the icosahedral space-time bookshop

SOOOO.

2009-07-23T15:18:15Z

So so soo. So. So! Why am I saying so? That is a rather nasty habit I seem to have picked up from my father! I shall have to work on it.
Soooooooooooooooooooooooo so so. The internet. It's been real, homedogs and broslices, but I don't think I'm coming back (reliably). I do value my productivity, unproductive as it usually is, and due to internet-based time wasting I rather thought I was to the point where I needed to stage a little computer intervention for myself in order to get it back. So I'm going to.
I'll pop on every once in a while to post art and whatnot, but honestly, don't bother emailing me or anything because by the time I get around to reading it it is very likely I'll be too late with my response to not be percieved as rude. (perceived? percieved? I have no idea. i cannot spell. bah.)

And now to detract from the deviancy

2009-07-16T18:24:36Z

Vexworth clad in the most lovely headwear as yet discovered in this or any cosmos, which was crafted by Miss Eliza White, milliner Extraordinary and all-round Nifty Person, my Partner in Crime, given to me Yesterday prior to our Bookshop Discovering and Sushi Eating and Harry Potter Watching and Many Other Lovely Things Indeed.

<

In which Melanie and I Discuss Twilight

2009-07-16T17:59:54Z

doctor.klingensmith: Crap, maybe I'm slow, but I just realized that Edward Cullen's genitalia sparkles.

me: D:

HIS SEMEN SPARKLES TOO, DOESN'T IT.

ARGFBLRLBL.

HE HAS GLITTERY NIPPLES.

doctor.klingensmith: At least you don't have to come up with Stephenie Meyer-esque euphemisms for Edward Cullen's genitalia. That would be a most horrifying job.

me: HIS THROBBING SHILLELAGH OF GLITTERY LOVE MAYONNAISE

doctor.klingensmith: OH GOD, THIS MUST MEAN HIS INTERNAL ORGANS SPARKLE TOO.

HE HAS A SPARKLY BRAAAIIINN.

BRAAAAAAAAIIIINS.

CULLEN BRAAAAAAAAAAIIIINS.

me: HIS MAJESTIC SEQUINNED EARDRUMS

WHEN HE COUGHS LITTLE CLOUDS OF SPARKLES COME OUT BECAUSE HIS LUNGS ARE LINED WITH IT

HIS PEE CAN BE USED AS SHINY FABRIC PAINT

doctor.klingensmith: EVEN THE HAIR ON HIS TOES SPARKLES LIKE THE DEW-BEDECKED GRASSES IN THE MORNING.

THIS CONVERSATION IS TERRIFYING.

me: HE CAN'T RUB HIS EYES BECAUSE HE'LL SCRATCH THEM WITH HIS SPARKLE-ENCRUSTED KNUCKLES

HIS EARWAX CAN BE USED AS GLITTER GLUE

doctor.klingensmith: EVEN HIS VOMIT IS SPARKLE-FILLED, AND USUALLY IT'S PINK. IF IT'S NOT PINK, THEN IT'S BABY BLUE OR YELLOW, AND IT STILL HAS GLITTER IN IT.

HIS SKELETON COULD BE MISTAKEN FOR DIAMOND!

me: HIS TEETH ARE LIKE A BUILT IN GRILL

SOMEONE ONCE SEWED TOGETHER A BUNCH OF TISSUES HE USED THE LAST TIME HE HAD A COLD AND MADE SPARKLY LINGERIE OUT OF IT

doctor.klingensmith: WHEN HE DIES, HIS SKIN SHALL BE USED AS SPARKLING LEATHER IN A RICH PERSON'S CAR, AND THEY SHALL SAY THAT THE SPARKLINESS CAME FROM DIAMOND-DUST.

me: I ASSUME IT WOULD HURT TO HAVE SEXYTIEMS WITH HIM BECAUSE THE GLITTER FROM HIS PUBES WOULD CHAFE SOMETHING TERRIBLE

AND OF COURSE THEN HE'D DO CRAZY VAMPIRE THINGS AND IT WOULD HURT MORE BUT STILL

THE CHAFIIIIIING

GOOD TIMES NEVER FELT SO GOOD (SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!)

2009-07-14T14:20:51Z

Now this post shan't be very long at all, because it is technically writing and I really need to channel my ability to string two words together this lovely day into something better, and also due to something that I won't elaborate on but is a routine occupational hazard of having ladyparts, I am in a painkillery drughaze and rather need snacks and caffeinated somethings soon so I don't keel over.

What have I been doing?
SAW THE RED SOX ON SUNDAY YAY. Beckett pitched the entire game and was awesome, and Boston beat Kansas City 6-0, and it didn't rain, and we toured Fenway the day before and although I forgot a writing implement, I carved my initials into the paint of the part of the Green Monster where the seats are. There's about a quintillion or so signatures up there and a "YANKEES STILL SUCK" up there as well so it is not as if my vandalising ballparks is something to tut-tut at. But we won wewonwewonwewonnn and our seats weren't even THAT terrible (we were a bit far away but we could still see everything provided people didn't stand in the aisles for ages and not sit down) although the man behind us! AGH! I am glad he got up in the fourth inning to look for better seats and never came back! He was the size of an orbital satellite, spoke I believe entirely through his nose, smelt of sick and peanut butter, and through some horrible cosmic glitch, had a wife. He whined about the seats they had from the instant he sat down until the game began, which is rather silly because you really do know full well how far away you're going to be from the game when you buy your tickets and therefore, O Great Spheroid in a Terrible Tan Plaid, the lousiness of the seats is no fault but your own. Sir. He also did not seem to understand the game whatsoever, and his gaptoothed friend who looked like a sexual predator crossed with wires, dust, and a cow, had to explain about 3/4 of what was going on and who the players were and that as well. AND THEY WERE LOUD. VERY LOUD. LOUD AND NASAL. Except for his wife who kept telling him she felt ill and had all morning, and he kept telling her Dhyaaaw, shadddaapppp.
BUT THEY WERE ONLY SEATED BEHIND US UNTIL ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH THE FOURTH INNING THANK GOD. I doubt very much they found three perfectly empty seats anywhere in the park to be honest but I really do not care if they wandered aimlessly throughout the stands all game. And I do not wish to make it sound as if all Red Sox fans are loud and stained, for they are not, only a small percentage, they are like an entertaining group of hat wearing, giddily screaming, Sweet Caroline singing cultists. And the subway ride in was entirely amusing because there were like two people on the entire train not wearing Boston hats or shirts or pairs of red socks.

And then after the game we went to Cold Stone and I got banana flavoured ice cream with toffee and it was goooooooooood.

And I am seeing my dear Eliza tomorrow, eating sushi, probably doing other things that are awesome, and she has made me a 21 coloured beret.
It is a beret with twenty one colours.
And she has made it.
IT HAS TWENTY ONE COLOURS.

:D

vexworth @ 2009-07-10T11:46:00

2009-07-10T15:58:45Z

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUU
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUUU
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR NIKOLA TESLAAAAA
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUU.

