The Journal of Brighton Mayes Memo to anyone who can benefit. Never, ever, get pregnant in winter. This past summer has been little short of a never-ending endurance test. On the one side theres me, getting bigger by the minute; bigger and less mobile read: like a beached whale. On the other side theres the weather, with a much-too-canny appreciation of sim pregnancy. The last trimester, the one with all the all the heartburn and constipation and who turned off the air conditioning, is not best enjoyed during a volcanically hot USS summer. I boiled. I fried. I roasted. The last few weeks are ones I really wanna forget. Oh, suppose I shouldnt complain. My darling Ash was so sweet. Always attentive with a glass of lemonade, or a chilled wash-cloth one especially hot night, he draped a wet towel over my feet and then set a fan going. Marvellous. It actually got too cold, after a while. The night of the storm he was supposed to be on holiday from work, but he got called in late. I told him to go. The extra money would be useful and I felt quite sure that baby Em wasnt going anywhere. Earlier on, Id felt her quieten down, as if to sleep Id been thinking of the baby as a she since the first moment, but I held little store in my disingenuousness besides, I would happy with any healthy baby. We had nicknamed her Em early on, the Em being for Mallory. After Ash left for work I watched at the windows. I like storms, especially thunder and lightning. But this one looked set to miss the Vale. After a while I got tired. My ankles felt stiff and crackly and so I decided to get into my PJs and into bed, where I eventually fell asleep, to the sound of the distant thunder, while in my mind I tried on various baby names. Infuriatingly, none of them seemed to fit. I was wakened by a stellar-bright blast that seared through my eyelids and my sleep. I have learned, since, that the lightning conductor on the chapels spire drew the strike. Well that is barely 100 yards away. I suppose that it was the sound that woke me, but it was the retina-flash even in my sleep that I remember . I also remember the shock made me leap out of bed and that it was that that started the baby coming. Though maybe the baby started coming and the thunder woke me up and made me get out of bed to acknowledge the fact. (Sorry, diary, but I prefer the former. I admit that I like to seek a rational explanation, but hey, logic is pretty tedious, sometimes.) Whatever the detail, and Im not sure, and lets be honest, Ive a right to be a teeny bit vague, I do remember that one minute I was dreaming and the next I was wide awake and panicky and well wet. I called Ash and told him I needed him. Now! The darling, sweetheart told me to try and relax and do my breathing exercises and hed be with me before I knew it. I dont know how he did it but he was beside me within minutes. He swept me up in his arms and carried me through the storm to the cradle where our baby was crying with little tiny clenched fists and screwed-up eyes and a wide, toothless O of a mouth. When I woke the next morning I had to be introduced, again, to my daughter. By the time, Ash got to me I was a little delirious, but he had also called out the paramedics. It was they who delivered our daughter. We chose a name for her. Born during a thunderstorm, she can only be Electra. We were so proud when we brought her home the following day. Welcome to Penn Vale, Electra.
Electra! I love that name, and her very dramatic arrival in Penn Vale, too. (And LOL about the Ironsides reruns on the obscure cable channel.)
