[identity profile] atrarosa.livejournal.com
The time we have been waiting for. After sunset.

I put on a purple dress, to help me be brave. I grew out of my favourite one - I grow out of everything so fast - but Mama got me a new one. It's meant to be for going to parties, but I won't be going to any more of them. But I don't want to think about that right now. It makes my stomach hurt.

Mama made me go to bed not too long ago. She says that even though I'm a big girl now, I still need lots of sleep. I always argue with Mama about bed time, so I made sure to argue this time too, so she wouldn't think anything was strange. And I made my mind quieten down when I was lying in bed, so she'd think I was falling asleep. Mama's clever. But I know lots of tricks now. I can hide my thoughts, if I want. So I got up, and I got dressed, and I snuck out. Father told me I would know how to, when I needed to, and he was right.

So I go out of the house, and I go towards the tower. I have to walk through the field to get there, and the grass is so high. It looks creepy in the dark. But I know nothing will happen to me, because Father is watching. He wouldn't let anything happen, not before I do what he wants me to do. But I'm still scared, all the same.

[Open to Iblis]
[closed]
[identity profile] atrarosa.livejournal.com
Early July

It's such a bright warm day. I swing myself on the swing in the park. I'm big enough to do that now, I don't need Mama or Kent to push. And sometimes I like to be by myself these days. I've got a lot of things to think about. Sometimes I feel so sad and scared, but I push it down so Mama can't tell. I'm good at hiding things. Father showed me how.

I climb off the swing and dust down my dress. I should get home. Mama will be home from work soon.

[Open to Wanda]
[identity profile] hermia-sophia.livejournal.com
Friday, June 1
Day 1461
The garden behind the Whitechapel


I think that today I will stay in the garden. The sun is shining, and I can sit on the chaise longue with my shoes off and my feet up, and I have all of the books that I need with me - and the notebook for my project with Alice, too. I shall have to speak with her about that when she returns from work.

Luc doesn't seem to mind staying at home as long as he can still run about. He has decided that he must pick one of every kind of plant and flower to bring to me, and he has lined them all up in a neat row along the edge of my chair. Why? I have already learned not to ask, even though Luc would happily tell me at great length, just as he tells me long chattering stories about every one of the flowers. My son's logic obeys its own rules, and they are rules that even we who are closest to him cannot understand.

Reason or no, logic or no, it still makes me smile to see his small face screwed up in serious thought - so like his father's expression in the same mood! - as he sorts out his plants.

A sharp kick breaks my reverie, and I press my hand down, rubbing at the spot where the kick landed. Not much longer, I think, as I shift on the chair to try to find a more comfortable position. The huge swell of my belly has dropped lower in the last few days, and something feels different. No, not much longer at all. Soon there will be another little one playing in our garden.

[Open to anyone who wants to play in the garden]
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Sunday, 21 September
The Dormouse

Now our luck may have died and out love may
Be cold but with you forever I'll stay
We're goin' out where the sand's turnin' to gold
So put on your stockings cos the night's getting' cold
And maybe everything dies
That's a fact but maybe everything that dies
Some day comes back

Something curious happened. Not the disruption to the world from the breach into Dream; that, while unusual, is hardly an unknown event, and the resulting chaos was mundane. No, I mean something more interesting, and pertaining to my daughter. Wanda's hapless dream of Kent - her abiding devotion to a phantom would be touching if I did not find it pitiable - meant a little aspect of myself turned from conjured flesh into real man, like Eve born from Adam's bone. But my daughter unstitched him from the fabric of dream... And gave him a soul. Not much of one, true, but he is no longer a mere flesh doll that walks and talks. There is some spark inside him that means he is nothing of me any more. How very curious.

It is easy enough for me to shrug on a new version of him, of course. The idea of Wanda having to deal with the two of us at once is vaguely amusing to me. And I want to see my daughter. So I cross through the town and knock gently on her door.

[Open to Wanda's household]
[identity profile] kent-whitman.livejournal.com
Meanwhile... back in Excolo
The Dormouse


I am not sure how much time has passed... granted; I am not sure how time is passing. A year might have passed outside this house in the past hour, but I am not tempted to venture past these doors to see for myself. It is much safer in here, it must be.

