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Okay so this is a little random, but here's the preface to my book that I'm writing.



I have a few quotes to set the mood:



1. Suzuki Zen and Japanese Culture pg. 188

2. Suzuki Zen and Japanese Culture pg. 166-167



Without further ado, let the preface begin:



The Other Warlord





“Fate is in Heaven, the armor is on the breast, success is with the legs. Go to the battlefield

firmly confident of victory, and you will come home with no wounds whatever. Engage in

combat fully determined to die and you will be alive; wish to survive in the battle and you will

surely meet death. When you leave the house determined not to see it again you will come home

safely; when you have any thought of returning you will not return. You may not be in the wrong

to think that the world is always subject to change, but the warrior must not entertain this way of

thinking, for his fate is always determined.”

1.

Uesugi Kenshin (1530-1578)1





“A man who has thoroughly mastered the art does not use the sword, and the opponent kills

himself; when a man uses the sword, he makes it serve to give life to others. When killing is the

order, it kills; when giving life is the order, it gives life. While killing there is no thought of

killing, while giving life there is no thought of giving life; for in the killing or in the giving life,

no Self is asserted. The man does not see 'this' or 'that'; he makes no discrimination and yet

knows well what is what. He walks on water as if it were earth; he walks on the earth as if it were

water. One who has attained this freedom cannot be interfered with by anybody on earth. He

stands absolutely by himself.”

2.

(2. Takuan 13)



Everything was quiet and tranquil that summer night. The warm air carried north by the Japan Current was streaming gently through the palace of one Daimyo Daisuke of what is now called the Osaka Region. It was late spring, and the cherry trees were blossoming without a care in the beautiful gardens below. The Daimyo slept deeply on this occasion, and breathed the heavy wet air in and out while lying asleep in his chamber. He seemed the picture of tranquility to the observer, but in his mind a ferocious battle was waging. Deep inside the Daimyo knew what he had done was wrong, but it was too late now. He knew every day he would have to carry the pain of his misdeed, and every step he took would be a count against his soul. Yet what could he do? The deed was done, and that was the end of that.



Still he hoped at least some good would come out of it all, however improbable it may have seemed. At any rate, he thought, nothing else would happen to him any time soon. What relieved him some was that he knew no one else could possibly find out what he had done. Even she, his beloved Naoko, had no idea what occurred. Somehow though, this mad him feel even worse. He admitted to himself that he really understood very little about what he had gotten himself into, but as mentioned before he could not chose the circumstances. His thoughts became more jumbled and irrational; he was breathing faster and stirring in his bed now. He heard a piercing icy laughter, and sweat was dripping from his body. Daimyo Daisuke never got the chance to see his house burn up in flames. He never heard the shrieks of his servants as they were charred into living piles of black ash. He wasn’t alive to know that someone did find out about his secret. Fortunately for the Daimyo his murderer also perished within those hatred flames.



However despicable his crime might have been, God took pity on the Daimyo. His beautiful Naoko had escaped from the castle earlier that night with their only son. She could not bear to see her love in the state of obvious melancholy that cloaked his visage. He would not tell her the truth, she could sense it. Nothing seemed the same, and everything was so wrong. She didn’t know where she would go from there. Her chances looked very dark and grim, the future could hold nothing but pain.



Message me with a review- and thanks for reading Glenn!

Twisted and Strange the Blackened Forecast:



NOTE: This Harry Potter fanfic does NOT reflect my views on vampires. It uses artistic alowence to manipulate emotion. Most of the characters are not mine! Main characters that you have heard of are not mine. With that said... enjoy you sicko!



The Chronicles of Bellatrix Lestrange

(Story takes place in 1961, voldemort does not come to power until 1970.)



Ch.1 Immortality: A Tarnished Golden Sky







The vampire was sitting in the ministry office calmly. He knew why he had been summoned, it could be nothing else.