I would have an entry full of more relevant topics, but my brain is full of radio static today. I blame lack of sleep and lack of tea and lack of lunch(off to remedy that when I'm done typing! only we . . . sortofdon'thaveanything
unless i want to take like an hour preparing something crazy elaborate for myself and knowing me today i'd likely cook so poorly i'd create a black hole of awful cooking in the kitchen and destroy the whole town) and also the fact that I am only in Maine for forty-nine more days so therefore I believe my subconscious is saying Why On Earth Bother and told my intelligence to go on holiday until it was desperately needed. Up yours, subconscious, up yours with a kiwano melon, but at least I have figured out your methods, no matter how horrible I find them.

Elizaelizaeiiiiiza if you're reading this I humbly request a picture of the twenty-one coloured hat of sex and unf to tide me over til Wednesdayyyy.
.....iwanttoseeyoudashitall. but the hat will have to suffice in the meantime. T___T

Oh, and

2009-07-07T01:20:51Z

I wrangled routers and needled around with networks and BEAT COMPUTERS INTO WIBBLING SUBMISSION this afternoon and now have the internet back at my disposal. Whee.

WHAT.

2009-07-07T00:03:59Z

I'M LIKE . . . A TEA GURU OR SOMETHING APPARENTLY.

I have been chosennnnnnn.

THIS IS BIG, GUYS.
REAL BIG.

XD

Hey guess whaaat.

2009-07-05T14:49:43Z

So. I ran off to Vermont on a semi-whim, and what happened in the two days I was not at home?

A massive electrical storm hit Bangor and lightning struck the transformer nearest our house, ran giggling through the wires and slaughtered beyond repair (or at least crippled severely) a great many electronic devices, including both our DSL-modem and our router. Hoorie hoorah. Normally I would be all 'Oh glee in a bearnaise sauce! Now there is nothing to distract me from writing and art and things!'
BUT.
I have like 203750238 college forms to fill out that can only be done online and that are also due by the 15th and knowing how unfair Fairpoint (phone/internet provideything) is when it comes to having anything done remotely on time or conveniently, well, there will be a lot of hiding out in libraries cursing internet-based collegiate bureaucracy for a while, for I cannot just fill out bits here and bits there, unless I wish to take up residence in Speculative Sciences in a small tent.

I am now off to fill in many blanks and be sad.

PEOPLE OF EARTH!
Do not contact me on the internet until further notice because I will likely not be able to respond to it with any sort of haste whatsoever.

In Which Melanie and I Discuss Refined Outdoor Activities

2009-06-26T15:43:15Z

doctor.klingensmith: +wistfully stares at fedora++begrudgingly starts to walk out from hiding spot+
+places fedora on your head, and adjusts it just so+
^_________^

me: Thaaaat's it. Don't want you destroying the fabric of reality with your hat lustings.
:3

doctor.klingensmith: Hmmph. You know, I would have given you a trade...you could even have had my good hat Claudia, if you wished!

me: But I do not want Claudia! My hat is lovely and delightful and has been good to me for countless aeons!
Claudia is yours and you should not trivialise her loyalties by threatening to trade her off like noblemen sunken in gambling might do to their daughters!

doctor.klingensmith: ...you have insulted me by comparing me to a nobleman sunken in gambling. Harrumph. Also, you're quite right about your fedora, by the way - it does look quite charming. +adjusts it again+

me: I merely compared your offer.

doctor.klingensmith: True, true...but you really are a strange sort if you equate trading off a hat to trading off one's own daughter. :3

me: What, your hats do not offer your their undying fealty? You have never known the bond between man and head-accoutrement? Dear dear dear me!
Poor creature! I should buy you soup.
And give you cuddlings.

doctor.klingensmith: (NOT STRAWBERRY. I'm a subhuman, remember?) And since the world has shown me only bleakness and despair, dearest, would you mind teaching me to play lawn bowls? Really, that flamingo you so cleverly named Wesley has not been much help for me - it seems he particularly enjoys speaking Klingon, but never English. Occasionally he'll speak a mixture of both.
It's getting on my nerves, just a bit.
Cuddlings can come afterwards.

me: Oh come now. Strawberry cupcakes scarcely taste like strawberry at all!
But yes, certainly. Posthaste. And oh dear, Wesley. I did give him to you in hopes that he'd be a linguistic marvel, really, a help in dealings with various peculiarities strange and foreign, but he seems to be conducting himself more like a novelty act! I know quite good and well that he can speak seventeen different languages and also translate sign language! (he has no hands, so he can merely interpret.) Wesley, really !

doctor.klingensmith: He does seem a bit full of himself sometimes, but he's adorable, all the same. I do appreciate him as a gift...but I would like to learn lawn bowls, really. ^_^

me: Well! Then! First you take a bowl, and then you take a lawn . . .

doctor.klingensmith: You mean you forcefully seize a person's lawn so you can play this game?!
Oh, Viktor! This is completely delightful!
8D
...or did I misinterpret you?
T_T

me: Of course! Did you not know that this was invented upon the windswept plateaus of Mongolia by our dear Ghengis Khan himself to keep his troops' morale up and their conquering skills honed to a point?

me: It was merely reappropriated as a bland social-gatherings game for the hopeless and the tailcoat-clad. Its true nature is often forgotten, strangely enough.

doctor.klingensmith: ...do you realize that you are the first human that I've ever allowed to court me? ...look at what you just told me about this game, and you shall understand why. +smiles smugly+ I'm proud of you, deary, for knowing so very much! So! Whose lawn shall we choose?

me: Hmm . . . ah! Do you see over there, behind that black fence and in front of that large white house? I'm sure the President wouldn't mind us doing a wee spot of conquering, now would he.

doctor.klingensmith: (Sorry I disappeared there, for a moment. I'm back now!) Are you too terribly sure? All right then. When I place the bowl on his lawn, does that make it somehow...conquered?
Then what?

me: Oh no no no, not at all! For we have to decide what to put in the bowl. Gazpacho soup? Eels' eyes? Sand? A small chihuahua named Henry? The strategy in the game lies in the symbolism , my dear, it is a game of wit and skill and pulling dramatic plot twists out of one's behind. We wouldn't just leave upon a lawn of such magnitude something like, say, a bowl of chicken curry! We must ponder, look to the heavens and the astronomy-towers . . . what would Alexander the Great have done? Split-pea soup and three rose petals, that's how he ever got out of Macedonia . . .

doctor.klingensmith: ....you are just pulling this all out of your arse, aren't you Viktor? And yet, that doesn't matter, because I love your version of lawn bowls, because it's simply brilliant!

me: Well I did say it was a game of pulling things out of one's arse, yes.
[goes slightly red]

doctor.klingensmith: What shall we put in the bowls, eh? Indeed, it must be menacing...tell me, what is your favorite novel, in your entire library, that you love and cherish above all other books?
+chuckles at the going red bit+
+hair ruffle+

me: [is this an actual question or are you asking Viktor?]

