Cat Among The Pigeons

Fri, 26 May 2006 04:18:27 GMT

Ok. So. I have to change journals, there is an important reason!

However I cannot disclose it, so. This will be up for like 3 minutes:

mila_v

Shhh!

...And no it's nothing illegal or anything like that. More of RL creeping in where it shouldn't.

-M

Sat, 20 May 2006 19:47:38 GMT

Well, I finally opened my iconing journal.

Iconing Is <3
Be proud, oh and I think everyone needs to watch this:

Green Wing </i>

-M

Thu, 18 May 2006 03:19:33 GMT

Like.

Omg.

So I bring tales of high coincidences and gleeful joy! Firstly, my theatre teacher has the most evil sense of humor ever.

I ask him for a girl's role in Shakespeare (I always get cast as a guy, WTF?)...So what does he do?

Gives me a cross-dressing female. Thanks alot Mistah Shelby.

Actually I love my part, Viola is very shiny and schmuck. But moving on to the extreme coincidences.

Ok so lately my two most obsessive obsessions have been:

-QaF

and

Slings & Arrows,

No seriously you guys, this show is a divine godly being and all of you should sacrifice your virginity to it. I'm sure Geoffrey would appreciate it.

Point being that this show is about a group of Canadian Actors.
Must I repeat this?

Canadian.

Actors.

Besides being cleverly written and well acted and all that stuff. Anyway uh back to my original OMFG, mayacito was scrolling down the lj of someone she met over in the QaF fandomland a.k.a.: Backroom of Babylon.

and...Gale Harolds going to be on FOX. YES. FOX. GALE HAROLDS.
YOUR TV.

I see you sliding off your chairs in a dead faint, wait, it gets better...he's playing...an FBI agent.

*headbang*

Well, Maya and I were looking at the promo shot and I leap out of my chair and go: CHRIST ALMIGHTY IT'S SLINGS AND ARROWS.

And yes my darlings, it was the girl from Slings and Arrows whose name escapes me, the one who turned GayILoveBrian! Italian man straight.

Clearly the gods have plans to send me into some kind of fit of happiness.

Slings & Arrows, QaF. Together 4evah (as, unfortunately, my rapping Greek Math teacher would say).

EEEE!

-M

<img src="http://i8.photobucket.com/albums/a25/cocoaducks/32391.jpg>

Wed, 26 Apr 2006 05:04:42 GMT

I am alone and without a bisquit.

Damn you all.

-M

(Comments, fawning adoration, and witty oneliners heartily welcomed :))

Mon, 20 Mar 2006 03:27:14 GMT

Title: This Happy Breed
Rating: PG

From the heart of London and the chaos of War we bring you...

The Magic Hour

Stanley: Good morning and welcome to the Magic Hour, that godblessed hour between 5 and 6 in the morning.

Georges: When the sun has merely peeped its new born head above the horizon and it’s delicate rays tint the sky an exquisite pink.

Henry: Before of course, it opens its eyes and sees the hypocritical world we…

Stanley: Shut up Henry. Sorry folks, Henry’s feeling a bit off color this morning, aren’t you Henry?

Henry: mffmmmff….

Stanley: But don’t worry my darlings, he’ll be up and a bout like the gay god of radiant happiness once our lovely assistant Lavender brings him a cuppa. Isn’t that right Henry?

Henry: mffmmff…

Stanley: See he’s feeling better already! Now, without further ado, live from the blissful city of London, England, where it’s already pouring like Hades we present the first part in a new series, written and performed for radio.

George: The Diaries… A multipart program in which a series of seemingly unconnected people bare their souls to us, allowing us to peek into the dark closets of their hearts, and the dungeons of their minds.

Stanley: First up, a segment devoted to the diary of Mrs. Agatha Blake, 23, a dark beginning ladies and gentlemen to the program that will show you the inner most workings of the human mind.

Dear Diary,

August 15.

I seem to be more neurotic by the day, whenever Jane and Sally go out, leaving me alone in the house I seem to feel a hidden hand controlling me. First, I go through the house and check all the doors and windows, then I make the beds. Jane never seems to do hers, and then I sit down and make myself a cup of coffee. The blackest cup you ever did see. No matter rationing. Just as I raise it to my lips, something goes off in my head. What about the cupboard? So I grab a bottle of wine from the pantry and set off, I imagine I look just like James did when he left. Proud, tall, chin up and smile Ada darling, I’ll be back before you know it. Fool.