Rufus Scrimigeour was late, but that wasn't what was bothering him; It was that he would have to think about that little girl again. So much pain... so many lies... to deep for crying, and to black to see the truth that was hidden there all along. He had to do it- no one else was there, and no other witness could give any information as to the character and habbits of her. It had been so long since they had last seen eachother- it seemed like two hundred years, but it couldn't be more than thirty. She was so young then, she had no idea of what she was saying... or maybe she did? all of this was giving the vampire a real headache, and was partially relieved when Scrimigeour crashed through his office door, sopping wet. "A quick spell ought to take care of all this." Scrimigeour said in a rhaspy voice, as if he had caught a cold. Instantly the water was gone, a fire was emitting soft orange sparks, and a couple of glasses of brandy were pouring themselves in front of them. "Thank you Rufus, but I don't drink. At least not anymore." the vampire said as politely as possible. "Of course, of course..." Scrimigour replied.



"As you may have already found out, I have brought you here as part of a series of interrogations to find out more about certain Death Eaters. We, that is to say- The Ministry, hope to use this information to bring about the ultumate end to He Who Must Not Be Named, and therefore restore order to society. You specificaly have been singled out because of your presumed knowledge of the Death Eater and convict Bellatrix Lestrange. Our resources speculate you knew her before she was married, so we do not ask for information on her husband, yet however if you know something that concerns us then by all means-" "No I don't know him- but he's not what's important, it's her." The vampire interrupted. "I beg your pardon sir?" Rufus inquired. "She is the only key to what's left of a heart in Lord Voldemort." Rufus flinched at the name. "This is how it all began..."













"You're beautiful!" Bellatrix exclaimed. The little girl of ten looked up at him with her brilliant blue eyes. Beautiful? That was hardly the word for what Lysander thought of himself. A more fitting description might have been "A horrid werck" or "Pathetic creature," But what was all this beautiful nonsense about. He could tell she meant it from the bottom of her heart, but how can anyone see beauty in someone who could see none in themselves. Lysander had but days ago been an nineteen year old Muggle who was the manager of a Furger Burger, but now his dreams of making it to the top of the food industry had been trashed. Hadn't he walked back home that night the same way he walked so manny times before? Hadn't he noticed the thick patch of trees that he passed every morning that were almost forcing him to ignore them? Either way he didn't see this comming. Two Vampires- Lola and Cyprian, were on their honeymoon in the muggle city, and singled out the tired, overworked Lysander comming home from the overtime that was alotted him. Being the midnight supper was the last thing on Lysander's mind, but it happened that he came inches from a death due to loss of blood. All he could remember was a strange green glow in the sky, and Lola and Cyprian running into the trees, terror written across their faces.



That was the end of the Lysander that all the muggles new. After that incedent, Lysander bought three cases of beer and walked into that patch of trees. He must have been wondering aimlessly for three days now. His midnight blue manager uniform was torn to shreds, and his short black hair was tangled up in an awful mess. In spite of it all, he had to smirk. "Beautiful" He thought, was something he definately was not used to hearing. "And who are you little doll?" Asked the half-starved vampire as he got to his feet, hardly believing he had tripped over a child. "I'm Belltrix Adriana Dementrial Alexus Black, a witch from a most powerful family!" She breathed heavily. "A witch... Yeah just what I need..." Lysander droned as he clasped his forehead with his thin and pale hand. He hadn't believed in vampires or witches the previous week, but in the present state he was in he was open to the possibillity of a witch existing. "So... so what do you do all day kid- Bake potions or read poetry? Are you some kind of psycho goth?" Unfased by this inquirey, Bellatrix continued to stare at him, then proceeded to ask "So is it you that's been killing all the animals in the Dark Forest? My teachers are worried about all the dead farrets, squirrels, and nifflers we've been seeing near Hogwarts. Hogwarts is our magic school- but lots of magic only my parents know I've already learned." This whole time, Lysander was moving his hand to match her speach in quite an immature way, until he heard the part about a magic school.



"So you're for real? You are seriously yanking my chain... A magic school? That's like having a religion school, or a modeling school! Ha!

So little 'witchey woman' can you charm me up some vodka?" He laughed. She twitched her wrist, and the liquid was forming itsself into a glass, then filling itsself up. Astonished, all Lysander could do was hang his mouth open in shock, which looked quite odd due to his sharp fangs. Before he could do or say anything, Bellatrix had already snatched the glass, and tipping it over, drained every drop. Smashing the glass in her hands, she let out an insane laugh. It's intense chill caused a feeling of horror and death to swell up inside Lysander, and he was beginning to get seriously creeped out by this kid. She Poured him a glass, and they drank and talked and walked all night in the dark forest where they had met.