doctor.klingensmith: +...they're kind of the same person, considering that Viktor seems to be a self-insert, similar to Coppelia, but I'm asking Viktor+

me: Well, if I was to honestly pick a favourite we would likely spend the entire day sitting here with you enduring my hmming and chin-scratching, and by then I'm certain the Secret Service'd catch on and send out a preemptive strike of liquorice allsorts and the game'd be over in a flash. But something menacing, perhaps? Twilight. The mere sight of that peeking out of a bowl'd send everyone in the district limits packing.

doctor.klingensmith: No! No! That's not the point! The point was to pick a lovely, exquisite and classical book, and then build a fire inside the bowl and burn all the copies that we could find of it! Now that would be terrifying and horrible, I tell you.
That would be a lovely way to terrify any sane population.
If, of course, you can stand the thought of book-burning, and considering that you've gone from red to pale green in about thirty seconds, I'd say that you apparently cannot.

me: [passes out]

doctor.klingensmith: +catches you+ Viktor? Are you awake? Viktor? +fans you+
Oh dear...

me: Mnffggg.

doctor.klingensmith: Signs of life, egads!

me: —aah! C—C—Oh Coppelia! It was horrid! I had the most terrible nightmare, you were suggesting to me that we build a pyre of literature on the President's lawn! I—oh goodness, I swear, 'twas just a dream of fevered madness I assure you, my true self does not find you capable of such things!
-------
We also decided that we are going to open up a icosahedronal bookshop that is also a space-time portal in an alleyway in 1800s London someday. Hence my new journal title. Melanie bwarghf why do you have to live at the other edge of the time-zone. I want to see you before this winter. D:

Salem in the Rain, or: Where I, On a Whim, Spent My Thursday

2009-05-31T02:47:10Z

hey look at me i can draw things :D

2009-05-25T02:33:10Z

23 january 1928 by =Vexworth on deviant ART

So a wee bit o'backstory for ye wee bairns and that all: I essentially didn't draw anything between last April and early this May due to various life-circumstances foul and undesirable. And therefore, don't care if this is good or not or what, I DREW SOMETHING AND I'M POSTING IT WEEEEEEEEEE

Oh what a beautiful morrrrrning, oh what a beautiful daaaaay

2009-05-17T17:08:26Z

SO I WOKE UP THIS MORNING AND IT WAS ALL NICE BECAUSE IT WAS RAINING AND I THOUGHT TO MYSELF 'YAY, I'VE NOT GOT TO DO ALL THAT STUPID YARDWORK I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO TODAY' SO I WAS LULLED INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY THAT TODAY WOULDN'T BE CRAP SO I TOOK A SHOWER AND THERE IS LIKE A GODDAMNED ANT NEST IN THE SHOWER CEILING THAT APPARENTLY SPONTANEOUSLY GENERATED OVERNIGHT WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT MY HOUSE IS CLEAN I SWEAR I DON'T LIVE IN A FLOPHOUSE BUT FUCKING ANTS ON THE CEILING LIKE TEN OF THEM AND THEY WERE HUGE AND ARGH SO I SURVIVED MY SHOWER AND HAD BREAKFAST AND THAT WAS ALRIGHT BUT THEN I WENT FOR A WALK AND WAS ALL 'YAY PUDDLES I'M GOING TO JUMP IN THEM TODAY IS ALRIGHT AFTER ALL' HOW DO YOU GET MUD IN YOUR FUCKING EYE WHEN YOU'RE JUMPING IN A PUDDLE SO THEN I WALKED BY MY NEIGHBOURS' HOUSE AND SAW THEIR CAT OUTSIDE AND I LOVE THAT CAT HE IS AWESOME HE IS A BIG FLUFFBALL OF JOY SO I WENT OVER AND PICKED HIM UP AND APPARENTLY HE HAD BEEN OUTSIDE LIKE OVERNIGHT OR SOMETHING AND NOT COME IN BECAUSE HE WAS SOAKING FUCKING WET AND IT IS HARD TO TELL WHEN WHITE CATS ARE WET AND I GOT A LARGE WET MUDDY CAT STAIN ON MY SHIRT HOORAY SO I WENT BACK HOME AND CHANGED INTO A DIFFERENT SHIRT AND READ THINGS UNTIL LUNCHTIME BECAUSE YOU CAN'T HURT YOURSELF WHEN YOU'RE READING AND THEN I WENT TO THE KITCHEN TO MAKE LUNCH AND I GOT A SPLINTER THE SIZE OF A FUCKING SEQUOIA TREE IN MY FOOT AND IT TOOK LIKE FIVE MINUTES WITH TWEEZERS TO GET THE FUCKING THING OUT AND I BLED BLOOD SO I WENT TO THE REFRIGERATOR AND GOT A DRINK OUT OF IT IT WAS RASPBERRY GREEN-TEA SODA WHICH IS LOVELY AND I THOUGHT THAT IT WOULD MAKE MY DAY BETTER BUT NOOOOO I COULDN'T GET THE LID OFF IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A TWISTOFF CAP AND YAY I CUT MY HAND OPEN ON IT MORE BLOOD HOORAY SO I GOT A BOTTLE OPENER TO PRY IT OFF AND IT WOULDN'T COME OFF OH WAIT, NOW IT'S OFF, OH LOOK I KNOCKED THE BOTTLE OVER AND NOW THERE IS FIZZY RASPBERRY TEA SPILLING EVERYWHERE FUCK FUCK ARGH SO I CLEANED THAT UP AND THEN I THREW THE STUPID BOTTLE CAP INTO THE SINK AND IT BOUNCED OFF THE SINK EDGE AND HIT MY MUM WHO JUST AT THAT MOMENT DECIDED TO WALK INTO THE KITCHEN OH HI MUM NO I'M NOT THROWING BOTTLE CAPS AT YOU HONESTLY SERIOUSLY WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS DAY AND IT'S ONLY HALF OVER GRAAAAAABGALDGLAGBALDGBLARBLE. OH AND ALSO HELLO FEMALE CRAMPS HOW NICE OF YOU TO JOIN ME TODAY

i'm going to go drink large amounts of tea and hide under a blanket and watch star trek and eat chocolate and whimper and twitch now.

A Musical Musing

2009-05-17T04:02:13Z

I think I've retained more information about history from listening to Al Stewart than I have from anything outwardly educational.

"Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen!"

2009-05-15T21:10:24Z

I think, perhaps, that I may, in my simple, humble quest to make dinner for myself . . . have accidentally crafted the most glorious and marvellous smelling soup in the history of soup-crafting! This is a terrible problem! For it smells so ridiculously, indescribably good the prospect of waiting another hour and fifteen minutes for it to properly cook before I can eat it seems utterly impossible! Aagh! I will likely go mad. And of course, in my infinite culinary wisdom, I did not bother writing the recipe down. Was it a bean or a vegetable or a legume or a spice? Would it go well with the other beans/vegetables/legumes/spices I had previously put in the pot? Then it went in. I did not expect it to be good whatsoever. But OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS G RATED EXPLETIVES, THE SMELL! IT'S AMAZING! *slobbers*

[disclaimer: my soup is not actually green. it has green bits but the overall colour scheme is somewhat brownish.]