Anyway, I go up to the closet and I knock on it loudly. 3 times. Hello? Anyone home? I ask and then quick as a flash I swing it open. But there’s nothing in there but Sally’s fur coat and our shoes. Shaking with relief, I go back into the kitchen and collapse into the chair quivering. I open the bottle with one strong pull and sit there the rest of the afternoon while the rain comes down. It taps in a gentle rhythm on the roof, swaying in time to the strains of Bach or Vivaldi. Staring out into the rain drenched garden, where everything is green. Oh so green. Just drinking and drinking.

Around 5 I turn on the wireless, I hate watching the telly. It’s so, so, I don’t know. Watching me. The man in his in his crisp white oxford shirt, and high brow manner, he’s staring straight at me, but somehow, somehow he can’t see me? How? How can he gaze straight into my eyes and still not know I’m there? How? How? How? How? How?

I prefer the wireless anyhow. It lets you be defined, lets you lead your own life. But, at the same time, while you’re washing up, or sitting down to eat yet another meal of pancakes, savoring that quarter apple you feel the connection.
You’re still there, and so is the rest of the world.

Jesus. I'm far too young to be getting neurotic. Or having habits, habits drive you into a rut. I want to be able to get up on Saturday mornings and do whatever the hell I please. I want to be able to look at the sky at dusk on a rainy Sunday and decide to go out and dance without thinking that I might catch pneumonia.

I want to be invincible. Maybe if I had the power to do anything then this would all stop.

God. I’m a fool. I could never tell this to anyone else, ever. You know? Because then someone would know who I am. And once they know, once someone else knows everything about me. Well, how can I be me? How could they be them?

Hell. The water is boiling.

-Agatha Blake

Stanley: Well that’s all for today folks. And now, in more recent news, the militant group Fritzangd has claimed responsibility for yesterdays bombing of the US embassy in Belgium…The death count is 22, and the police continue to search the rubble.

Note: Rough. Yes. I realize. But it occured to me in the bath, so I sat there in my dressing robe, with wet hair for half and hour typing like crazy. The result? I'm ambivalent. But, I am planning another one.

Any suggests for people/situations?

Y'know like:

Name: Agatha Blake
Time Period: ____
Prompt: Neurotic

Sun, 19 Mar 2006 19:37:09 GMT

Well.

My robotics team is going to Nationals.
Yeah I know, one of my many geeky vices. Robotics. Not bad though, Kaitlin and I ate copious amounts of icecream.

Argh. Weird words always seemed to wrangle their way in when I'm typing. Copious. When did I learn that word? 6th grade? Goodness. I can't even remember if I used it correctly. Erm. Yes. Anyway. I've been off fixing Andy (Robot) like crazy. But yet, I still had time to tinker with photoshop! Even though being terribly lax about checking LJ.

Without further ado:

Icons and Banners.

(psst. Does anyone know how to put up a banner without a paid account?)

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

If you want to use one. Just take one. Credit would be nice.

Customization is available for 7 and 8. I just used my username as an example.

Used:

1. kitwix
2. bermellon
3. foto_decadent
4. _coquettish

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 04:01:00 GMT

Well Real Life has been distracting recently, to be sure.

Nothing really very amusing to report. Someone poked me in the head with a pencil so I had graphite stuck in my head. But other than that a not particularly interesting week. I can say though that idleandproud has two new affiliates, one of the comms is run by monifieth which seems pretty cool.

On the other hand I went on a banner spree at foto_decadent and now to present the lovely lj-cut so I don't spam y'all.

1.

Ever told you how much making angsty banners makes me happy? A lot.

Wed, 01 Mar 2006 03:18:50 GMT

I don't think you can comprehend how much I simply adore Neil Gaiman at this moment.
Answer?
Very. Very much.

Upon hearing that Winnie the Pooh’s Christopher Robin was being replaced by Disney with a spunkier, younger, female counterpart, Mr. Gaiman responded with:

“The rest of this blog entry will be written by Skippy, a fictional six-year-old tomboy and computer genius, with a small number of endearing catchphrases:”
“Gosharootie!”
“Bitchcakes!”
“Hugs!”
“There we go. Thank you, Skippy.”
--Neil Gaiman 12/07/05

Pity BPAL never got to make the Neil Gaiman Line.

