Sushi and Tofu

Well my dad used to read the Lord of The Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Sword of Shannara to me a lot when I was little, so it's kind what my favorites are. Though the Redwall series is great, if you like talking animals, and Greyfax Grimwald was interesting, though a lot shorter than what I like to read. Farmer Giles of Ham by J.R.R. Tolkien is great, but hard to find(I dug through secondhand bookstores to find my copy) and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis(Same guy who wrote the Chronicles of Narnia) is good too. (heroic emoticons)

Inuyasha my favorite, though i like Naruto and (nervous chuckle, followed by a gulp) Love Hina is fun(just don't tell my sisters I said that). I'm half-Japanese so i like to watch the episodes in Japanese, it's a little taste of home.

Sorry to dig up some old stuff, here goes. I think that while films like that have a negative impact on society, filmmakers have the right to free speech. So even though I think that kind of film should never be released, I don't have the right to stop it. I can, however, not watch the movie.

The trees rustled as a score of arrows whistled through their branches. A small gnome, barely older than a child, sped through the undergrowth, clutching a bag that clacked painfully a gainst his boney chest. Behind him, a crowd of paunchy old men in armor blundered after him. The gnome looked back. They were gaining on him, and it was getting harder and harder to breath. He clutched the bag tighter. What did they need it for? Their now did friend wouldn't need it anyway. He skidded to a stop, cursing. He was trapped. Stone walls were on three sides, and men with stone hearts on the other. His hand flew up to the ruby pendant hanging from his neck. It had hung their for as long as he could remember, a comfort, his only comfort. He could still remember, running through fields of purple flowers in his homeland. When he was tired he would come to his mother who would hold him, and tell him tales of those who had held the pendant before him. "My Aidan, my little fire," she would say as she held his head in her hands, "One day you will know the truth about the pendant, my Aidan, our peoples hope." She had said that smiling, before the plague. Aidan could still see it in his head, the dead and dying crawling and groveling in the streets before their last feeble breaths. Everyone had died. Except him. He squeezed the pendant now, feeling its perfect surface. It was in the shape of a torch, and it hung from the chain around his neck. The men had blocked off his only escape route, and stood, scowling, with drawn swords. One man, with grizzled, scarred face walked toward him a few steps, then stopped. He spat on the ground, "Should we shoot him or take off his head?" The men laughed coldly. Some said one or other, and a few said both. Aidan gripped the pendant even harder and breathed deeply. There was no escape now. People in the nearest swore they had seen a tower of flame gather above the forest for years afterward. Still no one knew the truth. No one except Aidan. Authors Note* I'm hoping this story will end with Aidan bringing the last of the gnomes back from the Underworld, so if you add to the story(please do) please keep that in mind.

It had happened an hour after dawn, as the dwarf finished his bowl of oatmeal and donned his forge apron and gloves. He was reaching for a hammer when the flat of a sword struck him on the hand. Even with the gloves he was wearing the dwarf felt sharp pains running through his hand. He held his injured hand to his stomach and looked up at the intruder. It was the lord, Sir Julian Jeveferre. He was reeling, and smelt of brandy and something fouler. He leered at the dwarf through blood shot eyes, drooling slightly, with smile like a snarl. "hehh, I'm onta yer trickth now dwarf," he slurred, "I seen the way you look at my daughter." The dwarf scrabbled backwards across the floor of the forge, franticly reaching for the short sword hidden under his bed. The lord moved with amazing agility, planting a filthy boot on the dwarf's chest and slamming the dwarf onto the ground.

The attacking hordes were well armored orcs armed with cruel and keen bladed weapons. But coming after them, in small bands were smaller figures in long flowing grey cloaks. As the orcs slaughtered the men, these smaller figures gathered around the dead and dying. The dwarf was too far away to see what was happening, but he know it could not be good. The dwarf's feirce grip on the balcony had re-awoken the pain in his right shoulder. He grunted as the pain spread from the bruise he had gotten that morning.

The enemy swarmed the castle like a dark tsunami. The walls shivered and cracked as a thousand angry hammers fell. The men on the walls were dying by the heartbeat; the gate fluttered like a like sheet in the wind as the merciless battering ram charged once again. Biting his lip, the dwarf bit his lip and cursed in ancient tongues as he gripped the balcony railing, his knuckles turning white beneath his leather gloves.