Mary Sue's -- vad är det? Ja, jag visste det inte själv förrän nu i dagarna, när jag sprang på fenomenet på CompuServe. En Mary Sue är den engelska termen för en karaktär som porträtteras på ett överidealiserat sätt, och som saknar brister eller har romantiserade brister. Dessa karaktärer ses ofta som en projicering av författarens egna fantasier. Termen har uppstått ur fanfiction-genren -- alltså, där författare skriver spinoffs på andras originalberättelser -- men kan givetvis appliceras på originalkaraktärer också.
Här är artikeln, och... ja, man får ju säga att det är roligt att läsa om de olika varianter som finns. Själv hajade jag till vid Villain-Sue, och funderade om min lille älskling Charles var en Villain-Gary. Han har ju faktiskt en tragisk bakgrund som ger honom ett visst försoningens skimmer. Å andra sidan -- de flesta som inte mår bra, och som hänfaller åt grymhet har svåra bakgrunder. Kausalitet. Orsak och verkan. Nå, så är han väl lite halvt en Gary, då. Fast självmordstankar har han inte... Och att han skulle bli god i slutet av storyn... Njae... Känns inte som om det skulle vara hans stil, riktigt.
Hursomhelst, värt att kolla in, och checka av mot era egna karaktärer, kanske. Man kan nog hitta Sue-isms där man minst anar det! Bara man har glimten i ögat.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Hästscenen del III
Okay, här är finalen. Ganska kort, sådär. Och det var allt för denna gång :-)
-----------------------------
Utdrag ur Legacy
copyright Linda Govik, 2007
Léan held Samil’s head, patted the silken nose, and felt the fast, hot blowing of his breath against her palm. While Jacob put the gun to the spot right behind the animal’s ear, adjusting the barrel to find the cleanest angle, she kissed the smooth skin, looked into the black, sad eyes and whispered to him that he’d be okay, that it would soon be over. Then, very gently, Jacob urged her to stand back.
She stood rigid next to him, hands over her eyes, sobbing violently, trying to close out the sound of the shot – but nevertheless, it exploded in her ears, so strong it made her jolt, and rang out in vibrating, nauseating pulses. After he’d made sure the animal was truly gone and everything was over, Jacob put his arms around her, caressing her back, mumbling low words of comfort in her ear. They stood like that for a long while, silently clinging on to eachother, shielding out reality – but sensing it in the wind, bearing with it the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and warm blood.
When the crying finally subsided and she released herself from Jacob's embrace, she thought – and hoped – the earl would already be gone, and that he’d left them to mourn on their own. He hadn’t. He stood where he had before, in the halo of the lantern, silently watching them. Blond hair glowing, eyes glimmering with frost, he reminded her of an angel.
“We’ll remove the carcass tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice surprisingly mild. “I’m going to bed now. I suggest you do to.”
They watched him, as he walked across the lawn toward the house, brisk steps crunching against frozen ground. With a deep sigh, Jacob put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tight.
“You’re freezing, Léan,” he said, leaning his lips against her hair. “And you’re exhausted. Come. Share my bed tonight. I think you’ll be needing it.”
“You will too,” she whispered.
He glanced toward the lawn, but it lay empty, the earl having disappeared behind the house gable. “Yes,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “I think I will.”
Hand still on her shoulder, as if he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go, he lead her to his house.
-----------------------------
Utdrag ur Legacy
copyright Linda Govik, 2007
Léan held Samil’s head, patted the silken nose, and felt the fast, hot blowing of his breath against her palm. While Jacob put the gun to the spot right behind the animal’s ear, adjusting the barrel to find the cleanest angle, she kissed the smooth skin, looked into the black, sad eyes and whispered to him that he’d be okay, that it would soon be over. Then, very gently, Jacob urged her to stand back.
