This is a writing exercise. I tried to adopt a different voice than my usual sarcastic, slightly irreverent, Buffy-speaking, hyphen-filled tone. I was feeling content, so here is a moderately romantic short-story-type-thing that I hope you will all find to be nice. Just nice.
I intended to sit down and bust out a few paragraphs, but instead found myself absorbed in a world of my own making, and stayed up late transcribing this from the stray thoughts in my brain. As such, it's a little long. I apologise.
Also, it probably says something about me that this is my idea of a great relationship.
"We are part human, part stories."
Lucas pushed open the door of the library that time forgot, and paused to take in the scent. The musty aroma of old books and cardboard rushed to meet him like an old friend, and he was happy. As far as he knew, he was the only one who used the school's bookstore. It was a small room in which the school librarian stored the books nobody wanted to read.
That was, nobody but Lucas.
The room was Lucas' favourite place in the world. It was a room of books, nothing more, nothing less. He could stay there for hours just browsing, never opening a book, perfectly content simply to look and to feel and to smell.
It was his own personal space, the place in which he felt most comfortable. Tucked away in a forgotten corner of the school, he shouldn't really have been there at all. It was, technically, out of bounds for students. He certainly shouldn't have been skipping ninth-period Biology to go there.
The small section of school used for storage was truly forgotten, however, and there was little risk of being caught by a teacher. Even the cleaners left the place alone, for the most part. Besides the room he spent the most time in, there were several other rooms used exclusively for storage. One was for furniture, and it was from there he had taken the armchair which now sat in the center of the book-room. He supposed it had once belonged to a teacher, but he didn't care.
It was the best kind of armchair, the one that was old and broken and supremely comfortable. One of the legs was missing, but Lucas had remedied the situation by propping it up with a book of poetry. The cushions were busted and ripped, and they slid around quite a bit, so you frequently had to correct them.
Lucas loved that chair. Evidently, so did the girl that was curled up in its embrace, reading the aforementioned book of poetry. The armchair tilted to one side, and the cushions were dangerously close to falling off of the chair altogether. The girl seemed to neither notice nor mind this fact. She was curled up in the foetal position, her mouth silently forming the shapes of the words she absorbed from the paper and ink she held in her hands.
Lucas was surprised. He had thought he was the only person who knew about the room. Certainly, he had never seen another soul in there. The girl was wearing the uniform of the school, but Lucas didn't believe he had seen her around before. She was pale, with wispy, reddish-blonde hair and eyeglasses that were perched on the tip of her nose. She didn't seem to have registered Lucas' presence.
"Excuse me?" he asked quietly. The girl did not move, save for turning a single page. Lucas loved that sound; the rough noise as the pages caressed one another fleetingly. He repeated his statement, slightly louder this time. "Excuse me?"
The girl looked up in surprise and sat up slightly in the armchair. Her glasses still on the tip of her nose, she pushed them up in order to see who had disturbed her so. "Hello," she ventured.
"Hello," replied Lucas. Now that the conversation was initiated, he knew not what to say. There was silence for a while, and then the girl returned to the sanctuary of her poetry collection. She was not rude about it, and Lucas was not offended in any way. Still surprised by the very presence of another person, he went up to one of the shelves and removed the book he was currently halfway through. Settling down on a cardboard box filled to the brim with old science textbooks, he began to read.
The pair sat in silence, each enveloped in a world of words, until the end of school bell went. Lucas tore himself away from the allure of the pages he held in his hands, and made for the door. Remembering his manners, he turned to the girl.
"Goodbye," he said.
The girl, again, remained motionless, and made no indication that she had any intention of moving. Gently closing the door, Lucas sighed to himself.
* * *
Lucas went through the next day of school as best he could, attempting to pay attention in class, and trying to appear studious. No matter how interested he seemed, however, his mind was on other things. He still didn't know who the girl was. He had been keeping a close eye on every crowd he saw, scanning the corridors for a glimpse of that fiery hair, or a telltale glint of sunlight on spectacle lense. However, he saw neither thing.