Braintrickles

2009-05-07T19:57:14Z

TANGIBLE: Loving loving loving this rain in perpetuity we seem to be getting around here lately. Rain tends to be a rather good omen for me so three days of being able to ramble around with a large beige umbrella with cats all printed on it and my blue wellies and be able to love the sounds made when all I can hear is the world around me has made me much more mellow than I've been. But who knows how long it shall last.

------

INTANGIBLE: Sigh. It's waiting, that's all it is. It is not madness or failure or dysfunction! It is fear! Fear of what? Does it matter? Fear of something strange and nameless and peculiar and nebulous. It is the state of unsettlement that I have felt since last March. It is the daily realisation that there is no point in wasting pleasant emotions upon a time that shan't matter. Is that sad? Sick? Likely. But a year from now this shall all be history. Less than a year, milovelies. To have my future once again be a glorious mess of uncertainty and excitement instead of daily predictability—to not know what a day shall bring—I'll remember the feelings once more. They're just unfamiliar. Addressing such things is the first step, I suppose.

------

MADE OF PENCIL-MARKS AND/OR YARN: I'M GOING TO GO DRAW THINGS NOW. And then finish the Sock. The Sock gets capitalised because the Sock is transcendental and majestic. Glorious and ageless. It radiates inner light rivalling the most brilliant of stars and suns. Truly it is a pink striped deity among knitwear.

I am proud of that sock. Although I suppose when it is done I will have to knit another one. And I might not love it as much because it will not be my first. And then I will feel guilty for not loving it as much. And of course it cannot be the Sock. There can be only one Sock. This might be a problem.

Boredom and Free Juice

2009-05-06T17:19:12Z

Anypoop. I honestly honestly don't know why I'm updating this other than for some odd reason I feel like I'll end up facing some serious and horrid ELIZARAAAAAAGE if I wait six months 'twixt updates again. I've just rather gotten away from blogging and that lately because honestly my life isn't interesting at the moment and is not poised to be interesting until late June at the earliest (Off To Merrie Ole' London) and late August at the latest (Off To Merrie Olde New York and Collegings And A Proper Existence, Hopefully, Away From Various People I'm Not Fond Of) so I'm living in a state that I cannot easily extricate myself from until August, and that also has coupled with it a sad dearth of intriguing writing topics.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOWWWWWW. T____T

P.S. Free juice! You get it if you pass out while getting your blood drawn! :D ALL THE COOL KIDS ARE DOIN' IT.

P.P.S. Oh, and? How awesome is Maine, you guys? How fucking amazing is Maine? www.bangordailynews.com/detail/105356.html

SO.

2009-05-05T01:23:02Z

I'M POSTING. ZABBITABLAUGH.

There is absolutely no way that everything that has happened between last August and now can be made into one livejournal entry without reaching novel-length proportions. So I shan't speak of that all! But what I shall do is . . . hmm. Well, I can try. Actually—no. I'll just rant on, and if I touch on relevant information, then more power to me. I am entirely out of practise at writing relevant journal entries. Apologies.

School is over tomorrow. HUZZAH. I have not enjoyed this year of university. I wasn't particularly supposed to be lingering in Maine any longer . . . but welf. Stuff and that. FInancial and social and . . . mostly financial. I have a sleazebag uncle. He does things with college funds that he should not do. Or even be allowed to do legally. BUT. I AM STILL GOING TO NEW YORK NEXT YEAR SO THAT'S ALL GRAND. Monetary arghings have been rectified, my deferral was accepted, I don't have to reapply, and I get credits for the few classes I took this year at UMaine anyway so that's all well and good. I can get out of first year English, German, and psychology YAAAAY :D. So it's just sort of like I've got a missing year wedged in there somewhere.
But my uncle is still a sleazebag, regardless. And smells of cologne and yachts. I hope a piano falls on him.

I'M GOING TO THE UK IN JULY/MAYBE LATE JUNE. :D That'll also be nifty. I'm seeing some cousintypes I've not seen in a while, and another cousintype I've not seen EVER because he's two. He's named Marco. And speaks Portugese and English already because he's smarter than I am. And he has a marvellous green scarf that I made him, and apparently that he wore all through the winter. And I'm then roaming around England and Scotland and possibly Wales if I've time until I get either lost/tired/broke/eaten. Then I am going home. (and yes, I will mind the gap.)

Since this entry was PROMPTED BY A NUDGE OF DOOM, I am apparently obligated to speak of the nudger, and also to purge my journal of its jailbaity qualities, as said nudger pointed out.
Words Of The Nudger: Eliza, among other awesome qualities, has crocheted a jellyfish. And a muffin family. That makes her better than you. Do not question that statement. It are fact.
I Am Legal Now: Sex and rawr and, um, knickers. Yeah.

KNICKERSSSSSSSS

--Lily

vexworth @ 2008-08-14T22:39:00

2008-08-15T02:39:46Z

HA HA WOW I HAVE A LIVEJOURNAL XD

Things

2008-04-23T12:23:41Z

Things I Like About My New Macbook:
--The fact that when I put a CD in the drive the computer sucks it up in a fashion that makes it appear as if it is eating the disc and since I am an easily amused little idiot it makes me giggle
--That I do not have to install any troublesome network cards in order to access the internet
--Photobooth: and the camwhoring which will undoubtably result due to it
--I have this theory that Apple has installed this little bit of software on all their ipods that makes it so if the ipod is formatted for Windows it won't be as efficient, and if the ipod is formatted for Mac then the software shuts off and the ipod can work properly. A devious sort of idea on their part if my theory is proven to be true.
--The fact that I can plug my camcorder into it and get video off it instantly as opposed to a long and tiresome conversion process

Things I Do Not Like:
--For some reason I cannot get it to display the weather in any city but Atlanta
--That I've finally had to concede to using Word instead of Wordperfect
--NO SOLITAIRE! *wail*

I am aware that this livejournal has been left alone so long that I doubt very much that anyone shall ever read it again, but thoughts can still be recorded sporadically for a nonexistent audience, no?

Uggh.

2008-02-03T20:33:54Z

Me = sick. And quite extremely. I go doctoring on the 'morrow.

However, in the odd way the world has of balancing out ghastliness with glee, I have recently discovered this absolutely smashing hibiscus-passionfruit-cardamom tea, which is PURPLE and which I am currently drinking. Tallyho.

vexworth @ 2008-01-30T17:20:00

2008-01-30T22:21:12Z

HI
I EXIST.

Just in case y'alls thought I was dead or otherwise inconvenienced or eaten or something.

I HAVE BEEN A QUITE BAD INTERNET-WRITING-TYPE.
Why?
Because I've been, instead, a . . . non-internet-writing type.

