Corianne Meets the Whemblings 1.3

The next installment....
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This morning had been particularly hectic and demotivating, as it was the morning of her graduation party. She had been up since dawn making preparations and slowly checking off tasks from the list her mother had left her. Now she finally had a moment to ready herself.

Her mother had forbidden any costumery, or other such outfits, so a simply tunic with leggings had to suffice. She heard the doorbell ringing, signifying that it was time for her to descend into the hall and welcome guests.

She swung open the door, drawing forth from her deep within all powers of cheesy smiles and silly greetings.

“Hey graduate!” It was Celeste.

“Thank goodness you’ve arrived! I hardly knew what to do without you Celeste,” Corianne replied.

Celeste bowed deeply,

“At your service milady. I am here to diffuse the awkward that continuously seems to surround you.”

For the next half hour the girls welcomed guests at the front door Not only had all the members of St. Athanasius been prevailed upon to attend, but also a fair amount of those from St. Dymphna’s, including the Herlton family.

Corianne remembered Mrs. Herlton’s last comment and gazed intently at the floor as Celeste welcomed them in.

“Something interesting down there Miss De Arc?”

Corianne looked up to see Keith standing in front of her. She responded only with a dirty look.

He continued,

“Well hostess, do take me to the festivities.”

Corianne would have protested and was about to inform him that he could make his own damn way to the festivities, but her mother suddenly appeared on the scene.

“Corianne would certainly be willing to show you to the backyard.”

She grimaced, looked to Keith, and merely responded,

“This way please.”

When they reached the backyard, she determined to blow him off.

She situated him at a table and she was about to take leave of him, until he so rudely pulled her down and onto the chair situated adjacent to his.

“Wait, I have something to give you, you know, for graduation.”

“The infamous Keith Herlton has something to bestow upon me? What would his mother say?” Corianne sarcastically put, trying to hide both her confusion and that she was blushing a crimson red at the moment.

“What ones mother doesn’t know..” he began, “Might not hurt her. Wouldn’t hurt her anyway, as I see it.”

He dug into his cargo pants pocket and retrieved a small square package.

“Here, it’s not much, but I thought it suited you.”

He handed her the gift, and sat back in his seat, attentive to her opening of it.

She observed the gift for a moment, even going as far to listen intently for a tick-tick to ascertain as to whether or not it was an explosive. Finally she undid the ribbon and opened it.

She was astounded. It was jewelry. Keith Herlton had bought her jewelry. Not just any jewelry, beautiful and strangely her style of jewelry.

“Well, put it on!” he demanded.

She undid the clasp, and slipped the bracelet onto her list. It was a very rustic looking piece, and inscribed on it, next to a very ornate picture of St. Joan De Arc, were the words “Ex terra”.

She was so very taken aback that the only words that escaped her lips were, “Thank you Keith.”

He looked up, “Don’t thank me yet, Miss Flanders. Promise me one thing?”

“Yes?” she asked, dreading some terrible catch.

“You will never take it off?”

“I suppose- Yes, I will never take it off.” She replied, confused more than anything else.

Then, to her utter bewilderment he left her side at the table, and went to join his usual comrades on the other side of the yard. Any ideas she had as to his manner or method were utterly crushed. “If this be madness, yet there is NO method to it,” Corianne said to herself. 

Katherine of Aragon, a Review

I began this wondrous adventure about a month ago, and due to its immense length, and my book ADD, I have only just finished it.

Most historical fiction I have the propensity for picking up usually has one or two characteristics which render it abhorrent to me; that is, it is either historical smut: dramatizing any affair(glorifying it) and filling the pages with gratuitous sex scenes, or, it is extremely secular. It is secular in the sense that it is merely revisionist history; distorting what happened in the past to make the events of the future seems not only condonable, but that they are to be encouraged. I was pleasantly surprised that this one had neither, and hence very much enjoyed it.

Except for the marvelous Anne Carrol books that educated me on all things historical in my early youth, most history texts that I read, even in highschool(supplemented with other books containing the true facts, of course) were of the same metal as revisionist history. The picture they painted of the great Katherine of Aragorn was an ugly one. The picture of Henry VIII a glorious one.

Imagine my shock, that this book not only portrayed the strength of character exhibited by Katherine of Aragorn, but also the relativist and rationalistic thinking of Henry VIII. Besides its accurate portrayal of the daughter of the great Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain, it also shows the beginnings of the young Mary, as well as her imagined thoughts and feelings(based on facts),  that showed nothing that would cause her to become the blood thirty villain she is often shown to be. 

My favorite part of the book came near the end, when John Fischer, Archbishop of Rochester and Sir Thomas More, Chancellor to the King, opposed both his false nullity of his true marriage, and his placing himself as head of the Church in England.