After lunch, he could no longer stop himself from checking the room. Surely if she was not in the throng of students, she would be in there?
When Lucas reached the door he had seen so many times before, he did something he had never done before: he knocked. He did not expect a reply from the silent maiden of the room, but he felt a knock was fair warning. As he had expected, no reply came, so he entered.
Inside, he did not find the girl; instead discovering something altogether more surprising. Beside the chair he had moved from the other room was a different, equally decrepit leather armchair.
Despite himself, Lucas smiled.
* * *
A few weeks on, and Lucas and the girl had become firm friends. They had exchanged a grand total of twenty-seven words, and neither knew the other's name, but if you spend time with someone, even silent time, you pick up on their nuances and grow to know them well. Lucas had taken to skipping entire days of class in order to sit in the room.
Finishing a novel and setting it to one side, he reached for the next book. His hand was around it when the girl spoke.
"I don't think you want to read that one," she said. It was probably the longest sentence that had been spoken in the room.
"Why not?" Lucas questioned, surprised the girl had spoken unprompted.
"It's simply not very good." Lucas thought he picked up a trace of a vaguely upper-class accent that had previously gone unnoticed. "It's a bog-standard romance. The writer has an unremarkable style. The plot is clicheéd, the characters are flimsy and one-dimensional, and the sex scenes are badly written."
Lucas smiled. "I didn't even know it was a romance," he said truthfully, setting the novel back where he found it and picking up a different one. "I was just reading it for the sake of reading."
The girl smiled also. "That's the same reason I read it. How was that?" she asked, pointing at the novel he had just finished. "I was considering reading it next."
"I liked it," Lucas admitted. "I wasn't crazy about the ending, though. How's yours?"
"Decidedly mediocre."
They smiled at one another before blushing, and both resumed reading. They had realised simultaneously that they were having a proper conversation, and the thought had scared them just a little.
* * *
More weeks passed, and the conversations got progressively longer. They were always similar, but never boring. They were always about books, always. The pair had become remarkably close, and yet still didn't know eachother's names. The subject had never come up.
Mid-term break came, and Lucas found himself missing the girl and her silent company. He was grateful when the break was over, as it had felt more like a punishment than a holiday.
Upon returning to school, the first thing he did was head for the room. He reached it, but was distraught when he saw who was outside it. The girl was standing in front of the open door, tears welling up in her eyes but not falling. Lucas rushed over to see what the matter was, and was shocked to see that all of the books had been removed. The room was nothing more than an empty shell.
"I checked the other rooms," said the girl. "They weren't there. They're gone. All the books are gone. They cleared the rooms."
Lucas found his hand reaching for the girl's, and their fingers intertwined. He wasn't even sure he meant to do it; it just felt natural.
After a long period of silent hand-holding, he spoke.
"I'm Lucas," he said gently.
"Anya," said the girl, equally quiet.
"Look at me," said Lucas and the girl- Anya- looked at him. He wiped the tears from her eyes with his free hand, and smiled at her. "There's always the library, right? As long as there are books, we'll be fine. As long as there's ink on a page and words in our hearts, we'll be fine." And with that, Lucas pulled Anya into a hug, the first of many.
Author's Note: Feedback on my unedited melodrama would be much appreciated, thank you. How did you find the more sincere tone? Was it a bog-standard romance? Is my style unremarkable? Was the plot clicheéd, were the characters flimsy or were the non-existent sex scenes badly written?
Comment away, true believers.
(I, personally, dislike the second-last line. But, hey, I'm keeping it intact. It wouldn't be a writing exercise if you edited, would it?)
Thursday 29 September 2011
Monday 26 September 2011
Magic and Modernity: Chapter Nine.
"What the hell, Errant?" I yelled. "What are you even doing here?"
"You know this thing?" hissed Venice at me.
Errant looked grave. "This is unfortunate, man, it really is. I met you before you found the lab, and I genuinely liked you. Shame I have to kill you now."