It's 12 pages in Wordperfect so far, and I kinda like it.

spleh

2008-01-14T14:46:50Z

So no, the concept of choosing a concentration for AP art does not thrill me.
And it's a bit annoying to hear everyone in the class be all "OH, YES! CONCENTRATIONS. JOY. I AM DOING A SERIES OF TWELVE POLITICALLY SATIRICAL THINGS DONE IN PASTEL." or "I AM FILLED WITH GLEE AT THE PROSPECT OF CONCENTRATIONS. I AM DOING FAMILY LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE AND PAINTING MY FAAAAAAAAAMILY MEEEEEEEMBERS. INSPIRATION TECHNIQUE EMOTIONS [OH MY GOD IT JUST STARTED SNOWING HERE YAY] THE ART COMES FROM THE DEPTHS OF ME SOUUUUUUL" when honestly I just want to art-make and not have to think about if what I'm doing can somehow fit into a greater somethingorother.

But I was arting about last night and drawing a pretty little picture thing and erhhm . . . methinkeths my concentration's going to be, like, literary . . . scenes . . . or characters . . . or somefin'.

I do not know. I am incoherent. I need food.

[I have realised my singing voice isn't actually that ghastly.]

pages and presages OH MY GOD IT'S UPDATED: as of Feb 11

2008-01-08T19:08:17Z

    A few years back, somewhere around Norwich, there lay a small town known as Rosewine. And Rosewine, like all English towns, had its share of magic, as well as its share of people who practised it. However, being rather isolated by various inhospitable landmarks such as abyssal forests, impenetrably soupy clouds, and the aptly named Eat-Foot Bog, their lives were quite dull, and thus they were wont to take the most minor of events and overblow them into a life-altering affair. And even worse, their attitudes toward magic were much the same, and all one had to do to gain respect in Rosewine as a Master of the Moste Fine and Ancient Arte was sail cushions about a drawing-room or set an idly drifting leaf aflame, and then there they were, revered in the streets, insulted in the alleyways, funded by nobility, and generally though of as proof that Rosewine, for all its faults - and there were many - was still someplace to be proud of.
    Alastair Birchwell had done those sorts of things on a whim one cold Christmas night, after skimming a few books of ancient sorcery on the forgotten bookshelves of Lord Henry Beetseed. And, since Rosewine had never before encountered someone who could so much as kill a fly without touching it, the townsfolk quickly elevated him to the highest status they could think of. So our dear Mr Birchwell, despite being at his core good for absolutely nothing except waving his arms in rather mystical circles, being rotund, and impressing frail-willed ladies with his colossal golden moustaches, did everything, despite doing nothing at all. He mumbled words, he laid hands, he so convinced people that their problems had vanished that more often than not the people forgot that their problems had even existed in the first place. They couldn’t have any problems! Not anymore, not after the great Magician Birchwell had personally made sure of it!
   Mr Birchwell lived in a spacious brick house with an overabundance of windows and red pillows, as well as neglected gardens which would eventually threaten to eat his cast-iron fence. He had a sprawling library which he did not permit any visitors to enter, lest they discover that he did not possess one of the largest collections of magical literature in Britain, but in fact possessed poorly written stories (much like what you’re currently reading) and diagrams of beetles and plant-bits and anything else that was reasonably thick and had pages. He’d taken on two apprentices, both quite intelligent and inquisitive boys who, poor souls, still believed they’d be taught the art by someone competent. Their names were Eben Martingale and Daniel Aravesta, and they were currently squeezed uncomfortably in the back of a carriage, three minutes to midnight in a driving rain, accompanying their mentor on a last-hope trip to Bristol. There, they prayed, there’d be someone who could make even the smallest bit of sense of the horrific and wholly inexplicable events which had recently befallen Rosewine, and showed absolutely no sign of ever relenting.

❦

   Eben chanced a glimpse out the carriage’s side window, and unable to see anything definite through the wind and the water, he shrank gloomily back into his seat, and pulled his knees up to his chest. He hadn’t the slightest idea of where he was, nor what time it was, and he was still slightly bitter towards Mr Birchwell as his watch had broken a few days before, and Eben had asked Mr Birchwell if he could possibly tell him a simple charm to fix it, but Birchwell refused, saying that magic, if it was ever to actually be employed at all, shouldn’t be used for such frivolous things as fixing slipped gears in cheaply-made pocketwatches. Mr Birchwell was currently very much asleep on the seat across from him, as was Daniel on the seat next, his head lolling and his mouth drooling onto Eben’s shoulder, and Eben felt quite morose . . . and miserably alert.
   The carriage then gave a horrid jolt. Eben was thrown onto the floor and cried out, Daniel snapped awake with a “What the devil was that?!”, and Mr Birchwell slowly clicked and whirred into life with much annoyed clearing of the throat and muttering.
   “Stupid . . . bloody . . . did we hit something, m’lad? Why’ve we stopped?”
   “Haven’t the vaguest . . . Eben, look out the window, would you?”
   “You look out the window! It’s all dark, Daniel! There’s nothing out there!”
   “Well, there has to be something out there.” said Birchwell, with a particularly disdainful look at his apprentices. “Now if you’ll just stay put and stop this panic and nonsense, I’m going to have a little word with the driver.”
   And with that, he stood, closed the carriage door behind him, and was gone into the night. Nothing could be heard except the constant crackle of the rain on the fallen leaves.
   Eben gave a terrible and involuntary shiver. Daniel looked over. “Eben, whatever’s bothering you?”
   At first his answer was a small and unintelligible string of short, panicked gasps. Daniel rose from his seat and knelt down on the floor in front of him, placing one hand on his still-damp shoulder and the other rather awkwardly upon his knee. “Are you all right? Mr Birchwell’s going to be right back, you know, and then I’m sure we’ll be on our way . . . Bristol can’t be too far off, hm?” An entirely unconvincing smile flickered across his face.
   Eben stopped twitching and laughed, a completely unearthly and shrill sound, abruptly cut off by a choking sob. “Bristol! Oh Daniel, can’t you tell?! This is nowhere near . . . Bristol. . . .”
   The carriage once again jerked, and Eben toppled headlong into Daniel’s ribs, from where he did not rise, but instead lay shaking and weeping in a highly undignified manner, until the faint sounds of voices cut through the gradually receding rainfall.
   “ – DARE you, sir?! Have you ANY idea who we ARE? You can’t just - this is absurd! Completely and utterly absurd, and I won’t stand for it, you’re going to get right back up there and you are going to take us where we have asked!”
   “Mr Birchwell, I have taken you as far as it is prudent. It is no use babbling on,” said another voice, this one sharp as a razor’s edge, “and you may do what you like, you may refuse to pay me, you may shout until your lungs drop out, but I, unlike you, place value on my security and sanity. Be glad that I have taken you this far, take those two boys with you and be gone, as in the next minute I will be gone as well, and if you wish to have your belongings with you I’d suggest getting them! I never promised to risk my life simply to ferry your lot about the countryside, and I certainly shan’t now! If you expect me to traverse the woods of Duskfall and go through Broken-Head Town at all, let alone by night, you are sorely mistaken!”
   Birchwell’s face swelled and turned the colour of an overcooked cherry-pie. “The AUDACITY! I’ll have you for this, and don’t you forget it, you can’t oh hello Eben!”
   For the boys had come out of the carriage to see what on earth all the carrying-on was about.
   “Eben, Daniel, would you go back in and get your trunks, please?” Birchwell said through a grimace of clenched teeth.
     “Sir?” said Daniel tentatively. “But sir, surely we can’t be there yet!”
   “JUST GO!”
   And the boys disappeared and reappeared, dragging behind them trunks and coats and various magical paraphernalia the uses of which hadn’t been disclosed to them. By now the rain had stopped, and looking about they saw nothing but moonlight-obscuring clouds and spider-moss and the silhouettes of dreadful spindly trees which didn’t so much grow out of the ground as crawl out, and reach upward and sideways and in circles and in ways that mercilessly mocked gravity and every other good and decent law of nature.
   No sooner had Daniel given Mr Birchwell his travelling-bag than the driver jumped back up into the carriage, and with a crack of the whip and some incoherent mumblings about lunatics and madmen, he was gone into the night.
   A small path led in the opposite direction whence they had came, and as it was the only part of the wood that didn’t look as if it wanted to swallow them whole, the three started down it.

