Jess' Authorial Repository

Originally published May 24, 2004

Seeing as ff.net is still spinning like a wobbly top, I managed to remember my old login and downloaded all of my LOTR stories. For nostalgia's sake, here's the best one.



It was a winter's day, windless and mild. A fresh layer of powdery snow lay on the footprintless road, as many hobbits stayed inside on a day like this, sitting by the fire with some warming vittles and a good ale. The more adventurous hobbits quickly made their way to the Green Dragon, the iciness penetrating even their thick soles, where some mulled mead and a good smoke were enjoyed by all.

However, Sam Gamgee was to be found in neither of these places. He was working, as per usual. Come rain, snow or shine, he would still trudge up to Bag End every day to work on the garden. Not much was needed to be done now, of course, except for a bit of pruning. He got his shears out and trimmed a little bit off the rose bushes, which was done in about five minutes. Sam saw by the closed curtains and lack of fire that Frodo was still not awake: he had come down with a massive cold and spent his time mostly in bed. He thought about going in and waking him, but he thought better of it: Frodo was sick and needed his bed rest. Besides, Sam knew that his mother would pop around later with her secret for fighting colds, her famous lemon and honey brew. Frodo would be well taken care of.

Sam carefully and quietly shut the gate and sighed. What was he to do with the rest of his day? He had no wish to go home just yet, nor down to the Dragon. He looked downhill towards the east, to the woods that lay beyond Hobbiton. Sam knew them very well, as he always liked to walk through them. He decided today was as good as any to walk through them again. He didn't feel the cold as easily as other hobbits, so he knew that he would have them to himself. He set off, blue breaks appearing in the grey clouds above him, a pinprick of sun streaming through. He felt immensely cheered and smiled, murmuring happy hobbit songs to himself. He loved to wander through the woodlands ever since he was a small child, pretending that he was off in a far land having adventures. He wisely never spoke of this to anyone else, of course – no proper hobbit had adventures, except Mr Bilbo, of course. Everyone had always called him mad but Sam privately thought he was wonderful, telling him stories about dragons and Elves and far-off places and also teaching him his letters. Sam loved to hear about Elves and always begged for more stories. He didn't know why he liked them so much, but they just sounded so beautiful. He would dearly love to see one, as he knew that Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo sometimes visited the wood-elves near the Shire, on their way to the Grey Havens. Sam knew that they were leaving Middle-earth forever and it made him very sad.

He finally reached the edge of the wood, off the main path across the Shire. It was a long walk but he was so caught up in his thoughts that he really did not notice. He stepped over a log and entered, wandering around the naked trees and the evergreen pines with a light layer of needles beneath them. Sam walked very carefully, taking care not to wake the sleeping animals he knew were around him. Of course, he knew that nothing could wake them, but he was still quiet nonetheless. If he was lucky, he maybe would be able to see some creatures who didn't sleep as the others did.

Sam was a fair way into the forest now. It wasn't very thick, so the chance of getting lost was low. Besides, the leafy trees had lost all their leaves now, the remains of which were crushed under Sam's careful feet. He heard birdsong, and looked up to see a very small brown bird singing sweetly in the tree. Apart from that, the forest was silent, not a sound heard from the quiet town nearby. Sam pulled his cloak a little tighter around him, a slight breeze picking up. Then he heard a strange but beautiful sound, a quiet, high solitary voice singing through the trees.

A Bereth thar Ennui Aeair!
Calad ammen i reniar

Even though he could not understand the speech, Sam had heard enough words to know that it was an Elf. He knew that Elves sometimes passed this way but not so close to hobbits! He ran madly through the forest, trying to catch a glimpse of this Elf, but he had no idea where they were. He couldn't even tell which direction they were coming from.

Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath

Sam listened carefully. It sounded as if the elf was closer, to his right. He found a tree stump to hide behind and watched intently.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

The Elf's voice was full of mourning and sadness. They were leaving Middle- earth for the Undying Lands, their time over, their people fading. Soon all they had wrought would be unmade and their history forgotten. No longer would their wisdom and beauty grace this earth.

I chin a thûl lín míriel...

All of a sudden, the Elf appeared. Sam's heart was in his throat, daring not to take a breath lest this lovely creature would discover his presence. He squinted so he could see the Elf better. A tall Elf maiden walked lightly across the snow, so lightly it seemed that she left no mark. Her skin was pale, her long wavy braided hair was silver and her mantle was white and blue, making it very hard for her to be seen. Even though the clouds were dark and grey, she seemed to shine with an incandescent shimmer, the likes of which Sam had never seen. She sang ever, in her quiet, high, beautiful voice, heading towards the Sea, walking alone. She seemed to sense a presence behind her. She turned to see the small curly-haired hobbit watching her, her graceful movement too quick for Sam to hide. He gasped. She had seen him. She stopped her song for just a second and gave the hobbit a smile. Even from this far away, he could still see the sadness in her eyes as she started singing again, praising Elbereth, in the manner of the exiled High Elves.

