Jose Needs to Get In On This Action

Hey guys! Today I found some D&D Style Porn!

It's pretty well-written, actually. And hot.

The author is a developer for White Wolf now.

...

I fear for Stone Mountain.

I was trawling for info about the new The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe movie, and in the process have discovered that Narnia is pretty much totally ruined for me as a Grown-Up. Ever since I discovered the whole Christian Allegory thing. Not as fun anymore. This is why I think people should read as much as possible when they're kids, because adults just don't get excited about as much.

I remember when I was like 15, 16, and finishing some books that I'd started a few years earlier, or rereading things, and not enjoying them as much, and thinking to myself, "Oh, shit, shit I'm growing up!" Then I'd cram as much reading into my schedule as possible, reading in a passionate, shark-like frenzy (you know, pages and viscera flying everywhere- you've all seen the Discovery Channel) so that I'd finish all my campy juvenile fantasy adventures before I got too old to enjoy them.

Anyway, now I don't like Narnia so much because I keep finding more and more that could possibly offend me. I don't try to look, honest. It's self-defeating. I like enjoying my childhood. But bothersome things just... kind of appear, like those Magic Eye pop-ups I used to not be able to see either.

For example, today I was reading this thing about Susan (oh btw, this whole blog is about the Chronicles of Narnia so if you haven't read them for some Godforsaken reason, go do it) today, and how she didn't die at the end of the series because she needed to repent. I didn't think much about Susan when I read the books as a kid. Oh, she can't come back to Narnia because she acts like a selfish teenager. I didn't think much about it. Really, the only reaction I had was one of vindictive pleasure; I knew too many selfish teenagers even as a kid and was glad girls like them weren't allowed. You know, the mean girls who won't let you sit with them at lunch...

*sniff*...

ANYWAY. Thinking of it now, she seems like a terribly tragic character, not because of what's written about her, but what's not. Here you have this girl, who isn't let into heaven because she's concerned with material things. She's obsessed with makeup and clothes and parties and acting grown up. I feel sorry for her. I can see her in a dark room in England, night-dimmed in the dark lonely countryside, the little tendrils of emotion, of sin and subversion crawling out from her head and over her body, thoughts about boys and new sensations and Nazi bombs falling over this other Eden, turning from a girl to a woman alone, listening to the breathing of her brothers and sister, too young to understand, and how lonely that must have been. She wears lipstick and nylon, the book says, which is why she can't come to Narnia anymore.

Imagine this- Imagine you are a woman of power, gentle and beloved, respected and feared in turn. Imagine you are a queen. Imagine that armies ride out in your name, fleets sail under your banner and a strong west wind, barbarian princes hammer at the gates for your love. You have a splendid castle, a sumptuous table, servants, song, and sword that wait upon you. You are noble and you are wise, and by this your country flourishes in music, wonder and undimmed beauty.

One day, you are hunting in an unfamiliar forest, an aura of foreboding creeping on you like vines. You strain against its power, shying away from it, but your siblings urge you onward, so on you go. With a strange sensation twisting your body and a torrent of alien thoughts, your old life vanishes in an instant. You look down at your arms, not recognizing your body. You stare into a mirror, not recognizing your face. You are a queen no longer. Your country, your home, your people, your friends, your power, your wealth, are gone, and all you are is a scared, vulnerable girl in World War II England as the bombs keep falling, where there is no nobility and no wisdom, only despair and sacrifice. Unlike our memories, you have no photographs, no souvenirs, only what you can grasp in your memory as your memory fades.

When you see your parents again, over a middle-class, English dinner, they seem young to you, younger than you just were. You are powerless again. You, who once commanded a kingdom, must appease two foolish adults, strangers who you have not seen in decades. Initially, they humor you and your childish pretenses at royalty. They humor your pretenses at acting much older than you are, commanding and regal.

Peter takes the mantle of eldest; bossy, annoyingly responsible, and pragmatic. Lucy and Edmund enthusiastically scramble for the next adventure. Only you seem to feel some longing for your past life. Because you are older, your parents tell you that you have a responsibility to act mature, that you're setting a bad example by playing these frivolous games with your younger siblings. Your friends think you're mad. Honestly, how could you have aged to adulthood in a day? Honestly. And you think they're right... Anything like that is completely preposterous, there's no proof, it's all in your head. What silly games you played as a child.

And if what you saw with your own eyes, touched with your own hands, isn't here, never was, then why should you believe in what you can't see, can't touch, isn't here, never was?

Why should you believe in God?

You pretend to move on, socializing yourself to distraction, grasping at phantoms, holding court among your remaining subjects, cliquish girls and lovesick schoolboys. You remember your lost glory that no one else seems to remember, the games you played as a child. Once you were a queen (in those old imaginary games, of course). What are you now? A secretary, a housewife in Cold War Europe? Nothing you can do will rival what you once were.

You are broken. Your entire family died in a railway crash many years ago.