right before judgment, the night air was clogged with the gagging smell of sea salt lacing it's self with the stench of rotting garbage that cluttered the alleys. My nose wrinkled from the new smells, humans was so wasteful, and disorganized when it came to things they no longer wanted. A fault I was glad to be rid of.
"No that's not right!" she groaned her voice clearly frustrated by her lack of memory of the song, "I don't even think those two lines were even by the same band!"
Once again her ghostly lyrics laced themselves with the night symphony teasing my renewed senses as a mother would lightly tickle her variable infant. I moved forward, stretching my charcoal wings as far as they would go (for even though I was an angel I still was a reaper which meant everything of from my clothes to my wings were black. However I have to add to this that the only expectations to this rule where my scarlet eyes and my pale glowing skin that most light toned ghost possessed). I could see them (here if I may be so bold to interrupt myself yet again just to state that since I was indeed a mortal my eyes and other natural senses where heightened so that I could view and hear all actions that took place in front of me from about a miles distance), the detectives hover- no hovered would not be a correct verb to describe their actions- they lumbered around the small rundown apartment scratching their heads while they searched for the clues of the murder that they would never find. There would be no damning evidence of the events that had taken place that life shattering night. They stood there in their tight circle, some of their dull eyes scanning the once peaceful home while others stared blankly off into space. Some law enforcers they were, they only mimic justice only one of these impostures ever actually sought out the truth about that night.
I know.
I was watching.
"HEY! Do any of you guys know they lyrics to this song?" she paused seeming confused for a brief second before yelling at the top of her lungs, "What do you mean be quiet? Why don't you be quiet and get out of my house!"
My eyes followed the voice to its owner where I was able to see the spirit that I had come for. Sapphire eyes on a heart shaped face trimmed in deep scarlet widened with anger and a sense of hopelessness as she tried to scream louder at those known as she fustily yelled at the new in habitants in her home. Ah but mark me my new friend that when I say new I do not mean the police that we examining her house; I mean more transparent roommates. You guessed correct if you guessed that she could now see the dead, after all she herself had joined them not an hour before. So why you might ask are these spirits still on earth and not in their heavenly destination? Well the answer to this is quite simple really, there are things known as squatters. Squatters, an annoying race of spirits, are souls that just refuse to move on. We that ferry the dead can only perform our job if the ghost permits us to lead them to the next life, if they chose to stay on earth then they are allowed but they can never move on. It is the law of death, the second to one law. But to move back to the main plot of this tale, her eyebrows cast themselves up into a broken arch of heart break as she finally slid down the wall into the corner, banishing her sorrowful stricken face into her hands.
Of course the squatters would not leave her house as she demanded, they could not. I could see how their reaction to her, and her response to them greatly affected her mental state and well being. Since death had taken her she was no longer on the same plane as the ones who were trying to solve her death thus she was not able to contact them either. She was in isolation, alone in the world of the dead, abandoned by the remaining spirits and forgotten by the living.
"Come now girl don't cry," I heard a voice purr.
She raised her head; her face was stained with tears then gasped, "Who are you?"
I stepped off the building, falling down to the ground in one swoop, unseen by the humans that walked past me only a few feet away. Walking to the apartments I stopped where I knew her window was, I could see the light from the inside shinning down on the darken street, and kicked off the ground. My wings beat against the air until I was even with the rather larger window looking in at the two with a dark expression carved out on my face.
"Well, if it isn't my good ole friend Mors," Wrath sarcastically inquired, her thin lips curled into a wicked smile.
I glared at her from the window for a moment evaluating the situation that had complicated itself more than I had suspected it would. After weighing my options I stepped through the glass and planted myself firmly on the carpets floor only feet away from the eldest detective in the room. I glared up at the supposed eleven year old girl that lounged so cat-like on stop of a shelf, kicking her red rain boot covered feet against the books beneath her. Her movements did not even create motion on the shelf. In her left hand she clutched a once brown teddy bear, which at this point had been burned so many times that he was nearly black. I asked of her as a response, "Why are you here Wrath? Has your master sent you?"