❦

   “Daniel, we’re lost, aren’t we?”
   “Shhhhh!”
   “Oh, I want to go back, I want to go back, we shouldn’t be here!”
   “Back?! Back to where? Eben, don’t worry so, if this path led to nothing it wouldn’t’ve been –”
   There was a scream and a wet thud.
   “Daniel?!” cried Eben in a panic, looking about and behind him in a frenzy, and he tried to call his friend’s name again, but his voice failed him, and he could see nothing in the darkness which seemed to be growing ever more terrible with each passing minute and he could’ve sworn that the trees were closer to him then they’d been earlier and —
   “Oh DAMN it all!”
   “Daniel!”
   “Damn this forest and damn this mud, I’m stuck!”
   With a sigh of relief and a slight but passing weakness about the knees, Eben grabbed Daniel around the wrists and pulled, and after a brief struggle and the loss of a shoe to the quagmire he was free. Daniel sat upon a damp pile of leaves and tried in vain to remove the filth from his once-pristine pant-legs. “Oh may this whole place burn! I say, I’ve had just about enough of - hello! Eben, am I just terribly unobservant, or was that not there a minute ago?”
   And about in the centre of the path, in a location that would make it most impossible for anything other than an astonishingly slender person to pass by either side of it, was a lopsided board on a thin pole, the whole thing riddled with conspicuous decay. If the sign had ever once been printed with any sort of helpful words time had obviously destroyed them, as all that could be made out through the wear of countless rains and winds and a thick growth of ivy were a series of meaningless scratches. Even now the vines seemed through the haze of mist to be slowly crawling and scrabbling across the sign’s face like a clump of interwoven insect-legs. Eben briefly fancied that they were moving, and for a moment he swore he could almost see letters in their knots and tangles . . . B, R, O, was that a K — ? “Broken-Head Town. Two hundred eighty three feet, seven inches. This way.”
   For a moment neither of them spoke, because what on earth does one say when confronted with something so bizarre? But in front of them there was no longer any doubt, the tendrils had stopped moving, frozen in the unmistakable shapes of directions and arrows and some had even formed a small ornate border around the whole thing, with the ends of the vines tapering off into perfect spirals at the corners. Daniel, shivering a bit, slowly reached out a finger and prodded it.
   STOP THAT.
   And with a strangled gasp Daniel fell backwards, colliding painfully with Eben’s ankles.
   I’M ONLY TRYING TO HELP. YOU COULD BE A BIT NICER, YOU KNOW.
   “I - I - I’m sorry!”
   DON’T BOTHER WITH THAT. KEEP GOING.
   “Has Mr Birchwell been by here? I believe he went on ahead,” said Eben hurriedly, “he’s rather large and blondish a-and was probably talking to himself, and he was with us y-you see and we’d very much like to find him. . . .”
   The ivy gave a tense ripple, almost as if whatever it would say next would cause it a great deal of pain.
   DO NOT WORRY. HE IS SAFE.
   BUT YOU WILL NOT FIND HIM.
   There was a long and terrible pause.
   HE SHOULDN’T HAVE GONE OUT AT NIGHT.
   “OhDanielIdon’tlikethisIdon’tlikethisIdon’tlikethis. . . .”
   “Will you let go?!”
   NOW GO ON. THE TOWN’S JUST UP AHEAD.
   YOU TWO WILL BE PERFECTLY SAFE ONCE YOU REACH IT.
   YOU ARE NOT LIKE HIM.
   KEEP GOING.
   HE’LL SHOW UP BY LIGHT-TIME.
   AS IT’S ALL HE’S GOOD FOR.
   And with that the vines let go of the plank, crumpling into a formless mass of pale-green fibres and black water, which gurgled and flowed uphill with an unpleasant hissing, causing each leaf it touched to briefly burst into flame. The sign stood afterwards for the merest instant, gaping and vacant, and then collapsed into countless specks of dust which gave off a smell rather horribly like mildew and burning meat before disappearing completely, leaving the path as empty as it had ever been, save for one small patch of clover, whose smouldering embers slowly winked out, one by one, until all was once again dark.It is said that even in the bleakest and most hopeless of nights, there is always some light to be found, whether from the glow of the moon or the shine of the stars, from a faltering streetlamp or from warm yet distant fireplaces, softly seen through dusty window-glass, but that is a lie.

❦

   Two hundred eighty-three feet, seven inches away, Augustine Colophon was spread listlessly over a red velvet chair, his arm dangling to the wooden floor below, where he was absentmindedly tracing figure-eights in the dust with a lacquered fingernail. His bookshop was deathly quiet, save for the occasional sticky-sounding cough coming from a poorly illuminated corner, currently occupied by a man in a deep green overcoat and a tan homburg, who seemed determined to make The Insectes of Englande and their Applications in Potione-Making last all night.
   This had been the only person, barring Colophon, in the bookshop for the past two hours - all the other customers having cleared off long ago to go become mentally unhinged in whatever pit of absinthe and debauchery held the most appeal to aspiring magicians nowadays - and Colophon was getting wholly sick of looking at him. He smelt of opium and disreputability, and seemed to have absolutely no interest in purchasing - or, the bookkeeper thought irritably, reshelving - any of the books he’d pawed through, his only goal seemed to be to stay until one minute past midnight, when, Colophon knew thankfully, he’d finally be able to throw this man out. It was a ridiculous law, he’d often thought; it was mandated that all shops selling goods or services of a magical bent remain open until then, so that those under certain unpleasant maledictions (for example, the Asterfield Curse) would have, in the brief bit of time during which they could enter buildings freely, places in which they could research how on earth they might release themselves. However, in reality, this law seemed much less likely to aid curse-victims and more likely to ensure that bookshop owners never got a decent night’s sleep when they wanted it.
   The man in the homburg got up abruptly, gave an unsettlingly loud choke, and disgorged a large quantity of bloodstained feathers onto the floor about his feet. He turned to Colophon, and tipping his hat, said cheerily, “The bastard. That foul, disgusting, pompous old fogey. I’ll get ‘im for this, I will.” Still smiling in a quite unnatural manner, he gently set the insect-book down on the seat he’d just vacated. “Book’s bloody useless, y’know. Oh well, though, eh? What can y’do?” With a small hiccup that brought forth a substance very much resembling brain matter (which he wiped off nonchalantly on his trouser-leg), he turned on his heel and was off, through the green-painted door into the bleak cobbled street, singing Blow the Man Down in an eerie falsetto as he winked out of sight.
   Colophon slipped out of his chair and onto the floor in a heap with absolutely no realisation that he was doing so, and remained there until the familiar melody of the Westminster Quarters from the far-off clocktower brought him out of his daze with a start. “M . . . midnight! Midnight and a minute! Oh thank goodness for that!”

