Come on baby, light my fire: Joan of Arc fic

Forsaken was posted under Original Fiction, so apparently there is no active Joan of Arc fandom to be found. I really don't know why-- The Sentinel still has an active fandom and it's at least as old as she is. Under 500 words and still so much to hate...

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Disclaimer: Joan D'Arc doeas not belong to me and the story of her burning is not mine.

Admitting that historical people and events are not your personal property actually puts you above some authors I have known. I AM LOOKING AT YOU, DAN BROWN.

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I was not sure where I had been taken, where I'd woken up. The mossy aroma of earth and compost seized my nostrils forthwith.

Forthwith? Oh, we are in trouble.

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I nearly felt as if I might sneeze with the pungent potency of it. My dubious sight fought to focus fruitlessly,

Yes, we do indeed have a case of Chronic Thesaurus and its related condition, Page-By-Page Alliteration.

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agony shattered and throbbed within the dungeon of my skull.

I will give this fic points for the phrase "within the dungeon of my skull", but only because I plan to ascribe it to the author. Damn it, now I'm alliterating!

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Darkness surrounded me and I crawled, and I slunk along the cracked and dirtied ground, unsure and disoriented, creeping like the worms beneath me. I could decipher the sounds of tiny creatures scrambling about my body as I moved like tiny pebbles down a cliff, tittering and scattering nervously. Dizziness invaded my thoughts and I stilled myself abruptly, my blind eyes closing for what felt like only a minuscule second, but what must have been in reality many minutes, possibly hours even, for when I opened them once more, hundreds maybe thousands of mud-streaked, sun-damaged faces stared back at me.

It's like the author keeps their commas in a salt-shaker.

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I struggled, my hands seemingly bound about my back, my ankles too, my legs becoming scratched as I fought against my trappings futilely.

So tiny creatures scramble all over her body and she wakes to find herself bound with hundreds of faces staring back at her? Joan of Arc apparently spent some time in Lilliput.

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I squinted down, catching sight of bundled twigs, kindling at my beaten feet.

So apparently there was not in fact a trial with a sentence pronounced. She fell asleep, woke up somewhere strange, crawled around in some moss and worms, fell asleep again, and woke up being executed. But in my experience, cheap gin will do that to you.

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I groaned, the incessant, malicious chanting of the mob running rampant through my muddled mind. Why were they calling me that? Witch. Demon. Enchantress. Was that what I was to them?

Joan, you were tried twice in proceedings lasting nearly half a year. Muddled mind or not, those witch charges ought to ring a bell. And personally, I frequently mistake people for demons when they're covered in dirt, compost, worms, tiny creatures, and adjectives.

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I grit my teeth in my utter humiliation as the death dealer lit the kindling that would inaugurate my slow demise.

I am now picturing the grim reaper cutting a ribbon for a mall ground-breaking ceremony. Of death.

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My religion became my condemnation.

This is the kind of phrase that belong scrawled in a 9th grader's notebook along with anarchy symbols and pentagrams.

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I wailed as the heat of the flames became unbearable, singeing my hair and scalding my flesh, blistering and melting and destroying.

And baking and blazing and burning and flaming and roasting and scorching and searing and sizzling? Am I on the right track? It's unclear.

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I shut my stinging eyes once more, the lids gluing themselves shut sickeningly.

This author has apparently also fallen asleep with their soft contact lenses in.

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Then there was nothing more,

Hooray!

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just impenetrable silence

I have been lied to and rescind my hooray.

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as my melancholy ashes were swept carelessly and remorselessly out into the streets to be trampled and forever forgotten just like the many other innocent who's suffered before me.

Dibs on "melancholy ashes" as my emo band name. And actually, her ashes went into the Seine. But that fact gets in the way of the ending-- an ending with a MESSAGE! That message, once again, being cribbed from the margins of a teenager's algebra notes.

Although I'm not sure if she's referring to the many other innocents who are trampled and forgotten in the street, in which case said streets are littered with bodies, or to the many other innocents whose ashes have been swept carelessly and remorselessly, in which case said streets are littered with ashes. Either way, a strongly worded letter to the city council should be written.