Even after she had disappeared from sight Sam watched her still, in utter shock. The exchange only lasted a few seconds but to Sam it felt like an eternity. He only came back to his senses when his legs went numb from kneeling in the snow. He was utterly enchanted by the beautiful maiden, the smile she gave him warming his heart. Now he wanted to see more of the Elves, even talk with them, even though he was almost fearful of them, powerful, wise and beautiful as they were. He did not know how much time he had spent in the wood, but he knew he must be getting back.

The whole journey back to Bag End was filled with the memory of the Elf maiden. He had wondered who she was, where she had come from, how old she was, what her name was – all these things that he would never know. Before he knew it, he was trudging up The Hill again. Frodo was awake now – the curtains were drawn and there was the glow of a fire within. He politely knocked on the door and Frodo greeted him.

'Hallo, Sam! Come in.'

Sam entered and hung his cloak up. 'How are you feeling today, Mr Frodo?'

'Better.' Frodo looked at him, concerned. 'You look cold.'

Sam looked down at himself and shrugged. 'I feel fine, sir.'

Frodo smiled. 'Come, sit by the fire with me.' Frodo cut off Sam's protest before it even started. 'I insist.'

Sam pulled up a chair next to Frodo's by the fire in the living room while Frodo sipped his strong brew, courtesy of Mrs Gamgee. Frodo noticed that there was a distinct change in Sam, a thoughtfulness that he had never seen before.

'Sam? Are you all right?'

Sam opened his mouth to tell him about the Elf maiden but decided not to. 'Yes, Mr Frodo.' Frodo smiled. He knew that something happened, but knew also to let Sam tell him in his own time. As Sam listened to Frodo speak, he thought of that Elf maiden. He decided to keep her a secret, and he did, for the rest of his life on Middle-earth. He never dreamt that he would see her again, but he did.

Originally published July 29, 2013

I started walking away from the city. Walking, walking, walking. I never stopped, never looked back. I couldn’t stop.

All I had were the clothes on my back and my boyfriend’s shoes. Mine were bloodstained and ripped. They squelched. His were five sizes bigger than mine, but they were all I had left. Of him. Of me.

The blisters were terrible, but at least they reminded me that I could still feel. That I survived. Still alive, whatever that came to mean.

I kept walking. It was all I could do. I walked the flesh off my bones and the skin off my feet. I walked until my nose bled and the shoes became rags. I walked to eat. I walked to drink. I walked to forget.

I was going anywhere. Going nowhere. No past, no future, no present. Just me and the silence.

I still walked. Someone had to.

Originally published April 24, 2012

I no longer recognise the city where I was born.

It’s been three years since it all started. They asked me to come across the ocean, back to that place, where I was both given life and my name.

It stood eternally, proud and unapologetic, for thousands upon thousands of years. It saw wave upon wave of invaders and defenders, many changes of name, language and people. Many grand buildings, and not so grand ones, pierced the skyline, hugging the river that was its vena cava. We used to admire the old architecture, laughed at the modern ones, shaking our heads at the misguided ingenuity of man. The river now lay stagnant, almost filled in, desperately pinched. It was full of the remains of those buildings, as well as many of the millions of the inhabitants, bones lurking under the muddy surface.

I would have given anything to see the modern buildings again. Anything recognisable. The city beside the river lay degraded and twisted, ruined. It had been only a few years since my last visit but the world was so changed by the event and its aftermath that I may as well have been away for an aeon. Its trees were completely grey and brown, trunks hanging down into the river or across roads and dirt.

I don’t know how, but I survived. I was one of the strong ones. I could still walk unaided and had all body parts present and accounted for. That’s why they asked me to come, to help the few who were still alive. The contamination was still present but at acceptable levels, apparently. I’m not entirely sure about this, but it’s hard to tell when you don’t even have sufficient power to run an x-ray machine. If you could find one that still worked.

The deformed metal skeletons of structures loomed over my head. I could still see the shattered glass panels that were hanging precariously in place, the charred interiors, stonework crumbling and ripped away. Bricks and boulders and steel beams were still strewn across the street in the less-used areas, starting to accumulate moss in the damp. Thankfully most of the bodies had been removed from the main city but I’m sure, in a city that size with millions of people, there are still thousands out there, locked up and unburied. The underground had been sealed off since it all began, and no one dared venture down into the endless, fetid tunnels. So many people had sealed themselves away down there, like they had done before, but there was no more safety there than above ground. It was everywhere and there was no escape. No one knows for sure but from my own experience, I would say that the percentage of deaths from suicide in the immediate aftermath would be around 30-35%. God knows I thought about it myself, but it wouldn’t have been fair to all the people I watched die.