Aziphrale: Musty books, dark coffee, and carmel creams...hmmm...

-----------
Yeah.
Anyway...Queer As Folk. Is Love. momebie You're totally right. Brian Kinney is wonderful, and so is Michael...absolutely...*cries*. Poor him. Up to Episode 3 so far.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 05:23:48 GMT

Welcome and hello!
I figure that there might be some new people out there, so I just thought I'd say a bit more about myself...

I go to high school in lovely old Cali which can be both an enlightening and frustrating experience.
Third year anni of fandom coming up soon...and our love life is still as strong as ever ;).
I'm a writer and a reader, and favourite pairings are : D/H, HG/BZ, P/R, and D/R. Seriously though, I read basically everything that's well written.

Favourite Authors:
MaegunnBatt: Pariah
Slytherincess: Adjudiction
Lunaelle: Anything
Lucia De Medici: Slytherin Solidarity (Sweet merlin she's brilliant.)
Maya: ANYTHING

But...erm...yes.

That's me!

Speaking of which, anyone here watch Queer As Folk, I've been hearing things about it and I'm wondering if it's all it's cracked up to be.

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 06:43:39 GMT

Title: The Social Etiquette of Lycanthropy
Summary: To Remus Provence was a place of peace.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Relatively unbetaed. I just needed to flush everything out.

The Social Etiquette of Lycanthropy

It was heady, almost like wine, he sniffed—that was one of the benefits of his, what Marie called, “his little problem”, he could taste the scent of her tomato soup, a hazy rust orange drifting out of the kitchen’s open window. In the corner of the courtyard was the old chair he’d been meaning to paint for several summers, now faded from its original disgusting turquoise to an insipid baby blue. Then there was the faintly sweet smell of this morning’s breakfast French toast, which lay abandoned next to his useless typewriter. Remus sighed, the only thing, he reflected worse than a writer without words was a dancer without feet. And even then they could wave their arms about in a sort of rhythmic way, couldn’t they?

He stopped a moment at the gate, which swung open to his light touch. Getting down on his knees he peered under the hedge. “Hey there beautiful” He murmured to the black and white cat cowering in the shadows. He offered his hand and she retreated farther back into the bramble.

He looked at his coat ruefully; there were still long dusk brown hairs on it. “Smelling the big old nasty dog on me?” He asked sadly, “It’s alright, it’s me, really…no mean old dogs around here,” He cooed soothingly, sticking his head down on the ground, on level with hers. She mewed gently, moving forward, rubbing against his hand. The odd thing was that the only dogs near their tiny honey-suckled cottage were a pair of old floppy eared things with long pink tongues that hung out as if their owners were terminally dying for a drink.

The cat looked up at him with imploring mud-brown eyes, he grinned at her, “Hungry are you? Has old Aunt Marie forgotten to feed you then?”
Marie’s voice echoed from inside the cottage, a faintly French accent dulled by years abroad, but still with a sharp biting quality, “I heard that”

“Well Sister mine, we all know you were hardened by the ruts and bumps on your life’s path. No one’s blaming you for becoming a cruel inhumane spinster”

“Who’s fault was that?” She called out dryly. “Don’t ask me, I wasn’t the one born from an egg.” Remus yelled back, shaking his head amusedly at the cat. “Mystery agrees with me, doesn’t she?”

“You do realize that cat used to be perfectly house-trained before you came along”
“I’ve shown it the beauty of a life in the wilds, how could any cat raised on Meow-Mix resist?”

“Cat corruptor!” She called back, shaking a rolling pin at him playfully. “One of many official titles I’ve held over the years, including Blackboard Monitor”

“Old fogey”

“You youngsters will never understand the intricacies of such patient processes as the waltz”

“Helene told me you stepped on her feet three times at the dance last month”
“Exactly. Once to establish it, once to repeat it, and once to alleviate the dulling and suppressive atmosphere. Plus, a bad dancer always gets twice the cider. A sort of conciliation prize if you will ”

“Well go step on Jean’s feet, we need milk, that silly cat of yours.”

“What’s mine is yours, my dear”
“Well in that case you can be the one to clear out her litter basket”

“God forbid I should ever appear henpecked” Remus said with a shrug dusting off his knees.