I tried very hard not to whine. "What are you doing in there?"
"Dude, this isn't a cartoon. I'm not going to give a final monologue to you just because I'm sure of my victory. I AM sure of my victory, by the way. No, you and your pretty little girlfriend are just going to be ripped apart by a very hungry... Thing. I don't really know what else you'd call it. I'm really sorry about this, man. The Stephen King book was great, and I'll miss that store..." He hesitated. "Bye!" he added chirpily, before turning on his heel and walking away from us.
"You have a terrible taste in friends," Venice said after a while.
"We have almost identical groups of friends."
"Shut up. What do you think he meant by "ripped apart by a Thing"?"
"I should have thought it was fairly self-explanatory. We may be ripped apart by a thing. Let's look for a way out of here before said "Thing" comes."
It was at that point a loud noise, like a bull's snort, came from the dark corridor opposite the lab.
Venice sighed. "You couldn't have kept your mouth shut, could you?"
The "Thing" lumbered out into what little light there was, and we saw that "Thing" was really the only word to describe it. With grey skin, and tiny hands, it was vaguely human-shaped, but the proportions were all wrong. It looked like a bull had had sex with a wrestler, and someone had pumped the resulting child full of steroids. Like the rat we had seen, its shoulders were remarkably broad, and its head was remarkably small. It was also much taller than any normal human, standing at a conservative estimate of nine feet, its head scraping the top of the hallway. It wasn't wearing any clothes, so we could see that it was male (Ahem.), but I couldn't assign it a gender. It would always be an "It." What semblance of humanity the man had had had been taken away from him by the experiments that had been conducted on him in the lab.
It roared at us and charged, head down like a bull, towards us.
Venice and I swore simultaneously.
"You know this thing?" hissed Venice at me.
Errant looked grave. "This is unfortunate, man, it really is. I met you before you found the lab, and I genuinely liked you. Shame I have to kill you now."
I tried very hard not to whine. "What are you doing in there?"
"Dude, this isn't a cartoon. I'm not going to give a final monologue to you just because I'm sure of my victory. I AM sure of my victory, by the way. No, you and your pretty little girlfriend are just going to be ripped apart by a very hungry... Thing. I don't really know what else you'd call it. I'm really sorry about this, man. The Stephen King book was great, and I'll miss that store..." He hesitated. "Bye!" he added chirpily, before turning on his heel and walking away from us.
"You have a terrible taste in friends," Venice said after a while.
"We have almost identical groups of friends."
"Shut up. What do you think he meant by "ripped apart by a Thing"?"
"I should have thought it was fairly self-explanatory. We may be ripped apart by a thing. Let's look for a way out of here before said "Thing" comes."
It was at that point a loud noise, like a bull's snort, came from the dark corridor opposite the lab.
Venice sighed. "You couldn't have kept your mouth shut, could you?"
The "Thing" lumbered out into what little light there was, and we saw that "Thing" was really the only word to describe it. With grey skin, and tiny hands, it was vaguely human-shaped, but the proportions were all wrong. It looked like a bull had had sex with a wrestler, and someone had pumped the resulting child full of steroids. Like the rat we had seen, its shoulders were remarkably broad, and its head was remarkably small. It was also much taller than any normal human, standing at a conservative estimate of nine feet, its head scraping the top of the hallway. It wasn't wearing any clothes, so we could see that it was male (Ahem.), but I couldn't assign it a gender. It would always be an "It." What semblance of humanity the man had had had been taken away from him by the experiments that had been conducted on him in the lab.
It roared at us and charged, head down like a bull, towards us.
Venice and I swore simultaneously.
Sunday 25 September 2011
Magic and Modernity: Chapter 7
By popular demand, more fic:
The answer was very quick indeed. Barely five minutes after I called, Venice pulled up in her car. I hopped into the passenger's seat, and set my satchel into the foot-compartment-type-thing.