Overall, a great read, and I encourage anyone desiring a good read(epic) to pick it up. It is over 600 pages, but that should not deter the enthusiast once they have delved into it. 

Corianne Meets the Whemblings Picture 1

I'm not sure if it was the mountain dew spurring on this momentous drawing, or my mind.
Anyway, its quite late, and the story up to this point isn't actually available to you...
But I am quite excited about my abysmal attempts at drawing anyway...
so enjoy...

Meet Corianne...I'll tell you exactly what "Uniform" this is later... Rest assured its not her school one..

Corianne Meets the Whemblings 1.2

Here is the next edition. Revised the title a wee bit, and I'm sure it will morph ever the more as life continues on.
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It was a Sunday morning and the Flanders, per usual mode, were running late for mass. They weren’t sure as to how it happened, but it seemed as if no matter how early they began readying themselves they were always at the very least 5 minutes late.

And so they entered their parish, St. Athanasius, mid first reading that morning. Mrs. Flanders entered first, followed by the younger children, then finally Corianne. Four pews up was Celeste and her father, -next to them towered Keith Herlton and his family of seeming giants.

Corianne had known most of these people the entirety of her life, and moreover she had known the pastor, Fr. Sebastian, even longer, since birth in fact. He was a rather old man, and had been pastor for an incredible amount of time. As far as adults went, he was one of the only ones who didn’t find Corianne odd. When he heard rumors questioning her soundness of mind, he was the first to crush them. His influence was great, but was not able to prevail against some of the gossips of the parish; Mrs. Herlton least of all.

Upon the completion of mass, the congregation met in the undercroft to partake of the best things in life, that being, coffee and donuts. As was tradition, the members of the parish socialized and shared the accounts of the week.

Corianne hastily gathered her goodies, determined to hide away in some corner with Celeste, and away from rumors and other such idiocies. To her horror, in front of her was the infamous Mrs. Herlton, accompanied by her odious son, Keith.

“Well, Corianne, how are you?” she began, ostensibly annunciating each word.

This Corianne took as a personal invitation to be as obnoxious as was possible.

“As fine as I’ll ever be, Mrs. Herlton,” she responded in the same manner, making sure to stutter midsentence.

“You poor dear,” replied the woman, “How is the college search going?”

“Quite swimmingly, madam, if you will excuse me, I have the consumption of these delicious donuts to accomplish before the morning is through,” replied Corianne, who then walked away; not before hearing the woman whisper to her son standing next to her,

“You are not to associate with that girl Keith, she is bizarre and unstable.”

Corianne merely smiled at the comment.

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Corianne was driving him back to the rectory, when he decided to attempt to address certain things concerning her that had come to his attention.

“You like it here Corianne?” he began.

“Of course Father, what’s not too like? I’ve got a family, and a home, an education, and my faith.”

“Yes, all those, but do you enjoy being here?”

“Most of the time, the good times far outweigh the bad.”

Silence ensued, Corianne wondered as to what the old man was getting at.

“Perhaps,” he paused, “Perhaps not now, but soon, you will feel more wanted and in place.”

She didn’t know how to respond. It seemed to her that he was trying to tell her something. She just

didn’t know what. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------She awoke with a start. All around her the world was silent, only the noise of the wind blowing through the open window aroused her immediate attention.

What had woken her?   Corianne wondered.

It was not a habit of hers to leave windows open, and immediately she left the warmth and comfort of her bed to shut it.

She paused momentarily to look out. There in the backyard a tent was set up for the weekend’s graduation festivities. Corianne was not looking forward to her graduations party that weekend.

She was excited to move out and go to college, but the process was daunting. The terribly ugly gown was hanging in her closet at the moment, mocking her.

Sighing deeply she closed the window, and for the second time that night she fell fast asleep.

Corianne and the Whemblings

I was struck with inspirations(kind of) whilst driving to a babysitting job one fine afternoon. Immediatly upon the child's restive state(sleeping) I began furiously writing. Here is part one of my labors. I intend to keep this up, and like "Unnamed Story" I will post a portion every week or so.
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Corianne immediately went to her room upon entering the Flanders’ residence on 1423 Rosings Way. She had only one thought driving her actions. Earlier that week, she had made the mistake of beginning a new book, this one capturing the horrors of the French Revolution in a very real way, and now she was determined to finish it.

The Guillotine and the Cross lay on her bedstand, exactly as she had left it earlier that morning. She immediately dove into it. An hour later, in the same position her mother found her,

“Are you still reading? Don’t you have better things to do?”

