A Tale of Legitimacy

((We apologize for the nature of this post, but our respective personas aren't quite the... most subtle of personalities... It would suffice to say the true degree of our criticism should only be about a third of what is written. Unfortunately. There may be some bias, as there always is, but we hope that you make your own decision about what to believe.))

Greetings to the wanderers of this site;

You join us for a rare occasion when the spirit, the machine, and the carnival gather to share with you a tale... or rather, would it be more appropriate to call it a mere musing upon the facts?

Or naturally: Upon the evidence so gathered that has been muddled by both thoughts and emotions. We would like: To call back to and clarify the factuality of the tale.

Just in case you poor poor readers have fallen into the trap.

See, however outdated it may be, there is an issue that remains within the scope of our attention.

An issue has come up on the spin of the wheel - have you heard of the being known as Cassandra Clare?

Heh. If anyone has, I certainly have. A friend of a friend of a friend heard the news - her muse has wandered free for many years now.

I may have had a hand in that wandering, my dear Sable. The carnival was so much livelier with its grey ash mixed in with the snow. But that has no pertinence in this little tale of ours.

Haha... Why, Eira, you frighten the wrong person. Yes, let us not speak of... controversial things and return to the case at hand. So then, about Cassandra Clare... Cycle, would you do the honor?

I assume at least some of you are aware: Of Cassandra's controversial 'plagiarism'. Now I am not one to involve myself in such menial debates: But one outstanding issues shines out at me. Cassandra Clare admitted: To having taken several major scenes from other literature. Not only thus: But she admitted it with pride. So I would ask: How can a work be legitimately her own when a majority of what she did was take other peoples scenes: And rework them? Should she not: Just be a simple editor then? And yet she claims: She wrote the story. She: Contradicts herself.

Perhaps we should gift the girl with a new dictionary. The poor mortal probably mistakes the word 'write' with 'sewed together.' Something which may be happening sometime soon with her intestines. Humans are gifted with quite the digestive repertoire - simply a few inches short will not cause too much lasting harm. Hopefully. 

They are such fragile little glasswork statues. But, digression.

Reworked scenes float throughout her fanfiction, a work of 'writing' that places a known serpent in leather pants, while many of these self-same scenes reemerge in her published work. Whether these have been 'permanently borrowed' or not, the evidence stands unmolested. Our loveliest Cassandra Clare, why steal the old skins of useless muses when other paths are easier?

Perhaps it is true that she, the dear princess, is merely honoring those that have come before. But tangled tales of angel ilk can be written better through the beauty of creation. Not that broken emulation of muses, but that of something else, far more pure. Beauty shines in that, but this 'borrowing' can only ever be a thin veneer  merely for hiding behind.

It's truly a pity... I wonder what her muse had hoped for her to become. It's but another I will never meet of my poor dying race. Then again, it was inevitable if she didn't listen to its words. From what I've seen of her work, it seems that she lusted for a different muse - a muse at peace with its rightful contractor... heh. How cruel. I have no sympathy for humans who covet to the point of abandoning the truest form of creation.

Judgement shall not be passed on her published novels - we do not seek to flame or otherwise defile. Our sole goal is to sweep away the cobwebs that the dearest Cassie has deemed so necessary to wear. Said writing has been officially murdered and hidden from public attention, but should more tainted words be found, a second purge may be necessary.

While some foolish readers may claim that it was that type of art known as 'fanfiction,' should we not hold our writers to the highest standard? Shall we allow a thief to disappear into the night with words that are not hers? Shall we mindlessly allow one of our kind to discard their own potential? Has she not already flown high enough on her pair of flawed, borrowed wings?

It's bright up there.

Maybe even blinding.

We believe that this crutch can be discarded, and our beautiful Cassie can find her own way to fly. And until then, the carnival, the machine, and the spirit will continue to hope. To muse. To wait for a day her muse can be found and burn anew.

True Silence?

(A poem: In work. Apologies for its rough edges and a few badly balanced rhymes and metres.)

Tell me. What is true silence?
The moment where the noise dies down?
No, true silence is different,
It cannot be donned like a gown.
-
It is more than just the absence,
Of assault on your ears.
It’s more than just the sudden hush,
As silence hits your peers.
-
A moment where you’re deafened,
Or there simply is nothing to hear.
It’s not a calming moment.
It inspires pure fear.
-
There is no breath, no heartbeat, no bloodrushing to ears,
Just a pure note of nothing at all.
And as you encounter this absolute nothing,
It’s as if your breath did stall.
-
Grasp at your throat, you can feel it move,
But there’s not a sound to hear.
No whistling of lungs, nor sound as you talk,
You can almost feel death so near.
-
Then, it is all over, the silence gone at last.
The soft and welcome sounds of your breath rushing through.
And then the blood rush slows, as it was quite fast.
And you realise, the truth, who know silence are but a few.