“I heard that!”

“Just leaving” He shouted back, and was half way down the road, whistling cheerfully, before she could warn him to a put on a muffler.

Life in the tiny town of Luxe suited Remus, he suspected that he’d been cut out for the country life. Many of his friends would have been appalled if they’d known where he was, they who spent there lives in what was vaguely termed as high society; spending their time drifting from one club to another. The country wasn’t anything like the dull place full of sheep and pigs as city folk imagined.

It was the people. It sounded rather idiotic to say it, but they were characters, no airs, no graces so they didn’t all put one in mind of a strangled pig in a ruff.

Remus strolled down the Mainstreet of the town. Luxe wasn’t a terribly large town, but it was famous for the Toy Making Festival that was held there each year. Already in midsummer as the fields slowly fried to a crisp golden there were posters for Le Festivale du Toy Making everywhere.

He raised his hat to Mme Dupont, who waved a long bony hand ensconced in a long lilac glove. In her youth, of which the supposed ages contrasted vastly, she had been the town beauty. Indeed, she had lived in Hollywood for several years and starred in a few minor motion pictures, usually as a French maid; her French career had been rather much more impressive. She twinkled at him grinning, cheeks red with roughe meeting in large apple cheeks, the fuschia feather in her own hat waving in the cool morning breeze.

“Bonjour Mr. Lee” She called out in her deep throaty voice. “Bonjour” He called back, 2 years and this was the only French he could manage without sounding like he had a ferret in his throat. “You must come and see my garden” she insisted, popping her head round the door of Le boulangerie. “It would be an honor Mme.” He said gravely.

She smiled broadly, showing an excellent pair of pearly whites, and disappeared inside the floury scented boulangerie with vague sentiments of goodwill towards Marie.

Remus hesitated for a moment scratching the bridge of his nose, basket swinging against his side, “Wait a moment Mme” He said hurrying quickly across the cobblestoned street. “Yes my dear?” “Would you happen to know if M. Charleston is in?” Her delicately plucked eyebrows raised.

“Why?” She asked with an air of marked curiousity he’d come to expect from the French. He responded quickly with an “Oh. Just thought I’d pop in and see how he was doing”

“He is in croix buying grain for his chickens” She said giving him a suspicious look, red painted lips opened to ask another question; but Remus had already bent a hasty retreat.

Charleston’s Chicken farm was at the edge of the town; at the bink of the rolling mass of greenery known as le foret.

Looking quickly around him, there wasn’t a soul in sight on this misty morning, he turned up the dusty path that wound its way towards the red farm house.

Charleston was known far and wide for having the most succulent chickens on the coast. Remus licked his lips in memory of some very happy, very sticky meals. There was a sign over the doorstep to the chickenerie.

Une Poulet-35F
Deux Poulet-55F
Trois et Quatre-Vingt pour Poulet
Une Douzen D’oufs-10F

He hardly needed to look at the sign, the numbers ingrained into his head, his hands reached into a pocket and withdrew a cream colored envelope, flicking off the brown-orange tinged hair on it, too course to be a humans, and withdrew the 55 francs that were neatly folded inside. He smoothed out the creases with a thumb; placed them under a rock on the doorstep and then walked away as fast he could before someone spotted him.

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy I---Response

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 06:35:37 GMT

2nd post! Historical.:

Summary: Neal Gardener was a city child bred and born.
Rating: PG13 (Language)
Title: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy: Part I
Notes: Unbetaed. Unedited. But I just needed it out

Neal lay back in the plush velvet seat of the train, flicking a strand of hair out of his dusty grey eyes. There were virtually no other passengers on the 4:30 to Wednesbury, Staffordshire, so he basked in the syrupy afternoon sunlight, lazily stretched over three seats, hair slopped lazily over a be-freckled forehead thumbing through a very worn out copy of Murder on The Orient Express. According to his mother Neal was yet another child caught beneath the wheels of an unfair and unjust educational system, which cared little for the poor souls of the children who were subjected to their torturous rituals. According to Neal’s father Neal was a lazy ass who deserved a good beating, not that, Neal thought his father ever would. A mechanic who had longed to be an overseas journalist. Yes pater, what a role model.