Wanda has been gone for so very long, so it seems. Long enough for me to start pacing the bedroom and staring out the windows; long enough for Rose to become agitated and whiny. She's been alternating between demanding to be held or to be set down because she's beyond comforting. She needs to nap; but she won't. I need to eat; but I can't.

"Right little Miss, let's read some poetry, shall we?" I sigh, sitting us down on the bed with a book of poems from Wanda's collection. Started with a few I could recite from memory. The Raven, Sonnet 29, I carry your heart with me... I am not sure if she understands what I am saying, but I think Rose does like the sound of my voice. After some Neruda, I find a lovely little poem more suited to little girls and quite apropos given where we--- she lives.

There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And all the day long he'd a wonderful view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

A Doctor came hurrying round, and he said:
"Tut-tut, I am sorry to find you in bed.
Just say 'Ninety-nine' while I look at your chest-----


My recitation is cut short by the howl from outside. I all but drop the book and race to the window. The screaming is coming from the direction of the Abbey, and sounds so very far away, but its still raises the hairs on the back of my neck. That is Wanda screaming, I know it is. Down to the marrow in my bones, that bellow of utter rage and despair is hers. "Oh my god, what is happening there? Rose...?"

I turn to look at the little girl whom I left sitting on the bed. Wanda said they could hear each other, I pray she was not lying. "Is your Mama alright?" Rose looks off at a point past my head, outside the window...
and suddenly she wails, tears springing to her little green eyes.

'Ooooooooooh-en!!! 'Ooooooooooo-en! No! 'Tay! Ooooooooo-en!!!! Rose's little body falls backwards, and she begins kicking and wailing. I have no idea what's going on, but right now I am terrified. "Rose, Rose... where's your mama? Is Mama okay?" I all but beg, picking up her shaking body and trying to comfort her from some tragedy I cannot see or feel. She still cries and sniffles, but goes quiet again. Mama... Mama... yes. Mama mad... Mama...tafe...

Tafe? Tafe.... "Mama's safe?" I ask, and she nods, but continues to whimper. "Rose... Rose... call your Mama home. Please, I do not know what is going on, but she needs to be here with you. Please darling. I do not know how much long I shall... shall be here... so she needs to come home now. Tell her that." I ask her, hoping she can understand me. "Rose, please my little sweetling, she needs to be here when I leave----"

NO! Rose screeches, all but drowning out the keening in the distance. No! No! No! 'Ent 'tay! I pass a hand over my eyes, feeling powerless to help Wanda, powerless to comfort a child, utterly powerless. "Rose, I want to, you know this but---"

'Ent 'tay! 'Ent 'tay! 'Ent----- Rose smacks her tiny hands against my chest, and it feels like all the air gets sucked from the room. I gasp for air as my lungs burn and---

'TAY!!!

The room goes blinding white and it feel like I was thrown against the wall. The world goes black

then comes slowly back into focus. There's a ringing in my ears, and there are stars in my eyes. The taste of ozone is thick in the air. I blink several times to realize I am prone on the bed with Rose sprawled out on top of me. "Rose..." I croak, and struggle to sit up. "Rose... what did you do?" She lifts her head and looks at me with exhausted eyes.

'Ent... 'tay... She smiles at me, then lays her head back on my chest and falls promptly asleep.

"Rose... what did you do?"

Closed
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Saturday, September 13th
The Market and park, early afternoon


Early fall is one of the best times of the year. The air is cooler, the apples are being harvested, the leaves are changing... it's the type of day where I cannot resist being outside. I dress Rose up in one of her new dresses, dropped off by Juliet Parson's mother a few days ago, and we head over to the market. The morning was spent roaming from stall to stall, sipping apple juice from the Abbey and picking up a few odds and ends while talking to half the town. Most everyone remarked on how big she is for only half a year old, and so bright, and such a delightful and beautiful child. Such lovely compliments made me beam with pride, and made my day even better... but Rose just grew quiet and thoughtful. The more people we talked to, the worse she got, so I left the market and headed over to the park.