"What's the plan?" she asked me.
"Drive. Show up. Go down the hole. Hope we don't die."
"I like that plan. My favourite part is the bit where we don't die. Who do you want to pick up?"
"Chuck Norris."
"Besides him."
"Mr T."
"Be serious."
"Cthulu."
Venice sighed. "I said "be serious.""
"I am being serious. If we had Cthulu on our side, we wouldn't have to worry about anything. Regardless, let's stick with picking up Octa."
We drove off. Octa wasn't home. We kept driving. We tried to pick up other people, but with no luck. After a while, we just decided to drive on without backup.
As we pulled up to the house, Venice spoke.
"You know, I think this was just a cunning plan to get me alone in an old house at night. This is the part where you try to get me drunk."
"Gorshdangit, my clever ruse has been rumbled," I said jokingly. "We don't know what's going on down here, so we need to be careful. Serious sauce."
"Aye-aye, captain." Venice made off towards the door immediately, and I had to do that stupid little fast-walk to catch up.
We reached the door, and the entire hallway was in deep shadow. We approached the hole in the floor, and I tied some more rope around a pillar, as I had done the first time we arrived.
"Ladies first."
"Gee, thanks."
When Ven had reached the bottom, I slid down the rope in the most badass way I could manage, unable to resist showing off. Badassery, however, has its price, and I suffered some pretty bad friction burns for my trouble. I think I managed to hide the pain pretty well, burying my hands deep onto my pockets.
I was feeling relatively pleased with myself, until I heard a thud behind me. I looked up to see what had happened, and noticed Errant standing at the top of the hole, still holding the gardening shears he had used to cut the rope.
The answer was very quick indeed. Barely five minutes after I called, Venice pulled up in her car. I hopped into the passenger's seat, and set my satchel into the foot-compartment-type-thing.
"What's the plan?" she asked me.
"Drive. Show up. Go down the hole. Hope we don't die."
"I like that plan. My favourite part is the bit where we don't die. Who do you want to pick up?"
"Chuck Norris."
"Besides him."
"Mr T."
"Be serious."
"Cthulu."
Venice sighed. "I said "be serious.""
"I am being serious. If we had Cthulu on our side, we wouldn't have to worry about anything. Regardless, let's stick with picking up Octa."
We drove off. Octa wasn't home. We kept driving. We tried to pick up other people, but with no luck. After a while, we just decided to drive on without backup.
As we pulled up to the house, Venice spoke.
"You know, I think this was just a cunning plan to get me alone in an old house at night. This is the part where you try to get me drunk."
"Gorshdangit, my clever ruse has been rumbled," I said jokingly. "We don't know what's going on down here, so we need to be careful. Serious sauce."
"Aye-aye, captain." Venice made off towards the door immediately, and I had to do that stupid little fast-walk to catch up.
We reached the door, and the entire hallway was in deep shadow. We approached the hole in the floor, and I tied some more rope around a pillar, as I had done the first time we arrived.
"Ladies first."
"Gee, thanks."
When Ven had reached the bottom, I slid down the rope in the most badass way I could manage, unable to resist showing off. Badassery, however, has its price, and I suffered some pretty bad friction burns for my trouble. I think I managed to hide the pain pretty well, burying my hands deep onto my pockets.
I was feeling relatively pleased with myself, until I heard a thud behind me. I looked up to see what had happened, and noticed Errant standing at the top of the hole, still holding the gardening shears he had used to cut the rope.
Monday 19 September 2011
Chapter... 7? I dunno.
For Kal and Ven.
Horatio Backup Timothy Carlton Siger Wulfric Sherlock Garrus Stephen Benedict Kirby JurassicParkTwo Montblanc (the Third) is a very content mouse with a very long name. I'm not sure if all mice are like this, but he's very chill. After rescuing him from That Strange Lab, I noticed that the fear he had shown down there had all but evaporated, and all he seemed to want to do was sleep and eat (Much like myself). The one and only strange thing I had noticed about him was the fact would not stay in his cage. Actually, no. The strange part was the fact he would stare at the bars, which would then part of their own accord. Funnily enough, once he was out, he would just lie down and sleep, which he probably could have done IN the damn cage.