Corianne was used to the antics of this woman who she firmly believed resented bringing her into the world. So she merely replied, as dramatically as she could muster,

“My dear mother, to read is my life’s delight! That which makes my heart beat and gives my soul song.”

Her mother gave her a nice long eyeroll. She then took leave of the room, saying, “Corianne, I wish you would spend your free time actually doing something worthwhile.”

This issss worthwhile. Corianne thought as the steps of her mother faded down the hall. She could think of nothing better than, in the words of Mr. Darcy, “Improving her mind with extensive reading.”

Another hour later and Corianne had completed the historical account, and was lying on her bed dreaming of a story in which Corianne joined the attempts of one Sir Percy in rescuing the innocents of the French aristocracy from the evil Robespierre.

This was the perfect way to unwind after a day at St. Dymphna’s. Her Latin, Greek, and Literature filled mind reveled in the chance for some personal time with which to expand her knowledge.

Now that her mind was momentarily satisfied Corianne began the ritual that was performed most everyday upon her return from school. She changed from her uniform, which today consisted of a grey skirt, a black blazer, and green and gold striped tie into an outfit she found infinitely more casual, yet ever the more sophisticated.

She sighed and sat down to her homework, an exercise which tested both her mental facilities and her patience.

“Arma virumque cano, my dear Corianne!” sighed the dark haired beauty walking next to her up the gravel path that lead to St. Dymphna’s. 

“And who is the man this time, Celeste?” sighed Corianne. Celeste had the propensity for attracting the attention of handsome young gentlemen wherever she went. Her fair white complexion, accompanied by extraordinary lush hair, and beautiful dark brown eyes allured many.

“No one here, I’ll have you know,” she replied flippantly. Corianne was very much aware of her friend’s opinion of the young gentlemen who attended St. Dymphna’s. It was daily, almost hourly, that her friend complained of either their not being comely enough, or of their being much too concerned with knowledge and learning.

“I expect you want me to inquire further into this new development, Celeste. I will not now, however, as I must get to Medieval History, I will see you at lunch,” and having said as much Corianne took herself off.

Celeste had been her dearest, most bosom friend as long as she could remember. As a result, Corianne had become used to her flirtatious ways and attitudes. As much as she feigned apathy towards Celeste and her relationships with the various gentlemen about the town, she was always quite intrigued. She remained, curious, however, until lunch period came two hours later.

Corianne swiftly exited Calculus, the most terrible class in the universe, and proceeded on her way to the grove Celeste and her occupied on the edge of the forest that surrounded the school. She wove her way through the crowds of students that were wont to lounge about on the lawn until she reached her destination. Surprisingly, Celeste was not there.

Corianne laid upon the grass, and thought about what they had gone over today in Church History.  She imagined she was the blazing Joan of Arc, atop a noble steed, leading the French forces into battle. She hardly noticed getting up, and taking a branch, beginning to swing it back in forth as she play acted decapitating the enemy English with it.

It was upon this scene that the condescending Keith Herlton entered. He surpressed his immediate amusement, and found a “weapon” as he termed it, of his own. He jumped out from behind the tree currently shrouding his prescience and directly into the line of fire from Corianne.

“On Guard!” he shouted, deflecting the blow, and disarming his opponent in one easy step.

Corianne fell to her knees in surprise; Keith to his in laughter.

When both had composed themselves Keith began, “Really Corry, daydreaming again are you? One wonders what is going on in that head of yours.”

“Let me assure you sir, whatever it is, it is NOT your business. As I have informed you for the past seven years of our acquaintance, my name is Corianne, not Corry. If you continue to abuse my name so violently so, I shall- I shall-”she paused to dwell upon the most horrible form of punishment her mind could possibly muster.

“You shall what? Behead me with a stick?” Keith laughed.

“Whats all this?,” came a voice, as Celeste emerged from the path leading to the grove, “Oh, its you Keith, whatever are you here for?”

“Just heard the call of the English horn, and came running, I suppose, I shall leave you now ladies.”

Before the young man made his exit, however, he stopped, approached Corianne, tapped her on the head, and with a final grand smile said,

“You really ought to get that looked at Corry.”

He then proceeded to walk away.

Corianne merely sighed, she was used to such treatment from her peers, sans Celeste of course.

“Now,” she began, “Pray tell me about this new gentleman?”

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Pray tell me what you think of it, reader, whomsoever you may be. 

Unnamed Story: Issue Four

Thus enters one of the characters that is by far my favorite when it comes to all the things I have written EVER.

Enjoy, and feel free to critique!
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The weeks following were not entirely too eventful. The funeral mass was said, and my mama was put in the ground, never more to captivate me with her tales of princesses and wicked stepmothers. I played as I usually did, with the other noble children, as well as those down in the towns. There was much talk about what was to become of me. Many thought, and many more wished, that I would be sent back to where I came from. The local magistrate put an end to all this, when he called a small audience to come together in order to discuss my mother's will. 