She stood rigid next to him, hands over her eyes, sobbing violently, trying to close out the sound of the shot – but nevertheless, it exploded in her ears, so strong it made her jolt, and rang out in vibrating, nauseating pulses. After he’d made sure the animal was truly gone and everything was over, Jacob put his arms around her, caressing her back, mumbling low words of comfort in her ear. They stood like that for a long while, silently clinging on to eachother, shielding out reality – but sensing it in the wind, bearing with it the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and warm blood.
When the crying finally subsided and she released herself from Jacob's embrace, she thought – and hoped – the earl would already be gone, and that he’d left them to mourn on their own. He hadn’t. He stood where he had before, in the halo of the lantern, silently watching them. Blond hair glowing, eyes glimmering with frost, he reminded her of an angel.
“We’ll remove the carcass tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice surprisingly mild. “I’m going to bed now. I suggest you do to.”
They watched him, as he walked across the lawn toward the house, brisk steps crunching against frozen ground. With a deep sigh, Jacob put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tight.
“You’re freezing, Léan,” he said, leaning his lips against her hair. “And you’re exhausted. Come. Share my bed tonight. I think you’ll be needing it.”
“You will too,” she whispered.
He glanced toward the lawn, but it lay empty, the earl having disappeared behind the house gable. “Yes,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “I think I will.”
Hand still on her shoulder, as if he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go, he lead her to his house.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Hästscenen del II
Här är fortsättningen. Återigen -- scenen är kanske inte helt klar, men så här ska den se ut på ett ungefär. God läsning!
--------------------------------------------------
Utdrag ur Legacy
Copyright Linda Govik, 2007
Jacob led the way. Silently and doggedly he trampled the ground, anxious to reach the grove hardly visible a short distance before them: its trees and shrubberies not more than black, sinister shadows against a scarcely paler sky – however sprinkled with stars, and lit by a pale, sallow moon. He held a lantern in his hand to chase the night away on their path – but the light, waving and flickering like an eerie will o’ the wisp, was bound to allure creatures of the night, rather than scare them away.
Léan gripped her cross, and held it tight, sending a silent pray to the Madonna to keep Samil safe. Or was he already lost? Everything around them was so silent – terrifyingly, chillingly quiet. If Samil still had felt the need to fight, if he’d known there was a chance for him to survive – surely he would have made himself heard. Wouldn’t they have heard his attempts to move, the scraping of hoofs as he was trying to get up, the neighing or snorting, evoced by his efforts? But there was nothing – only a faint rustle of the trees, as a midnight breeze shook them on its way past. Samil... The tears stung; welling up in her eyes, they blurred her sight and made her stumble on the uneven ground.
Quickly, a hand gripped her elbow, and straightened her up. The earl. She’d felt his presence behind her back for quite some time, a swift, unnerving shadow, walking on the uneven ground with a certainty she’d never thought of a drunk man. Without her noticing, he’d closed up right behind her, and now, he was right beside her, giving her a slanted smile, eyes gleaming, the same color as the moonlight above their heads.
“Careful, elf. We don’t want you to trip and break a leg too, now do we?”
“No. I’m sorry, milord. I lost my balance.”
“Yes. The dratted dark.” He let go of her arm, but remained close to her side, so close she could feel the movement of his coat against her own clothes, and the faint smell of alcohol, moss and sweat. “What’s your name again, elf?”
“Léan.”
“That’s nice. I like that. Say...”
“Léan, come here.” Looking up from the dark ground, she saw Jacob. He’d turned around, and was walking backwards, facing them. He swung the lantern in his one hand, and waved to her with the other. “Walk with me.”
“No need.” The earl pressed her back, and paced up, leaving her. “The horse would be right in front of us now. Be careful, don’t scare it. A panicky horse can get nasty.”
* * *
Samil lay flat on his side on the cold, damp ground just beside the fence: a dark, still, shapeless mass, sides glistening with every strained heaving. When he heard their footsteps and voices, his ears turned slightly in their direction – but he didn’t move, merely snorted, sending out a cloud of smoke into the air.
Holding up the lantern, Jacob lit the small glade around him, turning the opening in the shrubbery into some sort of grotesquely framed scene, where the fence snaked its way right through, stabile and black. She heard him curse, and understood why, too. The fence reached Léan almost to the chest. Horrifyingly well built, and melting in with the dark surroundings, there was no wonder the horse had fallen.