He was the only animal we found there that was both safe to keep and not dead. We still had no idea what was going on in the house. I only really knew two things for certain. One: Something was going on in that old house. Two: I had gained a psychokinetic pet mouse with a really long name who liked to eat Doritos.
My lack of knowledge was the main reason we decided to go back. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it was a smarter cat when it died.
I called Venice to organise another "expotition" (Author's Note: Yes, that is a Winnie the Pooh reference. Deal with it, bitches.) to the house. She answered on the third ring.
"Hello, Niall."
"Howdy doody. Listen, I'm just going to cut to the chase-"
"Aww. No hilarious witticisms or impossible sarcasm?" Venice said, her own voice dripping with the latter.
"'Fraid not. Are you up for going back to that house?"
"... The one where you got Horatio?"
"That one, yes."
I felt her shrug. "Meh, why not? Do you want me to call Kal and Gepard?"
"I don't know... Maybe we should bring some other people instead... I don't think Kal would be comfortable in the house again, and I just don't think I'm in the mood for Gepard tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah. How quick can you be here?"
Horatio Backup Timothy Carlton Siger Wulfric Sherlock Garrus Stephen Benedict Kirby JurassicParkTwo Montblanc (the Third) is a very content mouse with a very long name. I'm not sure if all mice are like this, but he's very chill. After rescuing him from That Strange Lab, I noticed that the fear he had shown down there had all but evaporated, and all he seemed to want to do was sleep and eat (Much like myself). The one and only strange thing I had noticed about him was the fact would not stay in his cage. Actually, no. The strange part was the fact he would stare at the bars, which would then part of their own accord. Funnily enough, once he was out, he would just lie down and sleep, which he probably could have done IN the damn cage.
He was the only animal we found there that was both safe to keep and not dead. We still had no idea what was going on in the house. I only really knew two things for certain. One: Something was going on in that old house. Two: I had gained a psychokinetic pet mouse with a really long name who liked to eat Doritos.
My lack of knowledge was the main reason we decided to go back. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it was a smarter cat when it died.
I called Venice to organise another "expotition" (Author's Note: Yes, that is a Winnie the Pooh reference. Deal with it, bitches.) to the house. She answered on the third ring.
"Hello, Niall."
"Howdy doody. Listen, I'm just going to cut to the chase-"
"Aww. No hilarious witticisms or impossible sarcasm?" Venice said, her own voice dripping with the latter.
"'Fraid not. Are you up for going back to that house?"
"... The one where you got Horatio?"
"That one, yes."
I felt her shrug. "Meh, why not? Do you want me to call Kal and Gepard?"
"I don't know... Maybe we should bring some other people instead... I don't think Kal would be comfortable in the house again, and I just don't think I'm in the mood for Gepard tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah. How quick can you be here?"
Chapter the Sixth: In which a pet is acquired.
Gepard cautiously approached the edge of the hole in order to peer down, and the floor gave way beneath him. He fell a little bit, and I heard a thud when he landed. "I'm okay, too," came his voice, and I heard Kallista giggle a little bit. "You guys should come see this," he added. "It's really weird. Like, almost as weird as Niall."
"Shut up."
Venice shrugged and hopped into the hole. I removed some rope from my satchel and lowered myself down slowly.
I had to agree with Gepard. What was down the hole was, indeed, really weird.
The short drop ended in another hallway, perhaps even bigger than the one at ground level. It was certainly much cleaner. it smelled vaguely of chemicals, but not in the same way a hospital smells of chemicals. It was an altogether more unpleasant smell.
In front of us, the hallway ended in what I presume used to be a door, but behind us, it was too dark to see the end of the hall. Even as I lowered myself down the rope, Gepard was stepping through the doorway. If the hallway underneath a hallway was odd, what lay behind the door was even more so. On an oddness scale of one to Optimus Prime, this was pretty damn high.
