The Proof of Your Love

I saw this band at Winterjam in January and loved them and bought their album and freaked out over how awesome it was and then forgot about it. Until this video, which uses my favorite song off the album. I think it's the best music video for a contemporary Christian song I've ever seen.

7: Plot Generator Challenge - Pt. 1

Said the Script Frenzy plot generator: At a Star Trek convention, a recent high school dropout must find a way back home.

Meh. Star Trek is the only geeky thing I haven't attempted to obsess over yet.

Said the Script Frenzy plot generator: After the Third World War, a skateboarder with an attitude falls for two very different people. 

No. No love triangles. LOVE TRIANGLES ARE THE SPAWN OF HADES NDSAJDKSLADNJSLDA *internally combusts*

Said the Script Frenzy plot generator: On the run from a sentient typewriter, a hyperactive poodle serves the homeless at a soup kitchen.

. . .

Challenge accepted.

   Glenna was not able to pick up the writing utensil due to the two fat pink objects that enclosed her hands. She pinched the stuffed paws together, attempting to squeeze the slender object between their stifling fluffiness. For a moment, she was victorious, the thin evasive wooden thing clenched in her paws.  She grinned brightly and moved her hands upward. The yellow pencil slipped out of her grip and clattered back onto the tabletop.

   "Chessie, can you - oh, never mind," said Glenna, and yanked off one of the large stuffed paws by clasping it between her knees. She removed the other in the same manner and tossed them both onto the table, flexing her fingers and shaking the long, floppy pink ears out of her face. She popped her knuckles and stretched her arms, nearly hitting a nearby boy who had chocolate icing smeared over his face and a pointed party hat atop his rumpled blonde hair.

   Chessie, Glenna's nine-year-old sister, was oblivious to Glenna's previous predicament as she pulled the tissue paper out of a sparkly rainbow gift bag.

   Glenna smiled as Chessie squealed at the contents of the bag. It was a mutant pukey rainbow pony or something. The girl at Chessie's elbow reached for it eagerly. "Ooh! Let me see!" she squeaked, fingers stretched toward the gift. Her exclamation of excitement was almost drowned out among the other exclamations of excitement in the place.

   It was the day of Chessie's ninth birthday, and Glenna's family was celebrating by holding a party at Stomp N' Shout, only the loudest, most obnoxious establishment in the city or possibly the state or possibly the country or possibly the world. It was basically a place filled with towering labyrinthine structures made of mesh and rubber; difficult games that spewed tickets allowing the purchasing of cheap, overpriced prizes like plastic snowglobes and sticky hands; underpaid employees who sauntered around in hot animal costumes and distributed hugs among the sweaty children. Kids would dash through these mazelike structures, smack their faces on the padded implements, and run crying to their mothers; kids would play these games, not have enough tickets for the cheap toy that they wanted - or otherwise break it soon after it was attained - and run crying to their mothers; kids would somehow get frightened by the workers in the sweaty animal costumes and would run crying to their mothers. Overall, it was the kind of place where Glenna did not want to spend her Saturday, but it was her little sister's birthday after all. She had agreed to dress up as a pink poodle in compliance with the Parisian theme that Chessie had requested after developing a certain fascination with all things French. It had taken a lot of wheedling on the part of Glenna's parents to get her to agree with this. She had finally relented under the promise of a twenty-dollar bill.

  That was how Glenna ended up wearing a pink poodle costume - complete with a black triangular nose painted over her own - and standing amidst a bunch of screaming children who were getting hyper off slices of the sugary, over-icinged Eiffel Tower-shaped cake that Glenna's parents had ordered. They both sat on either side of Chessie, keeping her from getting tackled and/or sat on and/or puked on by any of the other children, as well as disposing of the trash that was produced by her gifts.

  After glancing at her watch, Glenna leaned toward her parents. "Mom, dad, I'm gonna go. I've gotta be at the soup kitchen by three thirty."

  They both glanced up at Glenna, smiling. "Alright, darling," said her mom, who then gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Stay safe."