What kind of man forced an animal to jump something like that? She crossed herself, then drew a ragged, deep breath.
“Samil doesn’t like jumping. It scares him.”
“I know, Léan. I know.” Jacob reached for her. She pressed her face against his chest, wanting his strength, sucking it to her, using it to steel herself. Hands on her forearms, he gently moved her to the side. “I must take a look at him.”
He remained squatted by the horse for a while, talking gently to it, examining the injury with careful hands. When he rose, his movements were so slow, so very definite, that Léan instantly knew. If she hadn’t felt the raw chill against her face, and felt the tingling of her toes and fingers, numbed with the icy air, she’d have thought she died right then and there. Samil. Mrs Grant’s beloved horse...
“No.” The word was a mere moan, and Jacob bent his head.
“I think we have to, Léan. I’m sorry.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“You heard him.” The earl’s voice cut through the serenity, as effectively as a burning sword. “Let’s not prolong the animal’s suffering. Do what you must, foreman. A clean shot to the head would be sufficient.”
“Yes." Jacob sent him a dark look. "I rather think it would.”
She felt the earl move beside her, his coat brushing at her arm as he passed her. He placed himself in front of Jacob, measuring him with his eyes.
“Are you trying to be funny, foreman?”
“I fail to see the humour in this, so I guess not, milord.”
“Then it’s a threat? You want to shoot me, is that what you’re implying?”
Jacob reached for the gun, and loaded it with short, decisive movements. “I don’t know if I’m implying anything," he said, voice tense, and so low, it was barely audible. "But since you bring it up... You tell me, milord, who is worth the bullet more: the damn fool that tries to make a horse jump a fence in complete darkness on a slippery ground, or the horse that suffers for his idiocy?”
The earl’s movements were so swift, the attack so sudden, that Léan didn’t have time to react, or even cry out a warning. And Jacob wasn’t expecting it either – the sudden slap across his face, that made him stagger backwards, and almost loose his balance. Only seconds later, the earl was holding the gun. Pointing it to Jacob’s head he nodded, a slight smile on his lips. In the light of the lantern, he was both fire and ice – his hair gleaming gold, his eyes burning frost; transluscent and pale.
“I can only take so many insults before my patience runs out. And normally, I’d kill you for speaking to me like that.” Indolently, he lowered the gun. He put the gun in Jacob’s hand, and pressed into his palm. “But I guess you’re lucky, aren’t you?” The smile faded, and was replaced by a piercing look. “Never underestimate me, foreman. Everyone who ever has, is dead now."
------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------
Utdrag ur Legacy
Copyright Linda Govik, 2007
Jacob led the way. Silently and doggedly he trampled the ground, anxious to reach the grove hardly visible a short distance before them: its trees and shrubberies not more than black, sinister shadows against a scarcely paler sky – however sprinkled with stars, and lit by a pale, sallow moon. He held a lantern in his hand to chase the night away on their path – but the light, waving and flickering like an eerie will o’ the wisp, was bound to allure creatures of the night, rather than scare them away.
Léan gripped her cross, and held it tight, sending a silent pray to the Madonna to keep Samil safe. Or was he already lost? Everything around them was so silent – terrifyingly, chillingly quiet. If Samil still had felt the need to fight, if he’d known there was a chance for him to survive – surely he would have made himself heard. Wouldn’t they have heard his attempts to move, the scraping of hoofs as he was trying to get up, the neighing or snorting, evoced by his efforts? But there was nothing – only a faint rustle of the trees, as a midnight breeze shook them on its way past. Samil... The tears stung; welling up in her eyes, they blurred her sight and made her stumble on the uneven ground.
Quickly, a hand gripped her elbow, and straightened her up. The earl. She’d felt his presence behind her back for quite some time, a swift, unnerving shadow, walking on the uneven ground with a certainty she’d never thought of a drunk man. Without her noticing, he’d closed up right behind her, and now, he was right beside her, giving her a slanted smile, eyes gleaming, the same color as the moonlight above their heads.