The hallway led to a laboratory. It was by no means an abandoned laboratory, either, although the place had been completely wrecked.
It looked as I imagine a Victorian meth lab would have looked. Out-of-date laboratory equipment was strewn around the room, test tubes had been overturned, and there were several cages with animals in them. Some of the animals were even still alive, but most had either just died or had been ripped apart with terrifying brutality. Several of the animals that were still living looked mutated, like something out of a mad scientist's laboratory. I supposed that probably wasn't all that far from the truth.
There was one rat in particular that had impossibly broad shoulders and a face that was too small for its body. I tried hard not to retch, and began looking around the other cages. In one of the smallest, there was an entirely-normal-looking-if-a-little-undersized mouse hiding in the corner. I felt sorry for it, so I picked up the cage, intending to take it home with me. (Niall Montblanc, your friendly neighbourhood marshmallow.)
"Shut up."
Venice shrugged and hopped into the hole. I removed some rope from my satchel and lowered myself down slowly.
I had to agree with Gepard. What was down the hole was, indeed, really weird.
The short drop ended in another hallway, perhaps even bigger than the one at ground level. It was certainly much cleaner. it smelled vaguely of chemicals, but not in the same way a hospital smells of chemicals. It was an altogether more unpleasant smell.
In front of us, the hallway ended in what I presume used to be a door, but behind us, it was too dark to see the end of the hall. Even as I lowered myself down the rope, Gepard was stepping through the doorway. If the hallway underneath a hallway was odd, what lay behind the door was even more so. On an oddness scale of one to Optimus Prime, this was pretty damn high.
The hallway led to a laboratory. It was by no means an abandoned laboratory, either, although the place had been completely wrecked.
It looked as I imagine a Victorian meth lab would have looked. Out-of-date laboratory equipment was strewn around the room, test tubes had been overturned, and there were several cages with animals in them. Some of the animals were even still alive, but most had either just died or had been ripped apart with terrifying brutality. Several of the animals that were still living looked mutated, like something out of a mad scientist's laboratory. I supposed that probably wasn't all that far from the truth.
There was one rat in particular that had impossibly broad shoulders and a face that was too small for its body. I tried hard not to retch, and began looking around the other cages. In one of the smallest, there was an entirely-normal-looking-if-a-little-undersized mouse hiding in the corner. I felt sorry for it, so I picked up the cage, intending to take it home with me. (Niall Montblanc, your friendly neighbourhood marshmallow.)
"Niall? You might want to take a look at this..." said Gepard. He didn't make a friendly jibe at me, and he wasn't hitting on either of the girls, so I knew it was serious. I walked over to where the others were standing, still carrying the cage: They were all staring at the a cage that was significantly larger than the one in my hand. It was perhaps 15x15x15 feet, and the door had been torn from the hinges as if they were paper.
"What are we dealing with here?" said Kal, no longer her usual bouncy self. She sounded scared, and, though I would never admit it, I was scared too.
"Let's not stay to find out," I said, before leaving the room and climbing back up the rope. (Better a live coward than a dead hero and all that.) I quickly found that climbing whilst holding a cage is fairly difficult, but I managed. The others followed soon after, and we were all eager to return to the car. It took a while before anyone noticed the cage I had acquired.
"What the frak is that?" asked Venice, turning around in the driver's seat.
"This is Horatio. He's a mouse."
"What are we dealing with here?" said Kal, no longer her usual bouncy self. She sounded scared, and, though I would never admit it, I was scared too.
"Let's not stay to find out," I said, before leaving the room and climbing back up the rope. (Better a live coward than a dead hero and all that.) I quickly found that climbing whilst holding a cage is fairly difficult, but I managed. The others followed soon after, and we were all eager to return to the car. It took a while before anyone noticed the cage I had acquired.