The girl, who might I add was not a girl at all but a woman of twenty three looked at me with wide eyes, so wide that I thought for a moment in a cyclical way that they might fall out of her head from how far they popped out of their sockets from surprise. Our eye met for a moment and in that moment I could feel a connection beginning to form. I had to force myself to focus on the demon before and forget about her for the time being. She had to come last, the demon came first.
"Yes," she leaped down pretending to dust off the fringed ends of her silk white gown stained in blood, "He has sent me here because he wants this girl's soul and I intend to take it."
She stood up; clearly comprehending that false child was referring to her and shouted at the top of her lungs, "Who are you people? What do you want?"
I ignored her, not to mean or to be cruel but to address the demon before me, "You may explain to your master that your services are unnecessary seeing how the girl is now under my protection from the likes of you and your kind."
She smirked from underneath the giant white sun glasses that she wore on her face, "We will see which way she goes. Next time I come I want to play with her Mors, I would have her now but Mama says I have to wait until I finish playing with my other toys."
With her last chilling statement she disappeared, shimmering in the air for a moment before it seemed like her body completely vanished. My eyes turned to the girl who was wide eyed and look as if she was about to run out of the room screaming at the top of her lungs. I took a step forward and she took one back, I did it again and she gave me the same response as before.
Newly departed spirits were the hardest to deal with, they always found a way to complicate the most simplest of things. If you tried to tell them that they were dead, they would argue. They would find any excuse in the world to fight back, repeat over and over the reason why they were not dead, it was like if they said it long enough it made it true.
But it didn't.
"Listen," I started almost reaching out before jerking my hand back to me, "my name is Mors and I am here to take you to the next world."
She blinked mouthing what I had just said back to me, before actually obtaining her voice, "D-d-dea-d, I-I-I'm not d-d-dea-d."
I nodded my head, "But you are."
She shook, her entire body trembling with whatever emotion that was circling inside her mind. Then to my own surprise she did something I had not expected her to do, she began to sing again, Insert Song.
I felt the birth of a small smile tug at my lips but fought it back, when she had finished I stated, "The song you sing when you are upset is an odd."
She laughed a small chime sound like the bells of a cathedral, "I don't really know why I sing it, I just do."
She said her last statement rather calmly but I knew in the end she would do like all the others, cry, weep, beg to go back into her body, like I was in charge of such things such as that. I was no god, no powerful creator, no I was just an immortal who became that way through death, handed down a task to complete, and I would complete it, so that one day I might enter the gates of paradise.
Then she said what all the other spirits say when I come to them (well expect you of course seeing as you cannot even hope to utter a single word in your condition), "But seriously I'm not dead so you can go now. Shoo fly don't bother me."
"Yes you are," I adamantly responded knowing very well that my deep crimson eyes were not very intimidating to her as they would be for any other spirit, especially a female one. Most ghosts that happen to be of the feminine gender either batted their swooning eyes at me or they simply shied away completely, both odd reactions to me.
"But if I'm dead then…" she trailed off glancing around the room for something, when her ghostly eyes landed on it she made an attempt to pick it up. She passed right through the picture frame of a young teenager holding a small infant in her arms. She gasped, letting her arms fall limply to her sides.
"Do you see now?" I questioned her, raising one of my eyebrows to make my point to her.
Gulping, she nodded, her eyes down casted to her feet.
Once again she provoked curiosity out of me. While her eyes were so painfully casted to the floor, I moved so that I was only a few inches away from her. Her long hair hung over her face symbolizing her defeat by death, she still trembled, but she was not begging. She had not uttered but one thing unlike all the other spirits had and that is was gain my curiosity the most.
"It is not so bad," I found myself whispering to her, the detectives around us deaf to our conversations and blind to our spiritual bodies.
She smiled, "Yeah I know especially since I'm not dead and your just a figure of my imagination, of course I never really considered myself this creative before.
"I am not in your mind; I am real and for are dead."
"Sure. Sure thing," she sarcastically agreed, "if you say so Casper."
Holding my palm out to her I waited for her response, but she declined my hand and instead stated, "What?"
"Come on we have to leave?"
"Why?"
"Because your time here is up and you need to move on."
"Right," she placed her hand in my palm, "I don't really care either way since none it is real so yeah I'll go with you."
The second time she placed her hand in my own. I shut my eyes allowing the imagery of our destination soared on my mind's eye as I said one word: Terra di Giudizio.