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Author Topic: Alejandre DeAnorim: The E!True Hollywood Story (18+?)  (Read 2275 times)

Azrael of the Rose

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Ah, what the hell. Here goes. It'll be slow, I'll try to do a little each night, and it might suck at first, but I havent done any creative writing in what seems like years. couple things::

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_Alighieri

Dante Alighieri, my sire. Let us assume that he was embraced in 1299, and his his exile from Florence was the result of kindred political maneuverings gone sour. Let us also assume that upon exile he fled eventually to Paris, then eventually to Madrid.

Portuguese will be used liberally thoughout the story, bad Portuguese (its not my naitive tounge, the little i know i learned from my mother) but the gist is there.

Ill ask you as with the Slayden thread to keep your comments on the seperate thread.

with that, AWAY WE GO!

 
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Azrael of the Rose

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Re: Alejandre DeAnorim: The E!True Hollywood Story (18+?)
« Reply #1 on: 2007-01-11, 18:21:25 »

This recounting will cover a mere 385 years of history. Palty to some *cough Scipoten cough*, it should nontheless take some time to compose. As I said I require TOTAL (metaphorical) SILENCE for the duration. No terminology is neccessary I think, and if you dont understand Portuguese, tough.
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Azrael of the Rose

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Re: Alejandre DeAnorim: The E!True Hollywood Story (18+?)
« Reply #2 on: 2007-01-11, 18:25:43 »

Alejandre DeAnorim


      “Impulso Anna, impulso!” The mid-wife urged her on.
   “Seu doloroso! Me lata nao!” She screamed back. Couldn’t she understand? It hurt too much to push any more!
   “Tu obrigacao!”
   “NO! NO MAIS!”
   “O bebe, seu vinda! Impulso!”
   “AHHH!” She screamed. She screamed harder than she had ever screamed. She screamed, and she pushed. Every last ounce of her strength, every last shred of her willpower, she poured into screaming and pushing. She screamed and pushed until her throat was raw and her muscles turned to water. Then she screamed and pushed some more. The light of the nearby lamp dazzled her eyes, a kaleidoscope of  colors and shapes so bright it hurt her eyes to look at it. A mouse skirted across the room and out the open door, frightened by the noise. Outside the open window, the stars twinkled in the sky, and the New Moon hung invisible among them. It’s uncanny the attention to detail one receives when under extreme duress, blocking out the pain and the fear. Then suddenly it all came crashing back onto her, drowning her like an ocean wave.
   Yet even through that indescribable agony, she soon realized she was no longer screaming alone. A new voice had joined with hers, and their screams twined together in a thundering chorus sailing out into the night. For a moment it all faded away again, and she was on a cloud, in a place of infinite bliss looking down on the world as an angel might, looking down on her village, her house, her body, with the sort of blissful passivity enjoyed only by the divine.
   Then suddenly the world rushed back to her, her breath deserted her, and her body failed her. She fell back limply, completely drained. 
   “Seu em menino!” The midwife exclaimed. Good, Ben wanted a boy. A strong young boy to carry on his craft. He would be so happy.
   She lifted her head wearily as the other woman placed the still whimpering babe into her arms. He was bright red wrapped in blue swaddling. She smiled at him, his eyes not yet open, his little hands and feet writhing around in this newfound space, this bright and terrifying world he had been born into in a moment of blood and pain.
   “Alejandre…” she said, then fell back into exhausted sleep.

« Last Edit: 2007-01-24, 17:24:26 by Azrael of the Rose »
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Azrael of the Rose

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Re: Alejandre DeAnorim: The E!True Hollywood Story (18+?)
« Reply #3 on: 2007-01-24, 17:52:20 »