God. This really was terribly rotten. Neal kicked a jean-clad leg against the seat opposite him. Pure rottenness. It was all down to maths in the end, math was all logic. Wretched logic and stupid rules, that was all math was. Gods above. Where was the imagination? The creativity! He was quite sure he could have been a genius if he’d not been forced to take the subject of Satan from a young age. Talk about stifling your intelligence, talk about trying to oppress the masses. And of course, Mrs. Harridan had been the worst.
Flunking him—In his last year. When he should have escaped this godforskaken island for better things. If it weren’t for the bitch he’d probably have his first play on broadway. Mia cara. What was her problem. Never gotten laid had been Chris’s opinion, snidely whispered around a big fat cig, but of course that was Chris’s answer to anything. Got acne? Simon my man, you really need to get laid.

Of course the closest Chris had ever gotten was probably stealing a quick look at the magazines under his brother’s bed. Though, he did have a leather jacket. However, the admittedly super effects of a leather jacket were undoubtedly counteracted by the man’s spots. Neal to his great relief had gotten that terrible phase of his life over before the age of 12. It was not an experience he cared to repeat.

The train reached the station at Wednesbury in the early hours of darkness when Neal, jamming the paperback into his back pocket struggled mightily with his enormous suit case and rolled it with great difficulty out onto the platform. The platform, lit by a street lamp overhead was completely devoid of human life, except for 40 year old man smoking a cig dispassionately in the ticket collectors booth. Occasionally the man would twiddle a knob on a beat up radio. Christ. What a dump. Neal wandered off to the left where the sign that said “Exit” seemed against all physical laws to be pointing in two opposite directions.

People have said many things of the night sky in the country, poets have compared it to black velvet across which someone has sprinkled fairy dust hither and thither. Writers and dreamers have theorized that the stars are really the teardrops of the Sand Giant as he lays weeping by a black pool; crying in agony for his lost wife. The stinking harlot. The fact remains that while the night may be as black as the night a 17 year old boy, especially one, who, as Neal was in the furthest stages of starvation is not the best person to appreciate it.

So Neal merely peered at it in the slightly scornful way of the city born and wondered why they didn’t get themselves some decent lighting. As he reflected on this all important issue someone tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped around, startled to find another boy, about his age with a mop of red hair and the sort of eager pleading expression of one who had been the bullies’ favorite chew toy since as long as he could remember. The boy tipped his head to the left regarding Neal quizzically, “You Neal?” He asked nervously.

Neal raised an eyebrow sardonically and stuck out a hand, “Gardener actually, Neal Gardener”

The boy looked puzzled for a second before he keyed into the meaning of the hand and then shook it heartily. “I’m James, James Platt. Pleased to meet you”

Neal just nodded his head. The amiable look on James’s face didn’t even flicker, “I’m staying here over the summer, I’m the recruit, I’m staying at your Aunt Georgia’s house. She sent me to come and fetch you.”

Neal vaguely remembered Aunt Georgia as a heartily grim woman, who took pleasure in telling him off for sneaking sweets while his mother wasn’t looking. “How kind of her, I’m sure”

“Yes, it is isn’t it?” James nodded cheerfully, “She’s frightfully nice, your Aunt. Always lets me have two helpings of breakfast and everything”

“Two helpings. What a martyr” Neal commented, as they trudged down the street. Was it possible to be that dull? He doubted it. The man deserved a prize.

Fri, 03 Feb 2006 02:05:10 GMT

Well.
I've done it.
I've plunged off the deepend into the waters of insanity.

That's right, Maya and I have created a drabbling community. idleandproud
Check it out.

Tue, 08 Nov 2005 01:03:58 GMT

Title: Smog
Rating: PG
Author: canadianscone
Characters: Pansy
Word Count: 100
Summary: The world ended.

Pansy had always thought of the world’s end as an event that would never happen in her lifetime, a shattering of the space-time continuum. An event so catastrophic that the sea’s would boil and spit with rage, an event that would stain the skies crimson with bloody, and would clog the river ways with piles of bodies stacked like pancakes to an orange smog laced horizon.

It wasn’t like that at all. The world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a whimper.

Just one pair of sightless eyes, two lifeless hands, and a cry…that’s how the world ended.

Tue, 08 Nov 2005 00:37:02 GMT

Title: All The Colors

Author: canadianscone

Rating: PG13?