Thank you, Lynet -- and everyone else -- who has posted nice comments. They mean a lot. There are some pics over at the blogspot version. Electra really was born during a thunderstorm ... only I got sidetracked into wanting a pic of broken waters ... lol, go figure. Three times I ran the scenario (and all 3 ended with a girl) before I finally got myself a puddle to plop down under Brighton and boy was I amused at the irony of using a puddle from inventory when there were zillions of fresh ones outdoors. Someimtes being a goddess ain't all it's cracked up to be. At least, now, I have a lot more respect for the Real Deity. :(
The Tangelled Web Sarah To My Dearest Daughter, Darling this letter is difficult for me to write because I intend that it is for you read after I have gone. I want to leave this testament for you, because I must do something which I would prefer not to do. But life is filled with choices and few of them are easy to make. The one I face now is the toughest I can imagine. You see I am now certain that the changes I have seen in you over the past months are the result of the bite of a vampire. At first I wasnt sure, but the changes are now becoming too obvious and I fear for your future, because it is clear to me, if not to you, that you cannot continue as you are. You cannot expect to give only half of yourself to your family and career and the other half to your nocturnal fantasy life. And yes! I do mean fantasy. It is pure fantasy to expect that your friends and neighbours will long tolerate a nest of the undead in the valley, prowling and preying under cover of the night. They would seek to destroy you and all your kind. For a long time I hoped that you would seek the cure, for yourself. You cannot be ignorant of the existence of it. What sort of doctor would you be, if you lacked such basic knowledge? However I now realise that, for one reason or another and I cant imagine what you choose to remain as you are. I cant permit that, as much I want to avoid interfering. I have striven to not interfere in your life ever since you left home, and have always been proud of being a trendy granny who doesnt nag, nitpick and generally interfere with unasked for advice. Indeed, I try to avoid giving advice even when I am asked for it. But it is time, Rhianna, darling, for you to come back to your family. Your daughters all need you. Poor Chloe has worked her socks off to get onto a good course at PSU, and you barely notice. Polly needs firm guidance if shes to make anything of her future unless you want her to major in romance or motherhood! And as for Edith. She may not yet realise what you are becoming but she is, for certain, trying to copy you. She has our same light olive skin, even if yours is looking overly pallid these days, but Ediths pallor is achieved by make-up, and unless Im extremely out of touch, the goth look went out years ago and hasnt come back well not yet anyway. So what unforgivable thing am I about to do? I cant force you take the cure, thats for sure. Even if I could, I expect that you would go straight out and find your vampire buddy again. No I need to be more cunning than that. I have been searching for something very special, and thanks to the old woman who sometimes wanders around the square I have found what I need. The woman her name is Lila has given me a herbal drug that will render you susceptible to suggestion. In short, I shall visit you in the cellar this morning after sunrise and, while you sleep, I shall apply the tincture to your lips. It has a delicious, irresistible aroma, and its taste, Im told, is equally good. Unconsciously you will lick it from your lips and I will apply more. Little by little I will administer the full dose, and then I will whisper to you as you sleep. I shall make you desire the cure for yourself. I shall make you want the trappings and pleasures of family life rather than the arcane pleasures of knowledge and learning. Most importantly I shall make you forget that you were ever a traveller of the road of eternal living death and that you preferred that to the sharper, more concentrated, pleasures of mortal existence. I do this thing because I feel that it is the right thing to do, for my family: you my only child and your children, my three beautiful and intelligent granddaughters. It is not a thing I do lightly and for it I shall suffer anxieties and regrets, but those I must put aside for the greater goodness I see coming from my action. My only atonement is in this letter. That you will find it after I am dead and, through it, be free should you choose it to regain that which I am about to take away. Forgive me, darling daughter. I dont condemn you. Your life is yours to do with as you will, but I cannot stand by and see the children damaged and hurt. I hope that I shall live to see them grown up and settled maybe even a wedding or two and a great-grandchild or two, but I am not greedy. I have a few years yet, but not enough; but I would never want the death that does not end the life that is but a pale shade of the real thing. Try not to judge me too harshly. I can only finish by saying that I am only doing the best I can. With love, Your Mum xxx