Xander B wrote:

Disclaimer: Joan D'Arc

Wow. I was going to be all blasé about this, but three words in and I'm already gnashing my teeth. Quel dommage. I'm aware that I'm not as laissez-faire as others when it comes to the utilization of language, but when it comes to appellations, you're can't be all avant-garde and choose to mix 'n match. Au contraire, it's a friggin' either/or-situation: either you're being a vulgar Brit and you're going with Joan of Arc or you're a stuck-up French raconteur and you go with Jeanne d'Arc.
Author, you are an imbecile.

Seiran, chapeau to the snark.

(Oh yeah, my French is awesome. Je suis une baguette.)

Joan from Clone High would facepalm this.

Seiran wrote:

Joan of Arc fandom

WTF I don't even

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I wailed as the heat of the flames became unbearable, singeing my hair and scalding my flesh, blistering and melting and destroying.

My wail cut short as a breath of flames singed my throat and the inside of my lungs, preventing my from breathing.

You know I don't think I ever seen a fic on AFF.net that wasn't porn, so I'll just go ahead and assume this is.

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I reached back hesitantly to touch the sticky, metallic fluid caked in my hair which fell mangled and matted about my trembling shoulders.

Sacre bleu, now I remember - Optimus Prime came in my hair.

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Darkness surrounded me and I crawled, and I slunk along the cracked and dirtied ground, unsure and disoriented, creeping like the worms beneath me. I could decipher the sounds of tiny creatures scrambling about my body as I moved like tiny pebbles down a cliff, tittering and scattering nervously.

Firstly, it's 'Darkness surrounded me as I crawled', unless it only now got dark. Secondly, is it her movement or that of these tiny creatures that's supposed to resemble tiny pebbles down a cliff. Thirdly, what the fuck is 'Tittering'? It sounds like a small village in the West Midlands.

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Dizziness invaded my thoughts and I stilled myself abruptly, my blind eyes closing for what felt like only a minuscule second, but what must have been in reality many minutes, possibly hours even, for when I opened them once more, hundreds maybe thousands of mud-streaked, sun-damaged faces stared back at me.

I don't think I've been more confused by a single sentence since a thirteen-year old girl with a mouth full of pizza tried to explain to me Lily Allen's 'appeal'.

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futilely

Not a word.

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I quarreled with my own trepidation

Put the English Language down and step away from the keyboard.

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death dealer

That's so my new trolling screenname for gamer forums.

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I wailed as the heat of the flames became unbearable, singeing my hair and scalding my flesh, blistering and melting and destroying.

I wailed 'III'M MEEEEEELTIIIIING!'

For me, the worst part is how the narration calmly continues beyond the death of the first person narrator. How about you?

Damn! I briefly hoped Goku was going to rescue her from the stake and then fight evil Super Saiyan knights.

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agony shattered and throbbed within the dungeon of my skull.

BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL!

Seiran wrote:

Awesome snark

I lol'd, thank you. Also, I read everything you say in the voice of the tenth Doctor, just so you know.

Jay wrote:

Awesome stuff

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Sheba wrote:

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I wailed as the heat of the flames became unbearable, singeing my hair and scalding my flesh, blistering and melting and destroying.

My wail cut short as a breath of flames singed my throat and the inside of my lungs, preventing my from breathing.

Wailed?

Wailed???

I don't think that people who are being roasted alive do anything as demure and restrained as wail. Shrieks of agony from the gut? Probably closer. Unable to scream because the heat makes it impossible to breathe at all? MUCH more likely.

Stupid suethors...

crowdog66 wrote:

Sheba wrote:

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I wailed as the heat of the flames became unbearable, singeing my hair and scalding my flesh, blistering and melting and destroying.

My wail cut short as a breath of flames singed my throat and the inside of my lungs, preventing my from breathing.

Wailed?

Wailed???

I don't think that people who are being roasted alive do anything as demure and restrained as wail. Shrieks of agony from the gut? Probably closer. Unable to scream because the heat makes it impossible to breathe at all? MUCH more likely.

Stupid suethors...