As we walk along, I keep my thoughts light; pointing out the changing of the leaves and all the colorful mums as Rose keeps her arms around my neck and buries her face in my hair...

...but it takes someone special to be a  )
"Mama... luff... Mama." Rose says aloud in her halting speech, and I laugh and fall back on the grass and fly her above my head as I laugh happily. "And Mama luffs her Rose!" I laugh as I rise and spin about as I hold her in my arms.

"Ready to go back to the market?" I ask her as we start heading back towards Main Street. "Yes! Jooohse!"

"Juice and applesauce and pies and..."

Closed
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, August 31st
Outside the Dormouse, mid afternoon


The bee's twirl lazy circles around the rose bushes, and butterflies flit to and fro between the overblown flowers. It's a lovely day, really. The sky is blue, and the air is heavy with the smell of roses; but the breeze keeps it from being too cloying as I work. I methodically cut away the dead-headed flowers, and trim back where I can while trying to leave the lingering blooms. It's the end of summer... and as much as I look forward to cooler nights and the turning of the leaves, it's bittersweet. So far from last year, a lifetime ago. So much changed in four seasons. Too much and not enough.

"Mama! Mama!" My dear heart's squealing for me catches my attention, and I look over to where Rose is sitting on a blanket. Her green eyes sparkle and her mouth is a wide smile as a butterfly alights on her outstetched fingers, fanning it's wings slowly for her amusement. "That's a very pretty butterfly, Rose." I say, and she squeals again. She's only five and a half months old, but she looks and acts like closer to ten months. Already crawling, babbling small words, and making my life even more chaotic, but in that wonderful way only a child can.

The butterfly finally gets bored and flits away, and Rose waves goodbye to it before picking up a cookie and stuffing it into her mouth. She tries babbling to me, but her mouth is full and it comes out a garbled spray of crumbs. She laughs and waves her bunny about, and goes back to playing with some rose petals I left on the blanket for her amongst her other toys and her "sparkly necklace". Never mind that it's probably the worlds largest black diamond and beyond priceless... it only matters that she likes the way it catches the light.

"We'll have to get you cleaned up later, little miss." I inform her and go back to pruning the roses, humming a nameless tune under my breath.

(Open)
[identity profile] managementchild.livejournal.com
Wednesday, 20th August; afternoon

One week - one week and one thousand thousand thousand days since I
since I
I, I, I
opened one great
eye
and am
when before there was only we (in the darkwomb belly of Creation, we).

I AM
ἐγώ εἰμι
(and there was a great cry in this my new Egypt.)

I have been to my Father's house, and touched his cock and cunt to receive my blessing, for she will not deny me that, even if I am unlike any other child of his seed that was or ever will be. For only I am this. And I bathed in the blood of her baptism between her legs, and made myself a body and face that honours my Father, for what child does not want a heritage? I will wear this, for a while, and when I need it not I will put it in a box like an old suit, for I am of my Mothers too and we can have a hundred faces.

In this body, come out of Egypt, I go into the town. It is my first place and my last place and I will love it until it is gone to dust. Will that be between my teeth? Perhaps. Perhaps.

I choose a building of a pleasing shape to enter. It is a tavern. I ask to see the different colours of the drink and I choose one that is pale gold and amber. I do not drink it, but I hold the glass close to my face so I can smell it. I smell the scent of decaying crops and sunlight. It is a fine drink.

[OPEN]

[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Wednesday August 13th
The Dormouse, morning


It wasn't the suddenly not being able to breathe that woke me... I woke before that. It was the humming, thrumming tension of a note held for a moment too long. As if a violinist was teasing that last note of music until you want to shout at them to finish the piece and release the tension of the music just hovering in that second before completion. When it finally shattered and the piece ended, only then did I realize I had ceased to breathe. Only when the air rushed out of my lungs and my daughter cried out in irritation did it dawn on me that we where having an Excolo moment, as it were.