   Glenna hugged Chessie. "Happy birthday, little sis!" she smiled. Chessie giggled and shoved the mutant pukey rainbow pony at her.

   Making her escape, Glenna grabbed her tote bag - the one with the screenprint of Rose Lalonde from Homestuck - that contained her change of clothes and searched out the bathroom, using the confined space of a stall to awkwardly wiggle out of the poodle costume and into some normal clothing.

   Coming out of the stall, Glenna washed the dark makeup off her nose with some warm water from the sink and then stood up to admire her reflection. Dark hair, sliced in an angled way that framed her face and fell no further than past the middle of her neck. Green-grey eyes lined lightly by the purple eyeshadow that she liked. A smattering of freckles across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.

   She turned away and left the bathroom, pulling the tote bag higher up on her shoulder as she pushed through throngs of excited kids. The door was just in out of reach - the one sight that stood as a beacon of hope to all in the vicinity who were over the age of twelve. She pushed out into the cold afternoon air and pulled up the hood on her jacket, reveling in the freshness of the autumn day.

   She sought out her grape-colored Schwinn in the corner of the parking lot where she had left it. Grabbing on to the familiar white handles, she hopped onto the seat and pedaled away. The soup kitchen where she volunteered wasn't far away, and she enjoyed the feeling of the fall air numbing her cheeks and fingers.

6: Sonnets - pt. 1

Her run-down Toyota Corolla broke down in the middle of the road. As it slowed to a stop, she listened to the hum of the engine seeping away into nothing, becoming overtaken by the constant drumming of rain on the vehicle. She sat and stared at the dashboard, at the monotonous pounding of water on the windshield. The purple sleeves of her hoodie were soft against her palms.

   She opened the car door and stepped out into the downpour. Immediately the water soaked her hair and skin, her entire self, her entire body and soul. She stood and allowed the torrent to overtake her until she was cold to the bone, the waterlogged hoodie not helping her now. Her hair, which was usually blonde, lay in tangled mousy strands falling down her shoulders, darkened to a dull brown by the rain. The car had stopped in the city, stranding her in a maze of alleys and backstreets. 

   She didn't look back at the car as she walked away. She didn't want it. She didn't want anything that this life had given her.

   She trudged forward aimlessly, her body soaking wet. Her hair was plastered to her skin as she walked through a dark alleyway and came out on an empty street. The world seemed to be a dull shade of blue, the clouds colored in a shady azure like bruised skin, casting a bluish shadow on the rainy earth and on all of its inhabitants, on all of their despairing hearts.

   She sat down on the ground, crossing her legs like she used to when she was a little girl. She felt the rain pounding down on her back and her head, a driving force that tried and tried to break her. It seemed odd that something as strong and powerful as the rain couldn't do it, when everything else could. 

   Her stomach churned. She felt dizzy and faint suddenly. She closed her eyes and listened to the rain as it washed away the dirt and grime on the streets. It should have washed her away with it. Maybe that was her purpose in life - to be washed away by the rain. It seemed pleasant enough in contrast to everything else that she knew. 

   She kept her eyes closed as she heard a car drive by, threatening to splash her with a huge torrent of water. The sound faded away, and she returned to her thoughts, nausea overcoming her with brutal suddenness. There was a sound like a familiar click - a car door opening and closing. The sound refracted and stretched in her mind as she struggled not to sink into darkness. She knew she was about to faint. She barely heard the soft pat-pat of footsteps approaching her. 

   "Are you alright?" asked a warm voice in front of her. She opened her eyes dizzily. There was a man crouching in front of her, watching her with concerned eyes. She stared at him, trying to process what she was seeing. His image spun in front of her. She could make out a blob of dark hair that was curling at the ends and a pair of wide grey eyes, focused on hers. Overall he looked very wet.

   "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past. . . ," she murmured incoherently.

    The man squinted at her and placed a hand on her forehead. She flinched at his touch, every nerve in her body suddenly charged. She wanted to lash out, but she wasn't feeling right, and in an attempt to shove him away her hand merely twitched in her lap. 

   "I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. . . ," she whispered breathlessly, and tipped to the side. Gentle hands caught her before her head hit the rain-soaked pavement, but she was already gone.