Hush now! She's dying a tortured martyr's death. It's in the contract that she wail at least once.

Rabid Badger wrote:

Hush now! She's dying a tortured martyr's death. It's in the contract that she wail at least once.

I think you mean BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW, if Unskilled is any indication.

Lolwat. How are historical people fandoms? I just...oh, never mind.

Great snark, though. c:

Joan of Arc was my favourite historical figure as a kid. This fic appalls me. I admired her because she was such a badass at such a young age, and she actually changed the world. But I imagine it's her death that's much more romantic to high-schoolers.

Besides, this fic is historically inaccurate. Joan of Arc wasn't executed for being a witch, but for heresy and for wearing men's clothing.

Excellent and entertaining snark, Seiran!

Anyone else reminded of Amanda McKittrick Ros? The love of alliteration and strange descriptions seems familiar.

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She tried hard to keep herself a stranger to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness.

Sarin wrote:

Anyone else reminded of Amanda McKittrick Ros? The love of alliteration and strange descriptions seems familiar.

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She tried hard to keep herself a stranger to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness.

I have....absolutely no idea what I just read. The words; they make no sense! :explode:

Who's this Amanda, and where is her writing so I can laugh at it?

Rabid Badger wrote:

Sarin wrote:

Anyone else reminded of Amanda McKittrick Ros? The love of alliteration and strange descriptions seems familiar.

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She tried hard to keep herself a stranger to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness.

I have....absolutely no idea what I just read. The words; they make no sense! :explode:

After much rereading, I think what it's trying to say is that some woman's dad was extremely poor, so she made clothes (or possibly embroidered? I can't be sure without context.) in order to support herself and leave his money alone.

Spooky wrote:

For me, the worst part is how the narration calmly continues beyond the death of the first person narrator.

Back in my 8th grade English class, we all had to write a story every couple of months. I'll never forget one that a friend of mine wrote. It was actually pretty interesting; an ordinary pharmacist wakes up in the middle of a vast desert with vague memories of being kidnapped and dumped there, but has no idea who would do this or why. He had to escape the desert while figuring out just what was going on.

Unfortunately, he didn't really live up to this premise; we never find out who dumped him there or why. The pharmacist wanders through the desert for a few pages looking for water while musing about his situation, then in an attempt to get a good view, climbs on top of a crumbling stone wall. He falls and breaks his neck. The story ended with a sentence I will remember for the rest of my life:

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I lay there in the hot baking sun until I died.

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"And now I know how Joan of Arc must have felt, as the flames rose to her Roman nose and her Walkman started to melt..."

Forsaken wrote:

She tried hard to keep herself a stranger to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness.

Spacedust and Chaos wrote:

With mild trepidation, dark-natured cosmic tangents scissored, crossed, folded into vexatious concisions, as boundless as the sea, the spiraling rubical blood nimbus cut asunder by the long lady fingers of morning sunshine. Time tick-tocked steadily against the corridors and the clean-shaven mammals inside, inefficient mouths murmured, articulating half-true sentiments that held no bearing for the concession of death, rebirth, ashes to ashes, legs valiantly pumping, throttling the tiled white with overbearing pomposity.

The resemblance is staggering.

Freezer wrote:

Joan from Clone High would facepalm this.

Hell, Joan would probably be a poster here or at Fanficrants if she was real.

Spooky wrote:

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futilely

Not a word.

Is too.

Bite your tongues! Who can possibly say that Amanda McKittrick Ros is not the greatest writer in history?

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Have you ever visited that portion of Erin's plot that offers its sympathetic soil for the minute survey and scrutinous examination of those in political power, whose decision has wisely been the means before now of converting the stern and prejudiced, and reaching the hand of slight aid to share its strength in augmenting its agricultural richness?

Why if that's not art I don't know what it is, which I don't. But the dear lady has a big fansite where you can find the writings of C.S. Lewis favourite bad writer (he and his friends would sit around in the pub and read aloud from her writings, apparently the challenge was not to laugh).

Of course the dear lady really deserves her own thread, if only you could somehow get your hands on a complete copy of one of her books.