They buried my brother under the willow tree.  There was no funeral, just a solitary undertaker digging a grave in the deepest dark of night.  Traitors and murderers don't deserve ceremony, I suppose.  When an elf child dies it is usually a grand, bittersweet occasion.  The stars shine in brilliant contellations and the songs of ancestors echo in the wind, welcoming the soul that has joined them.  But that night the air was silent and the sky was black.

They burned all his posessions, even his wing of the house.  His short life's work- the papers, the spells, the ancient tomes- all of it, reduced to ash.  It was to obliterate any lingering darkness, Father said.  I think it was really to obliterate the memory of his son.  They scoured his blood off of the marble floor, making it cold and glittering again.  Even so, I can never walk through that hall again.  If I do I will remember, remember him standing over Mother's broken body, remember Aste raising his sword, remember my little brother finally lifeless.

He still speaks to me from his grave.  How I do not know, but it doesn't surprise me. "Carwien," he calls my name with such sadness. "You are the only one who truly knows me.  Won't you help me, dear sister?" 

I cannot answer.  He tells the truth, I was the only one who showed him any kindness, but if his spirit remains it is far beyond help.  The willow above his grave has withered, corrupted by the rage and hunger that live on beneath the earth.  My brother is not dead, not truly.  That is what I fear.

Junlie's fingers lightly fluttered against the doors. They held their breath as they watched the slabs part, the inky rift between the pair stretching until it swallowed them whole.

Nothing seemed more majestic to Junlie than the cool breeze of night's kingdom slipping up and consuming the sky. The sweet scent of moon-dance and strained starlight blent with fresh grass. The smooth sliding of these doors that sang with a wizened timbre.

This wasn't supposed to have happened. The place wasn't supposed to be draped in darkness, not now or for the hours to come. It ought to be merry and bustling, filled with bright golden light and enticing aromas and cheer. But alas, what was a fallen Reich, if not cold and dead and dark at this hour?

The fallen Prinze took in this forlorn place, this place that once would have been their home, their former Palaze, just as they had so many times before, ever since that fateful day.

Yet they did not weep. No, the days of weeping were long over. Someone would soon be on the receiving end of this operation once more, and Junlie knew it. They had to do something.

DRAGONITE. BOOK 1: THE ATTACK

CHAPTER 1.

Rishy stared out of a cave. Rain pours out of the sky. "I hate rain." He thought with a groan. Starlily should have been back by now, and she was 'never' late. Ok. She was always late but not like this. "Rishy!" His mom roared, "come help me with the dragon-snap-peas!" Rishy hated dragon-snap-peas. They never tasted good! They tasted like....mud. "Coming mom!" He muttered. After helping with the peas they settled in for dinner. "Mom?" Rishy asked. "Where's Starlily? She should be back by now!" His mom looked confused. "Rishy." She answered. "Who's Starlily?" Rishy gasped. "You don't remember m-my sister?!" His mom gave him another confused look. "But Rishy, you don't have a sister!" Rishy felt like she just stabbed him in the heart. "Mom, but Starlily IS my sister! She...." can't be gone. He couldn't finesh he was to heartbroken. Starlily? Gone? It can't be happening!!! "Mom! I know I have a sister! I will go find her!" He felt uneasy. "What if mom forgets me too?!' He quietly says "Mom, never forget me ok." His mom stared at him then said, "I would never forget you Rishy! You have my word! Find your um...'sister'" Rishy nods then runs out of the cave. "Starlily! I will find you!" He yells in his mind. And so the adventure beings!

She stepped outside and let the velvety blackness envelop her. Cricket song seeped into the very depths of her soul. Feet planted firmly into the Earth were tickled by tendrils of dewy grass as it was caressed by the warm, soft summer wind. Trees swayed and her lungs were nourished by the pure, cool night air. Raising her hands slowly to the cloudless sky, she felt the presence of the stars, the trees, and the night creatures dwelling just out of sight. Their energy invigorated the girl, radiating through her, pulsing with the strength of a beating drum, a beating heart. Breathing in, she extended herself as far as she could, and the sky bent to meet her. Time ceased to have any meaning and, for this moment, she was connected to the great mother of all creation, and she and all her wild relatives rejoiced, happy for the simple fact of being.

here's a short story poetry-ish thing I wrote called "the ghost in the garden shed" :) 

there's a ghost in the garden shed behind my elementary school.

a ghost?

yes, a ghost.

it's a woman, an older woman, with wrinkly hands and hair the color of ash. she's dressed in ruffles and ribbons and responsibility, and she's a million times older than me.

do you ever speak with her?

of course.

her voice is quiet and calm and kind, like the sound of rustling leaves. it's funny, though, the way she speaks. as if each of us is a proper gentlewoman with little white gloves and bows in our braids. as if we don't have messy hands and messy words and messy hair.

well, what does she say?

a lot.

she talks of the past. she has stories and stories of horse-drawn carriages and grand houses with sprawling gardens. our favorite is the tales of balls when everyone would drape themselves in intricate dresses and pin their hair back in sophisticated styles.

what else does she talk about?

everything.

she says the world has changed a lot since she was a little girl. she says she likes our messy hands and messy words and messy hair because girls didn't get to be messy when she was growing up.

the times are changing, she says, changing for the better.