I leapt out of bed and gathered her up, relieved to see that we were none the worse for wear. Whatever just happened, it was brief. Just a hiccip in the flow of---

*Thump! Thump!*

From outside, a startled whiny of a horse, and the baying of dogs; further away, more odd thumps and a shattering of glass.

"What fresh hell..." I sigh, trotting downstairs with Rose on my hip. I grab my sword and head cautiously out the front door. Dawn is just streaking across the sky, and it looks like it will be another fine day---

Something falls two feet from my face, and I jump back with a cry, turning the hip with Rose on it away from whatever the hell just fell and my sword towards...
a dead bird. Just a bird. I exhale and shake my head at my own jumpiness. "Sorry Rose, Mummy's being silly." I laugh, and kiss the top of her head, but she's staring and pointing towards the street. Not just one dead bird, but dozens.

"What the...?"

Open
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Saturday, July 31st
Late-afternoon, The Miskatonic


Screw cooking it's too damn hot. Most of the customer's wanted iced tea's today, and kept to scones and salads and sandwhiches. Can't say I blamed them, good idea to have someone else do the cooking, actually.

Rose sits propped up in a little booster type chair Tulz found, and is delighting in little, round, crunchy grain bits and tiny pieces of pears. Not to mention the attention being a pretty little girl in a peach dress brings.

I am not quite sure where Tulz found it, but I am in heaven over the plate of chicken pineapple skewers she brought out. Coming out to dinner was the best idea I've had all week!

Rose giggles as she picks up another grain "O" and stuffs it in her mouth. "Good stuff, huh little Miss?" A happy shriek follows, and I can't help but laugh too.

(open)
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, July 11th
Mid-aftenoon, The Park


"So... the fair Prince had defeat the wicked Faerie, cut away at the thorn bushes until the path was clear, then raced up the stairs of the castle that lay in slumber for the past one hundred years.  At at the top of the northern tower, there she lay; Princess Aurora, the Briar Rose.  She was so beautiful, even in slumber that the Prince felt a stiring in his heart he had never known before.  What had started as a quest for glory and honor had been forgotten.  All he wanted to do was look into her eyes and see Princess Aurora smile.  He knelt down beside the bed, leaned over, and kissed her.  After a moment, it seems as if the world shuddered.  The sun broke through the clouds and Princess Aurora's eyes fluttered open---"

My story gets interrupted right at the happy ending.  Rose all but 'harrumps' at me, and flopsy get tossed at my head.  "Rose, now that is not polite."  I scold her, picking up the stuffed bunny and hopping it back across the blanket we are sitting on by the pond near the park.  We have the shade of the tree we are under to keep the sun off our heads, and I have Rose propped up enough so she can watch the ducks in the pond and smile at the people passing by.  But now my little darling is cross, and scowling at me.  "What is the problem, little miss?"  I ask as her little hand takes possession of her cherished bunny again.

Wrong!  You are telling it wrong!  Tell it right, Momma!

I arch an eyebrow at her as I pop a strawberry into my mouth and offer her a small piece of banana to gum on.  "I am telling it right.  Sleeping Beauty is awoken by true love's kiss and..."  Again, I am interrupted, but this time, instead of a coherent thought, I am bombarded with images from the grand dream, and how Valmont could not wake up the princess, and how I helped and Chester and Zann and Damien...

Well.  "You are not wrong, Rose.  That happened too.  I was telling you an old story.  Rose sulks a bit longer, then stuffs a rabbit eat into her mouth with a sigh.   "Would you like me to tell it again, the way you remember it?"  I ask, reaching out to tickle her toes.  She finally giggles and squirms, loosing that stern look that reminds me so much of her father.  No, she is done with stories, she wants a song now.  Which I am more than happy to supply.