I stepped off the small boat at the makeshift jetty. I looked around, desperately trying to get my bearings. All the bridges, so many bridges across the river, lay in pieces. Some had been patched with wood and stone, but very crudely. Roadways, wires and pavements lay jutting up from the river in sharp chunks, the rain having washed off the blood and ooze. At least it still rained here, although you could only be exposed safely for five minutes, and that was a guess at best. The sky hung low and heavy, but hopefully it would stay dry. The air was so thick still, and it was a little hard to breathe.

The ground was cracked and crumbled. I carefully stepped around the piles of asphalt and dirt. I heard a voice say, ‘Be careful of the sinkholes.’

So it was true. We’d heard at home about massive sinkholes appearing in the city, the extensive underground structures succumbing and collapsing from the stress of the disaster and lack of maintenance. But it was hard to verify what was going on in other countries. Communications were patchy and infrequent, mostly word of mouth and rumour. This is what it must have been like before the invention of the telegraph. Even if we had the power, even if the magnetics had been unaffected, the satellites were still falling out of the sky, massive holes punched in them by the infinite debris in orbit, which in turn created even more debris. There was a rumour that the International Space Station was knocked out a couple of months ago and landed in the Kalahari Desert. The Internet and even phones were for now a thing of the past. We didn’t even have the capacity to find the oceanic co-axial cables, let alone restore the connection. Basic messages were carried by those strong enough to travel but that happened sporadically – fuel was precious, travel was rare and messages could take months to get between bases.

We all walked slowly and deliberately. Apparently new sinkholes were appearing every day, and there were a couple close to where we landed. We walked uphill from the river, and the pale moonlight grey stone of the buildings, charred and patchy in parts, seemed very familiar. There was a frontage in mosaic that was largely intact, and I saw a name I recognised. It was an old train station. The red, black and white signage of the streets confirmed my suspicions. Only then it hit me. I remember being 21 years old, lining up outside one of the beautiful and grand consular buildings in the area because I needed to vote in my country’s elections, on my own for the first time and feeling content. Even after all I’d seen, I couldn’t help a tear coming to my eye.

I looked around. The church in the middle of the road that I remembered partially remained, its columns stripped for rebuilding purposes. The fittings for the phone boxes were sticking up from the ground, wires splayed everywhere like dropped spaghetti. My guide walked further up the block, looked around the corner, and beckoned me to him.

‘Slowly.’

There was an acrid smell in the air, faint but discernible. This must be a sinkhole.

I crept slowly towards the corner. I could see the pale earth around the remains of the road. I caught sight of the hole, and had to step back as I experienced a dizziness I’ve never felt before.

My guide sat me down a couple of feet away, but I felt compelled to crawl closer to look again. I couldn’t stop staring.

The sinkhole was about 50 metres across, at a conservative estimate. The drop was sharp and sheer, the pale dense earth covering the rock strata. Rubble was piled at the bottom, and there were various broken pipes and cables hanging loosely, swaying slightly in the breeze.

I couldn’t stop looking at the tunnels. Two underground train tunnels were exposed, the jagged concrete split open. Straight underneath me dangled twisted, rusty rails. On the other side a train carriage hung precariously from the tunnel, the livery peeling and faded from the elements and the remaining carriages barely visible behind. I’m not sure if it was my imagination or not, but I thought I could see skeletons still trapped inside. I stared for what felt like an eternity. My guide gently placed a hand on my shoulder.

All I could think of to say was, ‘Will it fall?’

‘Eventually. The coupling can’t last forever.’

He helped me to my feet, even though I couldn’t take my eyes away from the train.

‘Do you see them?’

He sighed. His face looked grim. ‘All the time.’ He wrapped his hand around my shoulder and steered me away, past the sinkhole.

‘Come on, Doctor,’ he said. ‘The morgue awaits.’

Originally published July 12, 2011

I went for a walk in the woods, and there was a bear with me.

I’m not sure how old he was, but he wasn’t a cub, or an adult. I asked him where his mama was, but he didn’t reply. He never said a word over the whole weekend.

I’m not sure how I ended up out here, with this bear. I just started walking. I think I might have been asleep. I woke up in a forest glade, face buried in the bear’s soft brown fur. Just like Snow White.

He was good at keeping me warm. And he would offer me fish, which was kind, but I’m a vegan. I had some apples and gluten-free sandwiches in my satchel, which was almost empty. I had a bottle of iced tea, my sandwiches and a notebook. No phone, no cameras, no wallet.

The sun was streaming through the firs as we padded along in comfortable silence. It was freeing, not needing to speak. The bear was patient as I stopped to sketch or jot down a paragraph or two.

I think I was out there for a weekend. Three days maybe. Not really sure, they blurred somewhat. On the last night, as I bunked down in his fur, he licked my face. As first I was momentarily afraid, but in my heart I knew he would never hurt me. This was, I discovered later, his way of saying goodbye.

I woke up in my city again the next morning, near my house. I turned to see a soft brown flash disappear behind garbage bins. I searched my satchel and the notebook was gone. I’m not entirely sure if I dreamed this or not.

But one day I want to walk again in the woods, a bear with me.