When the sun had almost started rising, they were just finishing pouring out their hearts to eachother. Lysander learned all about bellatrix's horrid family life. Her mother Drusella and her father Cygnus Black were high and powerful dark wizards. They had parents who worked for Grindlewald- the most ferocious dark lord ever to live. Albus Dumbledore, a transfiguration teacher at her school, was the one who defeated Grindlewald. Her parents had an awful temper. Her sister Naricissa would usually slip away before they really got angry. Then they would proceed to practice the cruciatus, the torture curse, on little Bella. She had learned to look after herself, never to trust muggles, and never to trust her own people. She was beautiful in her horrid state, but there was a certain eerie sadness that Lysander felt was encercling her. Something about her made him want to scream in dispair.



Suddenly, something struck Lysander. "Kill me!" He screamed, shaking her collar. She laughed at him. "You silly man! Why kill you? Why kill you when we're having so much fun?" "I'm a vampire Miss Black! If you don't kill me I'll get hungrier, and I'll kill you... And you know what I'll do next?" Lysander said, licking his fangs. "I'm gonna kill everyone you told me about. Your family, your friends, your teachers... you better kill me! You don't know who you're dealing with!" Bellatrix looked at him with wide blue eyes and smiled into his rage-contorted face. "NO!" she shreiked. "I'll make you scream and writhe in unimaginable pain... but I won't ley you die my love. That would be killing, and killing...." She paused, seemingly thinking things over. "Killing is wrong..... Now plunging your mind into a state worse than death is perfectly acceptable- and afterwards, you will have no choice but to finish yourself off. I say your pain has only begun! I say CRUCIO!" She laughed into the pale sunless morning. His skin was boiling. His insides were ripping themselves apart. His eyes rolled into their sockets, and the burning in his mouth made him collapse to the ground. He was twisting and convulsing and every second hurt worse than the last. He was being hanged without a gallows! Crucified without a cross! cut into tiny peices, and being forced to sew his flesh back together with his own severed hands. Then it stopped... as suddenly as it had begun.



Did she kill him? His body showed no signs of dammage, the trouble was his heart. Lysander stood unaffected, yet changed forever in the memory of what true agony must feel like. He felt like an animal- the animal with no soul, no heart, no feelings. He knew he would have been far better dead, he knew every second of his lingering life a terrible force was looming through him. He was posessed by something more horrible than demons, yet it was only the himself that he had become. Wretched, hanging to life by a thread, and no thoughts of whether death would save him. It was digging deep inside of him, and he knew he would have to live with the fact forever. He had become a bloodthirsty monster, and now that his reason had flead to the winds he was free to tear apart every shred of every being that would never share his pain. A shrill cry echoed through the recesses of that forest on the night that no tree nor stone in that place has yet let its memory slip away. In the rush, the curse, the knowledge that his death was a thing of the past- for only missions, not people, are immortal. He had become his mission, his destiny, his destruction, and that little witch from hell who sealed his misery was left unscathed and even unchanged.

A little late for halloween but:



Once, on a small Ittalian estate, a priest was visiting to administer sacraments to it's inhabitants. On his visit, he came incontact with the most remarkable servant he had ever beheld. later in his life, he returned to the estate bringing special bread for this wonderful servant. When he saw the servant, he presented his gift. The servant's face fell, and he told the priest that he was thankful for his kindness, but could not take the bread, because he was a spirit. He told the priest that the only bread that would do him any good would be the bread of the eucharest, pleading God for his freedom. The servant then dissapeared without another word.



In France, a young girl had visited Paris with her mistress. The servant girl soon fell Ill, and her mistress had no choice but to abandon her. She recovered, but found herself all alone in an unknown place, with only one frank to spend. The poor girl did the one thing she had been accustomed to doing, and that was going to church. Outsid the church, she met a young man, who told her of a place she might find work. She went, and when she arrived she found the mistress, an old woman, was indeed looking for a servant. "Did you run into the servant I had just dismissed, I've not yet put an ad out for a new servant." she asked. The girl told her that she hadn't, and started describing the man she saw outside the church. The woman's expression changed, and her face started to grow pale. Mid-description, the girl spied a portrait on the wall. "That's him! That's the man who told me your name, and where to find you!" She smiled, thinking this would clear things up. It didn't. That was the Mistress's son, who had died ten years ago.