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it's done so far
What's so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see

Someday we'll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me


(open)
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, July 11th
Mid-aftenoon, The Park


"So... the fair Prince had defeat the wicked Faerie, cut away at the thorn bushes until the path was clear, then raced up the stairs of the castle that lay in slumber for the past one hundred years.  At at the top of the northern tower, there she lay; Princess Aurora, the Briar Rose.  She was so beautiful, even in slumber that the Prince felt a stiring in his heart he had never known before.  What had started as a quest for glory and honor had been forgotten.  All he wanted to do was look into her eyes and see Princess Aurora smile.  He knelt down beside the bed, leaned over, and kissed her.  After a moment, it seems as if the world shuddered.  The sun broke through the clouds and Princess Aurora's eyes fluttered open---"

My story gets interrupted right at the happy ending.  Rose all but 'harrumps' at me, and flopsy get tossed at my head.  "Rose, now that is not polite."  I scold her, picking up the stuffed bunny and hopping it back across the blanket we are sitting on by the pond near the park.  We have the shade of the tree we are under to keep the sun off our heads, and I have Rose propped up enough so she can watch the ducks in the pond and smile at the people passing by.  But now my little darling is cross, and scowling at me.  "What is the problem, little miss?"  I ask as her little hand takes possession of her cherished bunny again.

Wrong!  You are telling it wrong!  Tell it right, Momma!

I arch an eyebrow at her as I pop a strawberry into my mouth and offer her a small piece of banana to gum on.  "I am telling it right.  Sleeping Beauty is awoken by true love's kiss and..."  Again, I am interrupted, but this time, instead of a coherent thought, I am bombarded with images from the grand dream, and how Valmont could not wake up the princess, and how I helped and Chester and Zann and Damien...

Well.  "You are not wrong, Rose.  That happened too.  I was telling you an old story.  Rose sulks a bit longer, then stuffs a rabbit eat into her mouth with a sigh.   "Would you like me to tell it again, the way you remember it?"  I ask, reaching out to tickle her toes.  She finally giggles and squirms, loosing that stern look that reminds me so much of her father.  No, she is done with stories, she wants a song now.  Which I am more than happy to supply.

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it's done so far
What's so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see

Someday we'll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me


(open)
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Monday, July 5th.  Backyard of the Dormouse
As the night falls


Rose lays on a blanket underneath the willow tree, gurgling in utter delight.  Dusk is almost done, not that one can tell with how overcast it was today.  But I can, just in the subtle dip in the temperature and the way the breeze plays in my hair.  Also?  The fireflies have made their nightly appearance, as they always do at this time of night.  The willow tree does not need the faerie lights tgo be turned on, it is aglow with living lights, as are the rose bushes.  The whole yard twinkles, and my daughter is entralled by it.

We... well... I spent the better part of an hour chasing them around the yard with Rose on my hip, cupping them in my hand.  They would crawl about my fingers, then fly off, blinking.  I even coaxed a few of them onto Rose's little, chubby fingers.  I think they could hear her delighted shrieks all the way to the Whitechapel.

But now she is starting to get drowsy, and is content to lie on soft blankets in the grass and watch the light show above her.  As for me...

Jared dropped it off earlier today.  I wasn't sure how I would feel, when I saw it.  From what it was... to what it had become.  And truly, it was just a pole.  Like any other pole or bannister or piece of non-descript wood.  But when I took in into my hands?

Oh, it sang!  It was still mine, still a part of me, still spoke to that part of me that I tried to pack away, but can never really be stifled.  Maybe, with this, I can repurpose that dark part of me.

So while my daughter coos and babbles to the fireflies, I work with the staff.  It;s been several years since I last used a quarter-staff in stage work, but it comes back quickly.  In the faint glow of the house lights, I work with the pole, and it slices through the air with a pleasing whistle.  Oh, I can't wait until it's complete!

(open)
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Monday, July 5th.  Backyard of the Dormouse
As the night falls


Rose lays on a blanket underneath the willow tree, gurgling in utter delight.  Dusk is almost done, not that one can tell with how overcast it was today.  But I can, just in the subtle dip in the temperature and the way the breeze plays in my hair.  Also?  The fireflies have made their nightly appearance, as they always do at this time of night.  The willow tree does not need the faerie lights tgo be turned on, it is aglow with living lights, as are the rose bushes.  The whole yard twinkles, and my daughter is entralled by it.