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Word Count: 635

Summary: Sometimes your muses seem almost real

Dean scrutinized the scene in front of him. From his perch in a tiny corner of the dormitory he could spy two figures in the windswept courtyard below. His hands moved lightly over the paper-skimming like a hawk over water. He was quite oblivious to what the two people were actually saying; he was alone in a world that was entirely monochrome, a world made of lines and shading.

What he was aware of was the simple beauty of it, the way the figures moved with passion and intensity. The two bodies were entwined, moving sinuously over and around each other, the blond hair falling into dangerously grey eyes, across hair as dark as midnight with eyes the color of… my god, he thought.

Those eyes. He was quite certain--yes! He scrambled around in his pack, pulling out the packet of colored pencils he'd brought with him. He flipped open the tab and looked at the array of rainbow colors.

My god, yes. He'd never had an opportunity to use cobra green before; the pencil's tip was still as sharp and perfect as they day he'd bought it at the corner stop near his house. Nothing he had ever seen had quite lived up to the intense shade--until now. He could have almost squealed in joy.

Ripping off the rough cream paper he marveled at the way their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly, like a lock meeting its key.

Grabbing a black pencil, he began to sketch quickly, first the hands, delicately running through blonde hair and tugging at the roots sunk in deep. He could almost feel the silky texture of the individual strands of hair wrapped around his fingers… pants riding dangerously low and exposing a pale moonlike expanse of skin, soft and sweet to the touch. Yes… Lips, pressed to one ear, gently tracing a series of kisses along the arch of the neck. He pressed his pencil down slightly harder. The emotion was coming now, overwhelming him as he pressed down even harder, as if that would allow the energy to be transferred onto the blank page.

The eyebrows were sharp dashes: one set furrowed set over slanting slate eyes, another set at a cynical angle above pools of emerald green. Dean was aware that his thoughts had begun to take on almost lyrical proportions, but still--the bodies continued to slide together and apart, almost as if dancing to the speeding rhythm of his heartbeat.

He smudged the line, delicate shading in the area just below in the hollow of an arched neck; a thin powerful line here as hands glided over what was clearly familiar territory.

He finally stopped, panting, as the two figures drew in for a brief kiss and then withdrew, each donning a black cloak and whirling away. The leaves in the quad that had been disturbed swirled aimlessly in the air and came to a rest. The pencil was limp between Dean's fingers, as he stared and stared.

He put out a small finger and traced the outline, hovering millimeters off the lead. This, this was... was... perfection. But he wouldn't show it to anyone, he decided quickly with a nod--he owed his muse that, at least.

It would be a memento, a keepsake, a self-given accreditation of his own talent. Dean smiled, and slid the paper into his portfolio. He kicked it under his bed and flopped down, enjoying the bouncy spring. Bouncing up, he grabbed the book from under Seamus's pillow and pretended to read it, eyes half shut, recalling the feeling of the pencil between his fingers.

The door to the dormitory flew open and a figure stepped out of the shadows. Dean looked up at his messy haired dorm-mate, and gave him a slight grin, "Hey Harry."

Sat, 29 Oct 2005 01:11:04 GMT

Here be dragons.
In fact here be all manner of strange and generally obscure beasts which tend to sit down and have a cup of tea before ripping out my muse and stomping on it with hobnail boots.

"When the doors of opportunity swing open, we must make sure that we are not too drunk or too indifferent to walk through."
Jesse Jackson
It wasn't anything quite so dramatic as that...the door I entered through was one layered with the remains of Artemis/Holly shippers that passed through (briefly) through the corridor of Draco/Hermione and ended up in the glorious tower of Blaise/Hermione where the only escape is throw yourself out of hte window.

I'm a 13 year old fanfiction writer, something I'm both at times ashamed and proud of...problem being I rarely produce anything that is good by my standards which are inordinately high. In the words of countless English teachers:

"Relax...you're good for your age"

That's something that pisses me off. Why settle for being the best of your age? Why not the best you can be?

Pleased to meet you.

Call me Nev. Or Meghna. It really doesn't matter.

"He didn’t dare look round, even as the shadows in the trees contorted themselves into a myriad of almost human looking shapes. There was a myth about this wasn’t there? A deep secret, locked away in inane fairytales meant only for children, never called upon until the need asserted itself.