5: an abundance of doctors

    So we're going on a field trip tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it. Woot.
I'm trying to write this blog post, but I feel very uninspired. I'd rather be at home. In bed. Asleep.
I like sleep.

Field trips are cool, and so are bowties.

I tried to write a poem for this blog yesterday, but I had Amelia by Matthew Perryman Jones (scroll down to find that song down there VVV) stuck in my head, so the poem came out with words and a rhythm similar to that of the song. #Poet fail. 
    I have a hard time writing poetry. I mean, at least poetry that has some kind of vague rhythm or rhyme scheme. I like free verse much better. And I'd rather write prose anyday. Not only that, but I have pretty much no ideas. Although I did get an idea for a story from watching The Backyardigans the other day, which was my favorite show from grade two to grade five. 
    New episode of Doctor Who on Saturday. This one's called A Town Called Mercy. Apparently the Doctor's going to the old west . . . ? And Amy shoots stuff. And there's a cyborg cowboy person.   
    I should stop talking about Doctor Who. Moving on.
    Me and my brother recently switched rooms. Now mine is smaller, and I love it. It's very cozy. My bed is against the wall, next to a window, and there's a small bookshelf across from it. I have lots of lamps everywhere (including the Doctor Who lamp that my wonderful mom got me from FYE. Thanks, Mom!), because I like soft light and I think the overhead light is a little bit too harsh. There's a Doctor Who poster over my bed, and some little TARDIS string lights across those wooden planks at the top of the bed where you hang a canopy. Gosh, if I continue in this direction, my room will be completely covered in Doctor Who stuff. 
    Looks like I'm failing at not talking about Doctor Who. Ah, well. Let's put in a gif for good measure. 

Bye!

Matt Smith's American accent

Matt Smith's American accent.

All arguments are invalid.

4: here's a rant for ya

    Here's a thing that I dislike: I don't think that a person's intelligence should be judged based on how they do in school. I also don't think they should be judged for the grades they get, in either direction. 

     We all know a hardworking smart kid. That kid who always gets A's, always has facts to spew in any situation, and does nothing else but study. And there's also another type of kid - the kind that blows off their work to do other things. They don't care about school so much. Either of those types - if that's how you roll, that's okay.

      A person's personality can vary greatly when it comes to the grades they make, and I don't think it should be equated with your grades. All A students are not humongously brilliant, and all D students are not humongously stupid. Some kids work and study as hard as they can, but can only manage C's. Some barely even do any schoolwork, but still get A's. Stereotypes are not accurate. And going beyond that, what about the shy kids or outgoing kids? Shy kids aren't always shy. Outgoing kids aren't always outgoing. And I just dislike how a person's grades and the way they act in school can give them labels and make them one-dimensional. There's so much more to every person. 

Amelia

Sad like a melody

Sung by a symphony

Striking a chord

Standing here looking by

Stumble around and find my way to your door

Do you wanna know 

Why

Do you wanna know

Why

Hungry eyes, starving fire

Killing to feed desire

What do you do?

We're born into vanity,

Bones feeling everything.

Are we alone?

Do you wanna know 

Why

'Cause I wanna know

Why

Say it, Amelia

Say it's true

That life's worth all the dying we do

Amelia

Say it, Amelia

Say it's true

That life's worth all the dying we do

Amelia

Beautiful melody

Sung by a symphony

Striking a chord

3: Curse Your Sudden but Inevitable Betrayal

Lestrade was sitting at his desk - or, at least, sitting behind his desk with his feet perched on its edge - when Sergeant Donovan burst in. "Not my division!" He promptly said, mouth full of donut or danish or some other delicious but unidentifiable pastry. 

Yeah, don't worry. I'm not going to attempt to write a Lestrade fanfiction or something. If I write any Sherlock fanfiction, it will be centered around the best ship ever - Sherlock and his skull. Shkull.

Actually, my OTP is Eowyn and Faramir, but that's not the point.