We... well... I spent the better part of an hour chasing them around the yard with Rose on my hip, cupping them in my hand.  They would crawl about my fingers, then fly off, blinking.  I even coaxed a few of them onto Rose's little, chubby fingers.  I think they could hear her delighted shrieks all the way to the Whitechapel.

But now she is starting to get drowsy, and is content to lie on soft blankets in the grass and watch the light show above her.  As for me...

Jared dropped it off earlier today.  I wasn't sure how I would feel, when I saw it.  From what it was... to what it had become.  And truly, it was just a pole.  Like any other pole or bannister or piece of non-descript wood.  But when I took in into my hands?

Oh, it sang!  It was still mine, still a part of me, still spoke to that part of me that I tried to pack away, but can never really be stifled.  Maybe, with this, I can repurpose that dark part of me.

So while my daughter coos and babbles to the fireflies, I work with the staff.  It;s been several years since I last used a quarter-staff in stage work, but it comes back quickly.  In the faint glow of the house lights, I work with the pole, and it slices through the air with a pleasing whistle.  Oh, I can't wait until it's complete!

(open)
[identity profile] glass-beddau.livejournal.com
[Night of Thursday, June 17th (day 382)]
[Glass's apartment]


Spit and staunchweed, she's small. Has it in her to be loud, and then there's cleaning, but that's surely a given. Sit down with her in the kitchen--on the floor, making sure I'm 'tween her and the stove--and tilt my head to one side.

"Your mam says you like stories," I say after a moment. "Mind, I'd guess you understand her stories better'n mine. Still an' all." Consider her a moment, and don't have anything to say, and she... well, suppose it's not a mutter nor a squeak, speaking proper. Still, might be the beginning of fussing.

Glass's idea of bedtime stories. )

"She's getting better, maybe," I say after a moment. "Mind, she starts working her wounds over how horrible things are, and no-one else is there, it is your job to have her getting up and setting her hand t'something that'll actually do good. Take her out for a walk or throw up or something as means she needs t'pull herself t'gether and do something." Point at her and yes, she's able t'watch well enough, and after a moment sit back a little and stretch. "I know it's on her to watch you, as she's your mam, but you mind her nonetheless. So, we were speaking of land of the dead. Came a day daughter of the green was out afield..."

[Closed]
[identity profile] glass-beddau.livejournal.com
[Night of Thursday, June 17th (day 382)]
[Glass's apartment]


Spit and staunchweed, she's small. Has it in her to be loud, and then there's cleaning, but that's surely a given. Sit down with her in the kitchen--on the floor, making sure I'm 'tween her and the stove--and tilt my head to one side.

"Your mam says you like stories," I say after a moment. "Mind, I'd guess you understand her stories better'n mine. Still an' all." Consider her a moment, and don't have anything to say, and she... well, suppose it's not a mutter nor a squeak, speaking proper. Still, might be the beginning of fussing.

Glass's idea of bedtime stories. )

"She's getting better, maybe," I say after a moment. "Mind, she starts working her wounds over how horrible things are, and no-one else is there, it is your job to have her getting up and setting her hand t'something that'll actually do good. Take her out for a walk or throw up or something as means she needs t'pull herself t'gether and do something." Point at her and yes, she's able t'watch well enough, and after a moment sit back a little and stretch. "I know it's on her to watch you, as she's your mam, but you mind her nonetheless. So, we were speaking of land of the dead. Came a day daughter of the green was out afield..."

[Closed]
[identity profile] sapphira-ststep.livejournal.com
[Afternoon of Monday, June 7 (day 372)]
[Down on the Pontarlier]


...well I was certainly not expecting this, I must say.

I could wonder, or I could fuss, but it comes to me that when such weather strikes, some actions are more appropriate than others. So I dress as warmly as I need to, find something appropriate to wear (shaped and painted leather, the colours of warm oak and berries, and thin brass tags at one temple), and set out to town. The air smells of evergreen and snow, and is full of the squeaking crunch of snow under boots and slightly confused laughter. I make my way through a light peppering of snowballs in the park, and head down to the river.

I wouldn't think it was cold enough to freeze, but the ice seems quite solid. Someone is sharing out or selling mulled cider; I'm not exactly sure as I didn't actually speak to them, but a young woman handed me her cup when a friend called her over, and it's very good.