His bare feet touched the parched ground with a heavy tread; he kept his eyes steadily focused on the road in front of him. The trees that lined the sides of the trail were the color of dark brazilian coffee, the limbs weighed down with ripe curvaceous fruit. Apples.

He sighed, really, not only did the devil not have a sense of humor he seemed to consider using the same gags over and over again terribly witty.

The land itself rose like the curved back of a sleeping lion, higher and higher, until it peaked where a small ribbon of blue wound itself across the horizon. It was dark in the valley, but lush and green, except for the small dusty path he walked on which slowly twisted its way to the top. "

-The Villa

"Grabbing a black pencil he began to sketch quickly, first the hands, delicately running through blonde hair, tugging at the roots. He could almost feel the silky texture of the individual strands of hair wrapped around his fingers…pants riding dangerously low exposing a pale moonlike expanse of skin, soft and sweet to the touch, yes… Lips, pressed to one ear, gently tracing down a series of kisses along the arch of the neck, he pressed down slightly harder, trying to convey onto the paper the strength of the motions.

Eyebrows, one set furrowed set over slanting azure eyes, another set at a cynical angle above pools of emerald green. Dean was aware that his thoughts had begun to take on almost lyrical proportions, and still the bodies continued to slide together and apart, almost as if dancing to the speeding rhythm of his heartbeat."

-All The Colors

"If the hand had not been covered in stiff brown fur and the cruelly bent nail hadn’t left a raw red gash down the cheek it might have been mistaken for a fatherly gesture. If any father in space or time has ever wanted to wrench his pup to bits and experience the high of his child’s blood gushing down his muzzle.

To bite, and bite again—long after that son has stopped moving."

-Luna's Twins

"The next time she awakes the woman is still unwinding the dark green thread.. Catching her eye the woman twinkles at her and says “Had a good nap then?”

“Rather” She says cheerfully stretching, as if to demonstrate her strength. Maybe she will survive this after all. Her stomach isn’t hurting anymore, her hands are rather thin, her skin is a bit translucent. Maybe by the time she’s saved she’ll have turned into an ethereal beauty. The thought makes her laugh, but she ends up in a hacking cough that rips through her body like a wave, bent over double clutching her stomach.

A comforting hand is patting her on the back and handing her a glass of cool water, her newfound strength has vanished. The covers are a stained red. She’s coughed up blood.

“S-“ She begins to say but the woman quiets her with a glanced and gives her a hug. Lucy leans into the grip gratefully, the woman is warm and if she nestles into her arm like this then the woman’s sheet of dark hair can cover her vision in glimmering strands. Protecting her from the world. She lets out a final shudder and relaxes."

-Lachesis

"He prowled around her, in a tight circle, a slightly maniacal expression in his crisp blue eyes. His own black hair was in a horrid and atrocious state, unwashed and unkempt, but his didn’t matter beans.

It was her hair that was the issue. Her hair that was golden and waved like a field of wheat, it was quite perfect. Her eyes were blue but an entirely different kind from his, the warm blue of a sky on a perfect day, her skin was a creamy pale color perfectly highlighted with rose rouge. Yet, he wasn’t satisfied this was not, what he had imagined. He threw his pencil down on the ground and stomped on it viciously like he was trying to snuff out a cigarette.

The model who had been posing with a languorous hand leaning against a wall, the other outstretched with apple, the perfect picture of innocence opened her mouth to speak “S-“

“SHUT UP” He thundered his voice carrying a high note of panic. He breathed in more deeply, “Just—just shut up!” “Gladys. You’re a goddess, but if you open your mouth you begin to sound like a gutter rat brat. So do us all a favor and keep those magnificent lips shut will you?”

Gladys pursed her lips in an annoyance and a fiery note appeared in her eyes, far from making her employer angry he was thrilled. “Brilliant!” He exclaimed eyeing her, “Didn’t I tell you, you were a goddess? Just hold that. I need to go get another pencil”

When he had exited Gladys let out a string of very dirty words “Bliddy goddess he says. What, my accent not good enough for Mr. High and Might?” She sniffed with the precocious sniff of the lower middle class.

“I’m surprised I put up with Henri and all his little airs. French he says. Bloody Americans. Think they own the fecking world: "

-The Model

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