                      Ben loaded the last of the furniture into the cart. It was a lovely chair; carved from three separate pieces and bound together with cunningly hidden iron nails, hard oak from the southern forests, stained to a deep rich earthen brown. He had delicately carved the currents of the sea in a delicate pattern down the back, and the arms were carved in such a way as to evoke the image of proud Portuguese warships at full sail. There was a time it would have pained him to part with such an excellent example of his craft. But his master had beaten that out of him soon enough. He tied it down to the cart bed and stepped back. from his work. It was a beautiful day. A cloudless ocean of blue sky dominated the thinly wooded landscape surrounding the village. Men and women went about their daily routines with the usual amount of joviality, stopping occasionally in their labors to gossip with their neighbors as they passed by. The children were abroad on the village green, the boys playing at war and the girls at house. Ben gazed up at the sun. It was almost noon, past time for them to be off.
   “Alejandre!” he cried, “Nos obrigacao va!” Silence was his reply. Where was the boy off to now? Ben sighed and scratched his head. The damn fool was probably off with some young girl. Less than a week ago he had found his son in the hay loft at the Quesada’s farm, locked in coitus with Albert Quesada’s daughter Adriana. She was a lovely girl true, but the Quesada’s were a powerful family in the village, and Albert’s pride was legendary. Ben had kept the secret for them, to save the honor of both their families, but if he was at it again Not even the Almighty would protect him.
   “Alejandre!” Ben cried, louder.
   “Sobre ca, Pai” came the distant reply. Ben followed the call to it’s source. Alejandre sat on the stump of a tree that he and Ben had felled last month, a book in his hand.
   “What have you been doing Alejandre? It’s past time we were away to the market.”
   His son looked up at him from the small leather-bound text he had been pouring over, squinting at his father silhouetted by the morning Sun. “Forgiveness father, I was reading this book about-”
   “Books are for scholars, fool boy, not tradesmen like us. Who gave you that nonsense?”
   “Franco Plata, father. He loaned it to me from his shop when last we were in the city.”
   “We’ll you can bring it back to his shop when we get there today. This was all well and good when you were young boy, but those days are long past. You’re 19 Alejandre, I wont tolerate this philosophical nonsense anymore. It‘s time you started thinking about your future.”
   “Father, its not nonsense, it’s a book! Its by a man named Miguel de Cervantes, from Spain. It’s a story of-”
   “I could care less what it’s about, boy. I said I’ll have none of it! Now put it away and go hitch the mules to the cart so we can be off. I want to get home before sundown.”
   “But father-”
   “No Alejandre! While you live in my house, you will do as I say. You wont have to much longer. You’re a man now, and I’m beginning to  think it’s time you were married.”
   “MARRIED!? But father-”
   “Perhaps that Adriana Quesada. You’re…familiar, with her, and you may be forced to marry her anyway if you got her with child.”
   “I was more than careful not to-”
   “Silence Alejandre, your tongue has caused you enough trouble for one lifetime. Go hitch the mules. We’ll discuss this later.”
   “*sigh* Yes father.” Alejandre left his father by the stump and went to the stable. Ben watched his son back until he turned the corner. Why couldn’t the boy understand? Everything he did, he did for him and his mother. The ungratefulness of youth. Hmph.
   Dismissing such thoughts from his mind, Ben went back inside to get his ledger and scales. He expected these last few pieces to fetch high prices in Portu; even the modest end table Alejandre had crafted should sell well. The boy had little talent for carpentry, this was true. Still, Ben believed that with a little coaxing Alejandre could become a great tradesman. If he could just get his nose out of books and his eyes off the girls.
   He entered the main room of the house to find his wife, Anna, hard at her baking. “Do you know what that boy of yours was doing just now?”
   Anna looked up from the dough she was kneading. “Oh good Lord, he wasn’t with the Thatcher’s daughter again was he?”
   “No, not that.”
   “Ay! Albert Quesada’s daughter again!?”
   “No, nothing like that. He was reading.”
   “Oh,” Anna tunred back to the dough, “and why is that a problem?”
   “You tell me Anna. It was you who taught him to read.”
   “So? It’s good for a lad to be educated.”
   “He doesn’t need books or philosophy to put food on the table. He needs his craft. And he spends more time with these damn fool books than he does in the wood shed!”
   “Maybe he doesn’t want to be a carpenter Ben.”
   “To Hell with what he wants to be, his future is as a carpenter.” Anna crossed herself at the mention of Hell.
   “Such language in our house Benjamin DeAnorim! Would you bring down the wrath of the Almighty on our son?”
   “No I would not. Forgive me.” Ben looked around the room. “Where are my scales and my ledger?”
   “In your drawer I imagine.”
   “Ah, of course.” Ben went to the room they shared and retrieved his effects, then came back out. “We’ll be home for supper, hopefully before nightfall.”
   “I should hope so. Shepherd’s Pie tonight, Alejandre’s favorite.”
   “I’ll tell him.” He kissed his wife on the forehead. “Until tonight then.”
   “Safe travels, husband.” Ben smiled at her and walked out to the cart, where Alejandre and the mules were waiting.

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« Last Edit: 2007-01-25, 18:51:02 by Azrael of the Rose »
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