I don't have skates, but I head out onto the ice, take a few quick steps for speed, and manage not to lose my balance or bang into anyone. The tags on my mask are jingling a little, and I'm laughing as I go sliding out across the Pontarlier.

Vive le vent, vive le vent,
Vive le vemps d'hiver...


[Open! (don't slip)]
[identity profile] sapphira-ststep.livejournal.com
[Afternoon of Monday, June 7 (day 372)]
[Down on the Pontarlier]


...well I was certainly not expecting this, I must say.

I could wonder, or I could fuss, but it comes to me that when such weather strikes, some actions are more appropriate than others. So I dress as warmly as I need to, find something appropriate to wear (shaped and painted leather, the colours of warm oak and berries, and thin brass tags at one temple), and set out to town. The air smells of evergreen and snow, and is full of the squeaking crunch of snow under boots and slightly confused laughter. I make my way through a light peppering of snowballs in the park, and head down to the river.

I wouldn't think it was cold enough to freeze, but the ice seems quite solid. Someone is sharing out or selling mulled cider; I'm not exactly sure as I didn't actually speak to them, but a young woman handed me her cup when a friend called her over, and it's very good.

I don't have skates, but I head out onto the ice, take a few quick steps for speed, and manage not to lose my balance or bang into anyone. The tags on my mask are jingling a little, and I'm laughing as I go sliding out across the Pontarlier.

Vive le vent, vive le vent,
Vive le vemps d'hiver...


[Open! (don't slip)]
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, May 23rd
The Dormouse, late evening.


I am not sure if I love or hate this time of day.  The day is done, it's quiet, and Rose sleeps peacefully in her cradle.  It's the perfect time to curl up on my window seat with a cup of tea and a book.  Which I have done.  I have the window cracked open, and a slight breeze plays over me.  I am content...

yet not.  For when the night falls, and it is between the time when Rose goes down and I finally succumb to slumber, my mind races.  Every nagging thought, ever doubt, every regret and 'what if' and 'could have been' comes creeping into my mind.

He was never real.  But he was!  How can that be?  How can a person, a real living person be... and then... not? 

It wasn't Him.  I know that much.  It wasn't my hopes that He suddenly changed, or that he would indulge me that much.  Nor do I think he would tell me he loved me, even to make me miserable.  No, whatever happened, Kent Whitman was real.  He lived and breathed and...

and it doesn't matter, for whatever happened; passed.  Then life reverted back.

It shouldn't matter anyway.  So why am I mourning the loss of someone that never was?

This question and quandry just keeps circling round and round my poor brain, and I've found I've given myself a headache.  With a sigh, I set the book I was not really reading aside and sip my tea.  I think I've decided... I hate this time of night.

(Closed, there are brownies, see...)
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, May 23rd
The Dormouse, late evening.


I am not sure if I love or hate this time of day.  The day is done, it's quiet, and Rose sleeps peacefully in her cradle.  It's the perfect time to curl up on my window seat with a cup of tea and a book.  Which I have done.  I have the window cracked open, and a slight breeze plays over me.  I am content...

yet not.  For when the night falls, and it is between the time when Rose goes down and I finally succumb to slumber, my mind races.  Every nagging thought, ever doubt, every regret and 'what if' and 'could have been' comes creeping into my mind.

He was never real.  But he was!  How can that be?  How can a person, a real living person be... and then... not? 

It wasn't Him.  I know that much.  It wasn't my hopes that He suddenly changed, or that he would indulge me that much.  Nor do I think he would tell me he loved me, even to make me miserable.  No, whatever happened, Kent Whitman was real.  He lived and breathed and...

and it doesn't matter, for whatever happened; passed.  Then life reverted back.

It shouldn't matter anyway.  So why am I mourning the loss of someone that never was?

This question and quandry just keeps circling round and round my poor brain, and I've found I've given myself a headache.  With a sigh, I set the book I was not really reading aside and sip my tea.  I think I've decided... I hate this time of night.

(Closed, there are brownies, see...)

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