Rhianna Tangells Private Diary I have the feeling that keeping a journal is something I should’ve started a long time ago. I have the queerest feeling that I am missing something. It’s nothing specific, nothing I can put a name to, just an uneasy sensation that I have forgotten something. The nearest I can get to describing the way I am feeling right now is that feeling you sometimes have after waking and remembering a vivid dream from the night before. And the more you think about the dream, the more that you realise you don’t really remember anything at all, except for tiny scraps of memories … like, for example, walking on thin air … except that memory seems so real that it can’t possibly have come from a dream and for a while you doubt your sanity because you fear that you have muddled dreams and reality and will never be able to separate them again. The trouble is, I have been feeling like that all day. The sensation that something truly, immensely, important is hovering outside the scope of my mind’s grasp is more frustrating than an itch under a plaster cast. It began when I woke up this morning on the hard cement floor of the cellar. I was cold and stiff and I hurt all over and my mind felt clotted. My first thought was frustratingly incomplete: “What—?” More questions surfaced, all incomplete. The biggest was, “why am on the cellar floor and not in my—?” The most obvious missing word was bed … but it didn’t feel right, and it still doesn’t. This has been the pattern all day. I start to think something and the object of the thought slips out of reach like a bar of soap in the bath. I have the maddening feeling that I can name the missing ‘thing’, but it won’t allow itself to be caught. Maybe I will recover the missing memories. Maybe I am losing it and this is the onset of senility. I tried to discuss it with mother this afternoon, but she pooh-poohed the idea immediately and said I’d been overdoing it lately and that I just needed a good rest. Again, I had the feeling she was not saying all that she knows. So I have resolved to keep a journal. I will keep it safe and private and if I am losing my mind, perhaps I will detect the change by comparing my entries over the coming weeks and months. For my first note then I want to record that I am convinced the cellar has been changed without my knowing the reason. Again I mentioned this to mother and she laughed and said that we’d had it dry-lined months ago. I just don’t remember. There’s also a drum kit down there that I don’t remember buying and it’s in a place that looks horribly familiar and at the same time utterly strange … no, I mean wrong. It should not be there, something else should be there … I just wish I could remember what.
Ditto. I like the way they're talking, but not talking. Great pictures. (They're addictive, aren't they. I try to cut back, but I get all tense and frazzled and grouchy.)
LOL I like the pics because they help a story move along (I admit to pushing the photography) but I'm a wordy writer and without a few images my stories would be truly gothic in wordage ... well long like a Stephen King story anyway
I like it, but must protest. It's cheeky enough of me to think I might ever compare to Mr. King in literary quality ... but I don't imagine I shall ever reach the giddy heights of the least of the Bronte sisters (and I say least in relation to Anne, because I never got around to reading her ... though I am quite sure her writing is better than mine).
The Collegiate Collage Hi, Im Aiden Aiden Wren. It looks like were the first to arrive. Goddess! What a creep. Chloe Tangell. Nice to meet you. Not. At least we get first dibs on the good rooms, eh, Ha! Bags I one a long way from yours, dorkus. Yeah, I guess. Look can you excuse me, I need to get this luggage inside. My mother just dropped me off. Wow! Was that your mom? Shes pretty hot! I thought she was your big sister when I saw her hugging you, just know. Man, is this guy for real? Whats his major? Creepology? Er, yeah, thats mum, alright. Scuse me, then. Staggering under the weight of baggage, Chloe mounted the short flight of steps that gave entrance to Mason Hall, the hall of residence that would be home for her freshman year at The University of The State of Penn. She felt the burning weight of Aidens eyes on her back. She felt sure he was watching her butt move under her jeans, and even more sure that there no chance of him offering, even, to hold open the door. She was not disappointed when the latter expectation was realised. No doubt her wrestling match with suitcases, bags and self-closing doors had been a right royal wobbly-bits ogle-fest. She hoped his glasses broke. UsoP was the older of Penn States two major college campuses. Set in a pleasant semi-rural district, it had more academic kudos than its younger, larger and brasher cousin: Pennfield Sate University. Chloe had sweated the books during her final year of school and had been thrilled when the offer arrived of a place on the highly-rated UsoP history facultys BA course. She dumped her bags in the entrance foyer and studied the notice board, convinced that room allocations could not be so ad hoc; so first come first served. She