"What the frak is that?" asked Venice, turning around in the driver's seat.
"This is Horatio. He's a mouse."
Saturday 10 September 2011
Chapter Five.
Due to Kallista's comments on the last post, I felt bad that I have already written this, and can't change the story to have her kidnap Ven. Instead, here is a chapter with Kallista in it, being very Kallista-ish.
The next morning, I rolled over in bed and groaned. Monday is an awful way to spend one seventh of your life, and it annoys me that it is a weekly event. Monday meant work, and I had a book hangover. Staying up most of the night trying to devour all of the books your friend had brought the night before is generally not a good idea. My bedside table was stacked high with paperbacks and I really didn't want to get up.
I eventually summoned the strength to sit up, and I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, before grabbing my glasses from atop the pile of books. Clambering out of bed, I wriggled into some clothes and set off on an epic quest for cereal. As I poured a bowl of Super Awesome Mega Hyper Frosted Chocomallow Bites (bootleg cereal is the best), I noticed a note stuck to my fridge.
DON'T FORGET: EXPLORING TONIGHT, it said, in what I recognised as Venice's handwriting. GEPARD AND KALLISTA ALSO COMING. WILL MEET YOU @ SPINE @ 7.
After an uneventful day at the Spine, I closed up ten-ish minutes early and waited for the other members of the group to arrive. This expedition had been scheduled for a few days, and I had my stuff ready upstairs. I realised that I should probably nip up to grab my bag, and I did so. Upon entering my flat, I saw that Venice was already there, and was rifling through the contents of my satchel. She gave me an "is-this-stuff-really-necessar
I stood my ground. "We might not have mobile reception."
"Whatever you say," Ven said, shrugging. "Gepard and Kal are waiting in the car. Grab your jacket and let's go."
After a short drive, we pulled up at an old mansion outside Dublin city. It was in a state of near-decay, and it didn't look as if it had had occupants any time in the last twenty years.
Kal looked up at it with awe. "Cool," she said, drawing the word out to a ridiculous length.
"Much like myself," said Gepard.
"There's only room fer one ego in this here town, pardner, an' I intend ta stay," I replied, in my most ridiculous Texan accent.
Venice shut the car door and popped the lock on the boot, removing my satchel and handing it to me.
"Take your manpurse," she said good-naturedly.
"It's not a purse, it's a satchel. Indiana Jones had one. He was an adventurer. We're adventuring. Ergo, it is a manpurse perfectly suited to the task at hand."
"If you say so. The purse may be convenient, but why did you have to come in a suit?" She gestured towards my attire.
"Do I or do I not look good?"
"I guess you do..."
"That's why I had to come in a suit. Also, I forgot to change out of my work clothes." I paused. "Okay, it was mostly the second reason."
Venice sighed, before turning to the rest of the group. "Alright guys, you know how this works. Leave nothing but footsteps, take nothing but photographs. Be careful on higher floors. Kal, try not to- Kal?"
Kal had already bounded off in the direction of the house. I called out to her, waving a white mask over my head, and she came back to get it. There was relatively little danger of falling through floors, but asbestos was ever-present in old buildings, and asbestos is srs bznz.
As soon as everyone had their masks, and Venice had reiterated her short safety monologue, Kallista ran off in the direction of the building again. Kicking the door open, se ran into the main hallway. We heard a crack, and Kal just disappered. Now you see her, now you don't.
It was our turn to run now, and we did so. Upon reaching the door, we noticed something odd about the hallway. The odd thing was a gaping hole in the floor.
"I'm okay," said a voice from the hole.
The next morning, I rolled over in bed and groaned. Monday is an awful way to spend one seventh of your life, and it annoys me that it is a weekly event. Monday meant work, and I had a book hangover. Staying up most of the night trying to devour all of the books your friend had brought the night before is generally not a good idea. My bedside table was stacked high with paperbacks and I really didn't want to get up.
