This is a story I just started writing a few days ago. It's kinda rough and since I'm working on a novel right now and my life is kinda busy, I don't expect to work on it all that much. But I thought I'd share it anyway.
YOSHENO OF THE MISCHKA
Deep in the forest of Life, unbeknownst to the many peoples of the world, there lived a race of creatures called the Mischka. These people were small and looked childlike to the big folk. Their ears were pointed and their hair ragged from their many festivities, such as a particular festival they happened to be celebrating that evening in early Springtime.
In the centre of the village there was burning a bon-fire of great size, and the people sang and danced to their own cultural music, of which they were very proud of. The musicians had wood instruments, stringed instruments, hollow bamboo tubes of different sizes, each hung by a string that was attached to a pole. They had bongo drums and others who didnt banged sticks on rocks and other things. Still others shook rocks and dust in pots and pans, and those who didnt play anything were jumping around the fire and twirling in their own rhythm and style.
Everyone in the village came to celebrate, small and smaller, young and younger and older than young, and thin and thinner and not so thin as some. But one of the small, young, thin ones did not partake in the festivities. She was from a long line of superior, not-so-festive people; but she was the last of her family, and none quite knew what was wrong with her or how she came to be so different. A few of the elders (who looked and acted more like children with long, fake beards than old men with withered skin and limbs) said that her family had just disappeared when the girl was younger than young without so much as a warning or farewell. This was a troubling story, but a good one, especially when told to children on festive days such as this one.
Rumour had itsince she chose not to venture in the villagethat she had cut her hair, which she did, for a reason that was only known to her. The villagers found this strange, for they did not usually cut their hair, but grew it long, as long as it might. Sometimes hair on some people would stop growing at a centimetre long, others at six inches. But appearance was not something to take pleasure in, as some humans do.
The solemn Mischka girl stood overlooking the grand celebration, her hands on her hips as she eyed the joy and cheer with no emotion. It was as if she was rid of all the festive mood of her people. She was distant from them in more ways than one. Her appearance stood out among them. Her hair was silver that shaded a pale, delicate blue, unlike the blonds, reds, and brunettes of the folk her age. Her skin was almost as pale-looking as her hairwhite with a hint of life. She did not dress in the apparel of her kinsman either. While they wore bright, vibrant colours, she wore black, all black. The darkness of her cloak, which made her look like some sinister sorcerer, clashed with the whiteness of her skin so that she looked ghostlike and gothic. Her eyes, however, were the only normal thing about her, if any part of her could be called normal at all: they were a sapphire blue like no one had ever seen, and they glimmered in the sunlight by day and glistened like two fallen stars by the moonlight of night.
There she stood like a ghost upon the hilltop where she lived, secluded from the village. The elders claimed she was the guardian of the Mischka, always watching, observing all that was and wasnt, and things that might be or might not have been. She could have regarded herself as such, but she spoke nothing of it, nor anything to anyone for that matter. She was purely, by choice, alone.
Yeah, it's kinda dark, almost depressing, but in my mind it's supposed to get better. Character-building type thing.
YOSHENO OF THE MISCHKA
Deep in the forest of Life, unbeknownst to the many peoples of the world, there lived a race of creatures called the Mischka. These people were small and looked childlike to the big folk. Their ears were pointed and their hair ragged from their many festivities, such as a particular festival they happened to be celebrating that evening in early Springtime.
In the centre of the village there was burning a bon-fire of great size, and the people sang and danced to their own cultural music, of which they were very proud of. The musicians had wood instruments, stringed instruments, hollow bamboo tubes of different sizes, each hung by a string that was attached to a pole. They had bongo drums and others who didnt banged sticks on rocks and other things. Still others shook rocks and dust in pots and pans, and those who didnt play anything were jumping around the fire and twirling in their own rhythm and style.
Everyone in the village came to celebrate, small and smaller, young and younger and older than young, and thin and thinner and not so thin as some. But one of the small, young, thin ones did not partake in the festivities. She was from a long line of superior, not-so-festive people; but she was the last of her family, and none quite knew what was wrong with her or how she came to be so different. A few of the elders (who looked and acted more like children with long, fake beards than old men with withered skin and limbs) said that her family had just disappeared when the girl was younger than young without so much as a warning or farewell. This was a troubling story, but a good one, especially when told to children on festive days such as this one.
Rumour had itsince she chose not to venture in the villagethat she had cut her hair, which she did, for a reason that was only known to her. The villagers found this strange, for they did not usually cut their hair, but grew it long, as long as it might. Sometimes hair on some people would stop growing at a centimetre long, others at six inches. But appearance was not something to take pleasure in, as some humans do.
The solemn Mischka girl stood overlooking the grand celebration, her hands on her hips as she eyed the joy and cheer with no emotion. It was as if she was rid of all the festive mood of her people. She was distant from them in more ways than one. Her appearance stood out among them. Her hair was silver that shaded a pale, delicate blue, unlike the blonds, reds, and brunettes of the folk her age. Her skin was almost as pale-looking as her hairwhite with a hint of life. She did not dress in the apparel of her kinsman either. While they wore bright, vibrant colours, she wore black, all black. The darkness of her cloak, which made her look like some sinister sorcerer, clashed with the whiteness of her skin so that she looked ghostlike and gothic. Her eyes, however, were the only normal thing about her, if any part of her could be called normal at all: they were a sapphire blue like no one had ever seen, and they glimmered in the sunlight by day and glistened like two fallen stars by the moonlight of night.
There she stood like a ghost upon the hilltop where she lived, secluded from the village. The elders claimed she was the guardian of the Mischka, always watching, observing all that was and wasnt, and things that might be or might not have been. She could have regarded herself as such, but she spoke nothing of it, nor anything to anyone for that matter. She was purely, by choice, alone.
Yeah, it's kinda dark, almost depressing, but in my mind it's supposed to get better. Character-building type thing.