was wrong. It was, indeed as Aiden had described. The rooms, she saw, were ranged down both sides of two short corridors that lead off one side of the foyer. It was a mixed residence and Chloe felt that she would be more comfortable with a room nearest the centre than at the isolated ends of the twin corridors. With sudden resolve she selected a door and picked up her gear and moved in. [FONT="][FONT="] [/FONT][/FONT] Mind if I join you? He was fair-skinned, red haired with a military style buzz-cut. Well, two out of three isnt bad. No, help yourself. He pulled out a chair and plopped down his spaghetti with a clatter. Hi, Im Sinjin. She sucked in a strand of pasta. The end flicked at the last minute and splattered a drop of sauce in her eyebrow. She laughed. Pleased to meetcha, Sinjin. Im Chloe. My middle name is messy eater. She raised her eyebrow, the one with the sauce in it. Sinjins open face just begged for a little harmless flirting. What you need is more cheese. It helps glue everything together. Trust me, Im an expert. I just sold my soul to the Physics Faculty for the next four years and they wouldnt have had me if I didnt know about melty-cheese and stuff. Hi! Another plate joined Choes and Sinjins on the small dining table. It was swiftly followed by a fourth. Mind if we join the party? The two newcomers didnt wait for an invitation. They were both a little gauche but in different ways. Gina Wheeler was rather opinionated and very self-absorbed; making sure to tell them all about herself. Her self-advertisement did little to impress Chloe and when she slyly looked across the table at Sinjin, she was pretty sure that he was bored by the girl, too. Rose Thomasen, the other girl, was much quieter, without being painfully shy. When she spoke, she was interesting to listen to. She noticed that Sinjin also appreciated Roses finer qualities and was disturbed to feel a small pang of jealousy. The evening passed with surprising speed. The four sat around the table, long after the table was cleared and wiped down for the night, swapping stories and biographical details. At some point they were joined by another pair of late-comer freshmen who introduced themselves as Don Hogan and Marcelo Sayler. Again, Chloe could not help looking over the new men and rating them. She leaned back in her hard-moulded plastic cafeteria chair and thought about Rocco, whom shed left behind in Penn Vale. He was only a few months younger than she, but that was enough to separate them by a whole school grade. That hadnt mattered while they were still at school, but when she left the Vale, they had promised to wait for each other. She wondered if she still wanted to or even if she could.
The Collegiate Collage Hello, Chloe. Youre up and about a bit early, arent you? Laughing, she said, I could say the same about you. And whats with those ridiculous shorts? Been for a quick swim. You should try it, sometime. Marcelo Sayler wiggled his eyebrows in an oddly provocative way. Oh, you! and thou Poo! Youre a flirt! Nope, Im hungry and heading for breakfast. Coming? You buying? Nope. Im a cheap flirt. Yeah, thats what Genesis Chen told me. Goddess! He said mildly. Is there nothing sacred that women dont gossip about in the girls loos? She pretended to think. No. Arent boys the same? My girl, you have a lot to learn! Ha. Such as ? Oh, youre not catching me out on that one, sweetheart. Im not your tutor . He paused and studied her face briefly. Of course, if youre offering the position I might be prepared to consider accepting. I think youre too full of yourself. Yeah, but I think Im not full enough of breakfast. Come on, lets go see if that smell of burning food leads us to the refec. OK, but Im not really hungry exam nerves, I guess. Ha-ha! We psychologists dont have exam nerves. We examine nerves and make them tell us about their mother. Anyway, you history nerds have it easy, anything you dont know you can just make up. Oh? Well I read that psychology is ninety nine per cent fairground bunco. His face creased into a frown. That is so true . Bu-ut, its that one per cent of scientific brilliance as what makes us so irresistible, maam. He had moved around to stand in front of her blocking the way. He leaned forward and puckered his lips for a kiss. Dont be ridiculous, she pushed past him effortlessly, hoping that he wouldnt spot the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. Breakfast was pancakes. Again. They were slightly burned. As usual.
I finally caught up! Loving the story. Lynet's right, your sims are cute ... Marcello's not a dormie, I suspect, unless he's had a makeover? I think most of the dormie guys are ugly and/or mean. What's up with that, anyway? Chloe seems headed for trouble ... glad to see her mom's out in the daytime now, though!
I will no longer be updating this thread. The story will continue at The Penn Vale Saga in the new Library The whole story is presented at that link. The next episode will be Chapter 10 I will edit this message to add a link to chapter 10 when it is written Please, then, allow this thread to die a natural death. It will not be closed unless idiots starts poking it long after the dust has settled.