❦

   “Hexes . . . good lord, hexes nowadays,” Colophon muttered irritably to nothing in particular, armed with dustpan in one hand and bristle-bare brush in the other. Sinking resignedly to his knees, he began to scrape quite ineffectually at the pile of feathers - which, much to his chagrin, he discovered, not only were entirely refusing to move, but also seemed to be slowly seeping their way into the floorboards.
   “Blast it! Blast, damn, and – ” he briefly searched his brain for a suitable third interjection, but upon finding none – “Aaaaagh!” And with that, he threw the brush to the floor, making a conspicuous dent in it as he did so, and tangled his many-ringed fingers through his long red hair in exasperation.
   “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! None of this until tomorrow! Wait - no - today! It’s today now, isn’t it!? Ohhh, I’m going to sleep, that’s what! I’ll have none of this!”
   Abandoning the feather-pile to its own devices (which seemed to, by this point, involve gradual melting), he placed the brush and pan underneath a rarely-used chair in hopes that by morning their location would escape him. Leaving his square-heeled black boots by the now bolted door, he ascended the spiral staircase behind the Ungodly And Untranslated Languages section (as above his shop was a flat in which he lived), cast off his vest and spats halfway up, and upon reaching his bedroom threw the whole lot of his clothes, his coat and ill-fitting pinstripe pants, into a pile beside his dresser, without bothering to fold them at all, or even to simply place them nicely upon his nightstand as was his custom. Wrapping an overlong dressing-gown (in a most regrettable plaid) around his slender frame, he warmed himself up some tea made from the unidentifiable contents of a small drawstring-pouch beneath his pillow.
   Augustine Colophon held the rose-patterned cup in his hands, folded his legs underneath him as he situated himself upon his bed, and drowsily watched the steam swirl about the ends of his hair as he slowly sipped, and entertained a brief and happy notion of all tomorrow’s customers being upstanding ladies and gentlemen with ravenous literary appetites and absolutely no predilection for expelling anything strange out of any of their orifices. He gazed out his window, focussing on nothing in particular, as his vision began to go dim near the edges . . . darkness rather became this place, he thought detachedly, regardless of all the madness the night-time brought along with it . . . the fire of the gaslights and the haze of the clouds reflected against each other in an effect that really was altogether beautiful. Pity no one in their right mind would dare to see it but through their windowpanes.
   Colophon, his thoughts gradually dissolving, was suddenly struck with a vague sensation that something was entirely wrong with the scene outside. Something was not at all as it should be . . . shakily, he got to his feet, and readorning his nose with his spectacles squinted down at the street below. But the sky was right . . . the buildings were right . . . everything that should have had a shadow had one . . . even the two b —
   With a jolt of realisation he threw himself back from the breath-fogged window, lurched over to a medicine-cabinet built into his wall, and took a whiff of whatever was contained within a small purple bottle on the uppermost shelf. Then - fully awake now, and coughing a bit from the stench - he rushed back to his door, back down the spiral-staircase, back through the labyrinthine shelving, slipped upon a customer’s forgotten handkerchief, and went sprawling headlong into a box of toad care guidebooks.