Okay, so hi there. What are you doing on my blog? Are you a human? It's okay if you're not. I know I'm not. Gallifreyans FTW. You can call me Stardust Specter. That's obviously not my real name, but I prefer to go incognito. *twirls mustache* I'm a huge geek. I love music and British things and old books and the smell of the sea. I'm a Christian, but not a jerky one. I am part of many fandoms, but I actually don't have very many ships. I'm in my fifth year at Hogwarts, and I'm a proud Ravenclaw. I have shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. I love creme brûlée and Scottish accents (David Tennant! <3) and oh my gosh I'm really failing at this whole introducing myself - thing, aren't I?

Stuff that's happening: 

- I'm taking a huge AP Bio test today.

- It's Friday, so when I get home I'm going to watch Firefly with reckless abandon. 

- I'm also going to pick up that sketchbook that I haven't touched since last week and I'm going to draw Malcolm Reynolds and Amy Pond and the ballerina dalek (which is my soul animal). 

- Tomorrow is the premiere of the second episode of Doctor Who season 7. It's called dinosaurs on a spaceship. I think we can all deduce from the title that it's going to be awesome. 

- The first episode of DW s7 (Asylum of the Daleks) gave me major feels. And it also made me really mad at Steven Moffat, for numerous reasons.

- There are so many books I want to read. I'm in the middle of The Hobbit right now. I can't wait for the movie!

- I'm running out of thing to say that won't bore you. This has all probably already bored you, though. Might as well use the extent  my inherent geeky abilities. Gandalf! Darth Vader! Pi= 3.14159265358979323. . . 

Welp, I have nothing more to say. Avoid roasted cabbage, don't eat earwax, and look on the bright side of life!

Birdy - 1901

2: The New Vroengard Chronicles - pt. 1

    (Hi! Stardust Specter here. You may find this story slightly confusing if you're not an Inheritance Cycle fan, because this is, well, an Inheritance Cycle fanfiction. It's set after the events of the Inheritance Cycle, when a new era of Dragon Riders is rising in a vague area to the east of Alagaesia, which is to the Inheritance Cycle as Middle Earth is to Lord Of The Rings. My story will follow the life of an elf named Anwyn, who is going to become a Dragon Rider. In the first few paragraphs, you'll notice that one of the Council members addresses Anwyn as 'Anwyn-finiarel'. Finiarel is an elven honorific used when addressing a young man of great promise. Also, the honorific elda is for use when speaking to someone who is old and wise. An elder. Hopefully that one was obvious. Anyway, sorry you have to read all of this thick geeky stuff. I'm just trying to stick to the canon here.)

        He stood before the Rider Council, hating the way their eyes probed him.

"Are you ready for this, Anwyn-finiarel?" asked one of the council members, a dark-haired figure with a steady, guarded face. He was garbed in a blue tunic and a heavy fur cape, and a sheathed sword was laid across his lap, the silver hilt growing orange in the firelight.  Even though he was reclining easily in his thronelike chair it was obvious that he was tall and long-limbed. His seat was the largest one in the circle of seven elders. Behind it, the massive dragon Saphira stirred, firelight on her scales throwing blue chips of light across the area. Anywyn looked at all the other Elders. Their eyes were on him, study and calculating.

  "I am ready, Eragon-elda," replied Anywyn. His voice was calm and low. "I have been ready for this moment my entire life." But in his mind, he was terribly unsure of himself. Doubts nagged at the edges of his thoughts, squirming into his being like so many burrow grubs. 

Eragon gave a firm nod, and the Elders repeated his gesture. "You may proceed," they said in unison.

Anwyn turned around, feeling their eyes on his back and knowing that they were watching him, always watching. The light warm breeze ruffled his dark hair, and the heat from the fire a few steps away seemed to sear his skin. He repressed the urge to cross his arms and instead kept his fingers uncurled at his sides, palms open. He surveyed what lay before him.