“Careful, elf. We don’t want you to trip and break a leg too, now do we?”
“No. I’m sorry, milord. I lost my balance.”
“Yes. The dratted dark.” He let go of her arm, but remained close to her side, so close she could feel the movement of his coat against her own clothes, and the faint smell of alcohol, moss and sweat. “What’s your name again, elf?”
“Léan.”
“That’s nice. I like that. Say...”
“Léan, come here.” Looking up from the dark ground, she saw Jacob. He’d turned around, and was walking backwards, facing them. He swung the lantern in his one hand, and waved to her with the other. “Walk with me.”
“No need.” The earl pressed her back, and paced up, leaving her. “The horse would be right in front of us now. Be careful, don’t scare it. A panicky horse can get nasty.”
* * *
Samil lay flat on his side on the cold, damp ground just beside the fence: a dark, still, shapeless mass, sides glistening with every strained heaving. When he heard their footsteps and voices, his ears turned slightly in their direction – but he didn’t move, merely snorted, sending out a cloud of smoke into the air.
Holding up the lantern, Jacob lit the small glade around him, turning the opening in the shrubbery into some sort of grotesquely framed scene, where the fence snaked its way right through, stabile and black. She heard him curse, and understood why, too. The fence reached Léan almost to the chest. Horrifyingly well built, and melting in with the dark surroundings, there was no wonder the horse had fallen.
What kind of man forced an animal to jump something like that? She crossed herself, then drew a ragged, deep breath.
“Samil doesn’t like jumping. It scares him.”
“I know, Léan. I know.” Jacob reached for her. She pressed her face against his chest, wanting his strength, sucking it to her, using it to steel herself. Hands on her forearms, he gently moved her to the side. “I must take a look at him.”
He remained squatted by the horse for a while, talking gently to it, examining the injury with careful hands. When he rose, his movements were so slow, so very definite, that Léan instantly knew. If she hadn’t felt the raw chill against her face, and felt the tingling of her toes and fingers, numbed with the icy air, she’d have thought she died right then and there. Samil. Mrs Grant’s beloved horse...
“No.” The word was a mere moan, and Jacob bent his head.
“I think we have to, Léan. I’m sorry.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“You heard him.” The earl’s voice cut through the serenity, as effectively as a burning sword. “Let’s not prolong the animal’s suffering. Do what you must, foreman. A clean shot to the head would be sufficient.”
“Yes." Jacob sent him a dark look. "I rather think it would.”
She felt the earl move beside her, his coat brushing at her arm as he passed her. He placed himself in front of Jacob, measuring him with his eyes.
“Are you trying to be funny, foreman?”
“I fail to see the humour in this, so I guess not, milord.”
“Then it’s a threat? You want to shoot me, is that what you’re implying?”
Jacob reached for the gun, and loaded it with short, decisive movements. “I don’t know if I’m implying anything," he said, voice tense, and so low, it was barely audible. "But since you bring it up... You tell me, milord, who is worth the bullet more: the damn fool that tries to make a horse jump a fence in complete darkness on a slippery ground, or the horse that suffers for his idiocy?”
The earl’s movements were so swift, the attack so sudden, that Léan didn’t have time to react, or even cry out a warning. And Jacob wasn’t expecting it either – the sudden slap across his face, that made him stagger backwards, and almost loose his balance. Only seconds later, the earl was holding the gun. Pointing it to Jacob’s head he nodded, a slight smile on his lips. In the light of the lantern, he was both fire and ice – his hair gleaming gold, his eyes burning frost; transluscent and pale.
“I can only take so many insults before my patience runs out. And normally, I’d kill you for speaking to me like that.” Indolently, he lowered the gun. He put the gun in Jacob’s hand, and pressed into his palm. “But I guess you’re lucky, aren’t you?” The smile faded, and was replaced by a piercing look. “Never underestimate me, foreman. Everyone who ever has, is dead now."
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