❦

   If, as both Eben and Daniel dreaded but would not think to admit to each other, the sign had either been a shared hallucination or was lying, wandering aimlessly through a dark and likely carnivorous forest was a terrifying prospect. Equally terrifying, however, was the thought that the sign might’ve been entirely accurate.
   Which it was.
   The two boys were now tiptoing uneasily through the ill-lit streets of this town they’d so suddenly found themselves in, clutching at each other’s arms and shoulders without any thoughts given to dignity or masculine valour, casting long and undernourished-looking shadows onto cobblestones and storefronts.
   Suddenly, Eben gasped, the first sound either had dared to make. “G . . . good God!” said he in a panicked whisper, as one seized by dawning and terrible realisation, “I . . . I think this place is deserted! I don’t believe anyone actually lives here! It’s all closed! There’s nobody! Haven’t you noticed?! Nobody anywhere, not on the street-corners, not up in their bedrooms with stray candlelight, there aren’t any footprints or – oh Daniel,” he wailed, his voice fast elevating both in pitch and frenzy, “we’ve been trapped here and shall never get out! It’s just like what Sylvanus Lazenby did! What – ”
   His reverie of terror was abruptly cut off by Daniel’s hand clamping firmly across his mouth and pinning him painfully against the wall of a cobweb-windowed tailor’s shop. “Eben, QUIET! Do you want to wake everyone up? Do you? Do you want to bring the whole town out? Think!” he whispered, although doing a rather poor job of hiding his own fear, “Would the lamps be on if nobody lived here?”
   Eben said nothing, as it is very hard to speak through a mouthful of palm.
   Daniel removed his hand.
   “—Oh but even if you are right whatever shall we do?! We are here, yes, but– ” he shuddered violently “– oh thank heaven we’ve left that dreadful forest but simply because we are now amidst evidence of civilisation does not mean that . . . it . . . oh goodness we’re going to have to wait until morning and what if there are people here after all and what if they find us and what if we fall asleep because awful things happen when people fall asleep in strange places they wait until you fall asleep and then . . .” his voice had been slowly collapsing into a hoarse whisper, and as the quavering streetlight above him spluttered and died, it failed him entirely.
   “A hotel . . .” cracked Daniel’s voice, “There . . . there must be a lodging-house of some kind . . . it’d only make sense . . . right? Let’s — ”
   “WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE?!”
   And Daniel, who still maintained his vocal faculties, screamed.
   “Quiet! Oh please be quiet, you’re obviously in enough trouble without stirring up the night!” hissed the source of the voice, tightly grabbing the two boys by the shoulders and pushing them underneath the next streetlamp over. “How did you get here?! How long have you been here?! Who sent you?! One does not just wander about our streets in the blackness unless they’ve either a damned good reason or a deathwish! Speak!”
   Although the voice was completely terrifying, underneath the dismal glow one could now see that it was coming from something entirely human in all aspect, and aside from the pattern of his dressing-gown, entirely unterrifying in external appearance. He was a fairly young man, medium of height and skin-tone, and would have had a rather pleasant face were it not for the freely-bleeding cut above his left eye and his current look of wild-eyed consternation.
   “Or can you not? You did not seem to have a problem doing so earlier!” – and on the last word he dug his unusually long fingernails deeper into their shoulders –
   “ –Please! Oh please, we, we, there was, I – ”
   “Calm down, calm down, and for the love of God whisper! Just . . . just take a deep breath . . .”
   Daniel did so,
   “Sir, you . . . you’ve got to help us,”
   “I have every intention of doing so, you foolish boy!”
   “We shouldn’t be here,”
   “Are you only able to state the bleeding obvious?!”
   “Our driver abandoned us and we’d been lost in this horrible forest for hours and we were travelling with our teacher and, and, and he’s gone and we were trying to get to Bristol but now we don’t know where we are and,” Daniel paused to inhale, as all that had been said in one frantic gasp, and much to his surprise Eben began to speak, in a rather forced calm, before he could resume.
   “We simply wish to know of a place in which we may spend the night, sir. We’ve been . . . regrettably detained. Our affairs are our own, and they are a bit strange, and we wish to involve as few people in them as is possible. We . . . we were told that we would be safe if we could only arrive here . . .”
   Daniel gawped at Eben in utter disbelief.
   The man: “By who?”
   “There was . . . a signpost, and it said – ”
   The dismay which had been gradually receding from the dressing-gowned man’s face shot back with a fervour. “A signpost? What sort of signpost? Where were oh you haven’t,” he said in terror, releasing the boys’ shoulders as if they were aflame and taking a panicked stumble backwards, “You haven’t taken the Royal Road, have you?!”
   “I . . . I’m not sure, what is it?”
   And the tension that had seized the man’s body released itself, but the look of suspicion remained, and he spoke in an entirely frigid voice, “There are things in this world - however few - that one is honestly better off not knowing about if they can help it! However . . . I believe you would have been aware, had you arrived by it. It . . . well that’s entirely enough! If this conversation must be prolonged, it certainly should not be so outdoors at this ungodly hour!”
   Then he made to leave, but the boys had the presence of mind to realise that he had not helped them in the slightest, and ran ahead and prevented him from doing so. “Then at least tell us if there is a place that we may spend the night!” Daniel cried out.
   The man gave an entirely terrible grin. “Broken-Head does have what you might refer to as a hotel . . .” after this he gave a soft laugh, “but if the two of you decided to stay there I very much doubt you’d wake up the next morning. I . . .” and there was a sigh and a scowl, “I suppose . . .”
“Oh, I haven’t a choice, do I?” he said irritably, “I do not desire your death upon my hands! Follow me!” And he did not give them much say in the matter, grabbing onto Eben by the wrist and Daniel by the bit of fabric between his collar and left shoulder, and carting them along behind as he disappeared into the yawning blackness that was the mouth of a well-groomed alleyway, paved with jagged-edged bricks and designated by an upside-down, silver-edged sign as Asylum Street.
    The man stopped abruptly in front of a door that in the dimness was just perceptible as green-painted (however, the sign above was entirely obscured), and removing an outsize silver key from a pocket that appeared much to small to have ever held it, he bade the boys remain silent, knelt down, and inserted the key in a small lock near the bottommost hinge.
    There was a jarring shriek of metal against metal, a faint and not entirely pleasant hum (was there, though? For it lasted for but the merest instant), and a sound as if an eternity of ratchets and cogwheels simultaneously screamed out and died.
    Then all was still.
    With a last passing glance over his shoulder, the man shoved them inside.
    “Now,” said he, turning back towards the door and, as it seemed by the sounds made, dragging and dropping three large and heavy bolts across it, “as I fear it is inevitable that I will be eventually hopelessly inundated with questions from the both of you . . .” he withdrew an arm-length match from the pocket which again seemed entirely too small to hold its contents, and began to light lopsided balls of wall-mounted wax that might’ve been candle-shaped at some indefinite point in the far-distant past, “you might as well start now, while I am still resigned to the fact. However, first . . . well, if I may be quite honest, you do not seem at all like those who visit voluntarily. How strange!” and he paused in his candle-lighting and rested a thumb on his chin, “But you must have willed yourselves here, there can be no other explanation! And to have survived! The two of you didn’t even attract Street-Walkers! You obviously possess quite powerful magic of your own, but if so, why then,” the match between his fingers burned to ash and went out, “are you in our . . . peaceful little hamlet . . . at all? For surely,” he said sardonically, “you could not possibly find use in anything we could offer you!”
    And although only half the candles had been lit, the glow they produced was enough, and for the first time that night, Eben and Daniel had a vague idea of their surroundings.
    The walls were of a dark and variegated wood, the floor underneath their feet was scuffed and over-polished by the soles of infinite boots over infinite years, the air smelt vaguely of warm spices the sort one might find enhancing exotic and unpronounceable food, but the most noticable aspect of this building in which they were was the overwhelming presence of books.
    There were bookshelves built into the wall, other bookshelves which seemed almost to have grown downward from the ceiling, ornate tables piled haphazardly with illustrated encyclopaedias still open to whatever their previous reader had found intriguing, teetering ziggurats of leaflets standing sentinel on either side of a large desk situated in front of a Persian carpet, signs and plaques in every lettering style imaginable screwed down or nailed down or hung up with fanciful ribbons, bearing phrases such as “Conflicting Historical Accounts”, “Biography (Non-Human, A-K)”, “Poisons and Potions. Antidote guidebooks found three rows down, please stop asking” (this last bit was hastily scrawled on a bit of paper nailed underneath), and one that forebodingly read “CURSED. The customer agrees not to hold Mister Augustine Ashriel Colophon, proprietor, responsible for any damages to the body and/or mind that may occur during the perusal of this particular shelf’s contents.”

GAAH

2008-01-07T23:53:54Z

So my dad went skiing at Hermon Mountain this weekend.
And he forgot his gloves there so after school we stopped over and got them out of the lost and found.
And while he was there looking for them I realised I was thirsty so I decided to go get a cup of green tea at their snack bar.
They gave me one.

AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT WAS WRONG WITH IT

BUT IT TASTED LIKE LOBSTER

vexworth @ 2008-01-03T15:53:00

2008-01-03T21:02:39Z

FUCK.

I don't even know what to say right now.

But I believe I mentioned before my little mini-saga involving an english paper I wrote last year.

Anyway. I got it back, after my teacher finally sent me an email in which she expressed her confusion at the entire situation and apparent forgetfulness of the deadline I mentioned.

I would like to state that a) she knew it was for college applications and b) that I got an A- on the paper last year.

I'm not going to write here what she did to it, suffice to say that there's no way I can submit it out to any sort of educational institution in the state she's put it in.

What a disgusting fucking piece of shit that woman is.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M GOING TO DO.

My applications are already incomplete due to her lateness, and now . . .

I don't know.

But I'm no longer sure that I'll be able to go to college next year, anymore.

EDIT: I believe that I've found another bit of writing that'll suffice (AND IS ALSO GRADED, AND QUITE WELL.)
I still feel I've the right to bitch and moan, however.