The floor was made up of interlocking grey bricks, put together in a puzzling pattern. Twelve onyx pedestals were spaced in a symmetrical half-circle around him. The firelight threw long shadows across the floor and reflected on the sides of each pedestal, as if each one had its own small fire burning within. And atop each pedestal, among folds of soft, iridescent white cloth, was an egg. They varied in size and color, but each was webbed with intricate white vanes, like thin, spindly fingers stretching across the polished surface. Most were at least a foot wide, although the largest one had to be at least three times that. Although there were many different colors, the firelight seemed to drain them of their brightness. Ones that were in darker hues seemed to be entirely black, while the lighter ones took on a more orange tone.

Heart pounding, Anwyn took a deep breath and looked beyond the pedestals, past where the interlaid brick floor ended the earth dropped sharply away. In the distance, he could see rolling emerald hills, colored a blue-green in light from the twilight sky. Beyond that was the sudden line of trees where the thick forest began, shady and dark underneath the long branches and many leaves. He could not see the great city beyond. Suddenly a thought crossed his mind - of him running away, rising over the hills and dashing into the arms of the forest's foliage, where he could hide. He dismissed, almost feeling ashamed of himself. He allowed his eyes to re-focus on the pedestal in front of him. He could not run away, no matter what he felt. This was the moment that would decide his future, his fate - the moment that was to define the very essence of what he would one day become.

He looked around once more at the eggs, allowing his eyes to fall and linger on each one. To his dismay, he did not feel any certain twinge within him, did not feel any change in his thoughts when he looked at them. Wasn't that how it was supposed to work? His brow drew together, and he pushed away all morbid thoughts that fought their way into his head. He took another deep breath and flexed his hands, rubbing his middle fingers against the smooth leather of the fingerless gloves that clothed his palms. He thought of his home and the trees in Du Weldenvarden, of flitting among the forest leaves and singing with birds. And of the wonder and awed reverence he felt when he beheld the riders flying overhead, their dragons' wings beating the air thunderously as they passed through the sky, their majestic forms like streamlined torpedoes of colored flame.

He closed his eyes and reached out a tendril of thought, beholding the lives of the beings around him. He ignored those of the Elders and focused on the eggs. Inside each one, he sensed a tiny flicker of life and warmth and dim light belonging to each of the baby dragons inside. And they dreamed. They dreamed of flight and beauty and unimaginable things, an overwhelming sense of feelings so beautiful and small that suddenly Anywyn felt tears coming to his eyes. They were so tiny, unknowing of what their lives were to become or when their lives would even begin, but their existence and their miniscule thoughts seemed so very precious and divine. Experiencing them was unlike anything Anywyn had ever felt. 

Opening his eyes, he walked over to the first egg, a deep purple one, and placed his hands on the smooth, cool surface. He closed his eyes and reached out to it. The embryonic dragon inside stirred slightly as his mind brushed against its own. Its tiny heart pulsed in a steady, repetitive rhythm. It was dreaming repeatedly of a droplet of water, detailed and focused and sparkling like a diamond, falling and splitting apart on a sheen of dust, almost in slow motion. It was so simple and oddly beautiful that Anwyn let out a small gasp, and a tear rolled down his cheek, hot in the firelight.

Stealthily wiping away his tears, he moved on the second egg, not sure if he would be able to take this much longer. He gently examined its mind, like he had with the first one, and found that it, too, was envisioning dreamy sequences, a conglomerate of breathtakingly beautiful images that defied description or sense.

Becoming more affected with each egg, he moved on to the next one, and then the next. But no matter how divine each creature was, no matter the emotions that were elicited when he touched them, Anwyn still did not feel what he knew he was supposed to feel. He hadn't found the fleeting sense of rightness - that tiny twinge of perfect recognition. 

He forced himself to focus his mind and relax in the surreality of the moment. He looked around once more at the firelit pavilion, still in awe of the beings inside the eggs. He continued on with what he had to do. A dark knot of doubt seemed to squirm inside him whenever he examined an egg and had no results. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and his eyebrows drew together in his concentration, like a thin, dark cloud over his nose.

He stopped before he touched the next egg, hands shaking. He felt like he was on the edge of hysteria. And he was still very conscious of the fact that the Elders were watching him,  taking down his every move, probably prodding at his innermost thoughts. They knew how nervous and unsure he was. Before them, he felt intimidated and uncomfortable.