This audience came together in the king's court, and present there was only The King, Queen, a tall dark haired man I did not recognize, and myself. The presence of the very heights of royalty disturbed me somewhat; the dark haired gentlemen ever so much more. He was of a pale complexion, with raven black hair and a menacing beard, and cold brown eyes. As if those eyes were not enough to make me shiver in my shoes, the black clothes he was garbed in frightened me even more. Before I could reflect more the magistrate began to explain my mother's will. 

The King, Ferdinand, would be my guardian, and have full rights to my education, watch my mother's estates, and give consent to my marriage. 

The mysterious gentleman's identity became known to me then. His name was Dante, after the great Florentine poet, and his sister had been my mother. One factor perhaps that I did not notice before was how very young he was. My mother was his senior by 22 years and he had been sent to school 8 years ago at the age of 12. His education had just ended, however, and he was on his returning journey when he learned of his sister's death. He had heard of my existence, before he left, but did not give a hoot about me. 

So today was the first time we met, and when it was over I hoped it was the last time. The magistrate began to explain to us the finer details of my mother's will. As my dear Uncle, as I came to sarcastically call him, was the youngest gentleman of his family he consequently had inherited nothing. I suppose my mother took pity on him, for she left him half her estate, the other half she left to me. 

Dante resented this, however. For the remainder of the evening when we were back at the manor he insisted upon calling me 'child' and treating me as if I were no more than five. Right away I realized that our existence together was going to be unbearable. 

Luckily, and to the benefit of both of us, the King sent a letter with news that I was being sent away to a school for young ladies, and that Dante was invited to the caste court to serve as tutor to the King's children. 

As it happened, our last three days together were so full of preparations that we did not even have the happy chance to interact with each other. I do not think fate could have smiled upon us more warmly! 

*********************************************************************************If I ever make anything of it, of course this tale will need a lot of ...work( oh copious amounts!)  I think it is a start however. 

What say you about Dante?

Unnamed Story: Issue Three

I hope you enjoy this one. This week's entry will be a little longer, but my favorite character's entrance draws near, rest assured- just not in this issue. Perhaps the next one, methinks. (Dante), [quite a dreamy name...]
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You may be wondering reader, how I came to know this information. As a newborn, I most definitely hadn't the faintest idea of what was occurring at the time. So, it is only logical that you wonder at my extensive knowledge on the subject. 

The answer is simpler than you can imagine however. As I grew up I began to realize that I was quite different than my mother. Her pale white skin was in high contrast to my easily tanned complexion. Her dark hair quite eclipsed my healthy blonde. Likewise just as her hair was darker so were her eyes. A dark, deep brown made my silvery blue eyes appear dull and lifeless. I was not small or dainty. I did not move as if I were floating on a cloud as all my instructors would have liked immensely.

So, at the age of six, I asked my mother why I was so different, and she told me the long sad tale of my coming into the world. Sad for some, she said, but happy for her.

I grew up then with complete knowledge of my origin. I was able to make many friends despite it, with both other noble girls, and those in the village surrounding our manor. Some of the girls, however, stuck up their noses at me. Not even being wealthy and noble by adoption was good enough for some.

It was good enough for my mother, however, and therefore good enough for me. She always considered me as if I were her very own blood daughter.  Its from her that I began to understand an idea of what love was, at least for another person. I was not her child. I did not even resemble her in any way. Yes, she was able to instantly fall in love with me.

She was no stranger to sorrow, so when she saw the tragedy that occurred at my coming she wished to relieve the pain and suffering she foresaw. Before she came to my birthplace she had been in mourning  A few years before her coming she had lost all that she had, all that mattered to her at least. In a fire she had lost her husband and her newly born child. Having healed she was able to once again open her heart.

On that fateful day she took me away. Following the traditions of her ancestors she named me after one of the old Greek heroes, Artemis; The child she lost had been Appolonius.

"Artemis" she would call to me, "come and sit with me." And then she would cradle me in her arms and tell me the most fantastical stories. The usual fairytales and epics often left her lips and were implanted in my mind.

At thirteen she called me into her room one last time,

"Artemis?"she called.

"Yes mama?" came my trembling reply.

"I will not be able to be here with you much longer."

"How will I manage without you mama? You cannot leave me here alone!"

"Ah, but you will not be here alone," she said smiling, "I will be with you always."

I began weeping then, and was taken away. That night was the very worst night of my entire life. From listening to the hustble and bustle about out manor I could discern the exact moment in which my mother died. Then began a troubled time for me.