Frustrated, he picked up the next egg and launched a thought toward it. As soon as his consciousness touched with the baby dragon's, he felt. . . something.

It was like the peal of a bell, crystal clear and loud in his mind. It was like coming home to a loved one after being away forever. And in his mind and body, he felt an onrush of warmth, followed by a burst of coldness that sent shivers traveling down his spine. He could feel the mind of the baby dragon on the other end of the mental tether, and nothing had ever felt so natural.

Nothing had ever felt so remarkably right.

Anwyn opened his eyes and gazed at the dragon egg. It was a pure, pearly white, flecked with chips of iridescence and webbed with thin orange veins. He felt a tear of pure emotion and relief slip out of his eye and splash across the smooth surface, the drop gleaming in the firelight. And he knew without a doubt that this was the dragon he was meant for. The dragon that was meant for him.

Filled with awe and joy, he hugged the egg to his chest and bent his head over it, closing his eyes. It seemed to fill his arms with warmth. 

He felt the tiny creature in the egg acknowledging his presence, sending its dreamy thoughts toward his until they mixed and mingled together like dancing smoke in a fireplace, as one. It was perfection, like nothing else Anwyn had ever felt. And immediately he felt a love for the creature, a connection bigger than anything he had ever known.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned to the Elders, radiant joy shining out of his tearful eyes. He was delighted to see that they were smiling, each one. He had never seen them smile.

He approached them, feeling renewed. All of his doubts had been abated. He was going to become a Dragon Rider.

To Anwyn's surprise, Eragon removed himself from his seat and came toward Anwyn. He stood before Anwyn and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations, Anwyn-finiarel," he said, dark eyes gazing straight into Anwyn's. 

Anwyn forced a  smile and blinked. As far as he knew, Eragon never personally congratulated anyone. It was usually the Council as one who gave a future rider their congratulations. He was still thinking about his confusion when Eragon's words snapped him back."My dragon, Saphira, would also like to give you her congratulations."

Anwyn froze as the great Saphira stirred, and her head rose high above Eragon's seat. She opened one eye and peered at him, and he stared intently back, making an effort to keep his mouth from falling open. 

He felt a vast consciousness pressing against his mind. It seemed to be of such infinite wisdom and understanding that it blocked out his entire being. He could feel the baby dragon cowering away from it inside the egg. Saphira did not try to invade his thoughts, and instead seemed to surround their barriers. Congratulations on the realization of your future, Anwyn-finiarel, she said. Her voice had a surprisingly feminine peal, but her very tone held an infinite wisdom and oldness. I am happy to accept you into our family, and I look forward to the day when you may officially be a Rider. 

          Anwyn was awed and humbled. Thank you very much, Saphira-elda, he said. 

As Saphira's consciousness retracted from his own, she reached out briefly to the baby dragon in the egg. It shied away from her at first, but then began interacting with her. She spoke a few words to it, and it replied with a slight pulse of warmth.

Saphira returned to her place behind Eragon's seat, but Eragon himself remained before  Anwyn. They were nearly the same height. Anwyn was oddly tall, after all. 

Anwyn felt intimidated by the ancient Rider's gaze, so he instead let his eyes fall to the egg. He began to trace an orange vein with his finger when Eragon resumed speaking. "The egg will hatch when it is ready," he said gently. "But now you may rest easy knowing that you two will always be together. Your destinies will forever be intertwined." Anwyn looked back up at Eragon and realized that his gaze was not as intimidating as he thought - it seemed more familiar and understanding.

Anwyn smiled an nodded. "Thank you," he said simply, wracking his brain to think of something better to say. But Eragon had already returned to his seat, and Anwyn stood alone once again before the gaze of the Council.

But not so alone anymore. For he was soon to be a Rider.

DOCTOR WHO WAS AMAZING

Sorry for the spam, Mrs. W, but HOW CAN A FANGIRL HOLD IN SUCH FEELS?!

Alright, no more GIF posts, I promise. Until the next episode of Doctor Who or when the release date for Sherlock S3 is released or when The Hobbit comes out.