I eventually summoned the strength to sit up, and I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, before grabbing my glasses from atop the pile of books. Clambering out of bed, I wriggled into some clothes and set off on an epic quest for cereal. As I poured a bowl of Super Awesome Mega Hyper Frosted Chocomallow Bites (bootleg cereal is the best), I noticed a note stuck to my fridge.
DON'T FORGET: EXPLORING TONIGHT, it said, in what I recognised as Venice's handwriting. GEPARD AND KALLISTA ALSO COMING. WILL MEET YOU @ SPINE @ 7.
After an uneventful day at the Spine, I closed up ten-ish minutes early and waited for the other members of the group to arrive. This expedition had been scheduled for a few days, and I had my stuff ready upstairs. I realised that I should probably nip up to grab my bag, and I did so. Upon entering my flat, I saw that Venice was already there, and was rifling through the contents of my satchel. She gave me an "is-this-stuff-really-necessar
I stood my ground. "We might not have mobile reception."
"Whatever you say," Ven said, shrugging. "Gepard and Kal are waiting in the car. Grab your jacket and let's go."
After a short drive, we pulled up at an old mansion outside Dublin city. It was in a state of near-decay, and it didn't look as if it had had occupants any time in the last twenty years.
Kal looked up at it with awe. "Cool," she said, drawing the word out to a ridiculous length.
"Much like myself," said Gepard.
"There's only room fer one ego in this here town, pardner, an' I intend ta stay," I replied, in my most ridiculous Texan accent.
Venice shut the car door and popped the lock on the boot, removing my satchel and handing it to me.
"Take your manpurse," she said good-naturedly.
"It's not a purse, it's a satchel. Indiana Jones had one. He was an adventurer. We're adventuring. Ergo, it is a manpurse perfectly suited to the task at hand."
"If you say so. The purse may be convenient, but why did you have to come in a suit?" She gestured towards my attire.
"Do I or do I not look good?"
"I guess you do..."
"That's why I had to come in a suit. Also, I forgot to change out of my work clothes." I paused. "Okay, it was mostly the second reason."
Venice sighed, before turning to the rest of the group. "Alright guys, you know how this works. Leave nothing but footsteps, take nothing but photographs. Be careful on higher floors. Kal, try not to- Kal?"
Kal had already bounded off in the direction of the house. I called out to her, waving a white mask over my head, and she came back to get it. There was relatively little danger of falling through floors, but asbestos was ever-present in old buildings, and asbestos is srs bznz.
As soon as everyone had their masks, and Venice had reiterated her short safety monologue, Kallista ran off in the direction of the building again. Kicking the door open, se ran into the main hallway. We heard a crack, and Kal just disappered. Now you see her, now you don't.
It was our turn to run now, and we did so. Upon reaching the door, we noticed something odd about the hallway. The odd thing was a gaping hole in the floor.
"I'm okay," said a voice from the hole.
Thursday 8 September 2011
Chapter Four: FEATURING VENICE!
Author's Note:
HIS UPDATE SPEED! IT'S OFF THE CHARTS! I have also not decided if this is Venice the OC or Venice the person we know and love. Decide for yourself.
I live in a small apartment above The Broken Spine. The store closes at seven on weekdays, and I clean up a little before retiring at half-past. As I ascended the stairs to the flat, I heard muffled voices coming from my living room. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying, though.
I grabbed a book and raised it over my head, poised to strike. I then noticed that it was a first-edition copy of Game of Thrones, and I put it back where I had found it. (I didn't want any skulls denting it.) I picked up a different hardback and continued up the stairs.
Lying flat against the wall, I pushed the door open just like they do in every bad cop movie ever. The voices didn't stop, and I still couldn't make out what they were saying. I jumped into the room, and prepared to strike.
Venice Rain was sitting on my sofa playing Mass Effect. The voices had been her Shephard trying to romance Garrus.
"Stop breaking into my house," I said, as I walked into my kitchen to get some juice.
"It's fun, it's easy, and you have an XBox," said Venice, not looking up from the cutscene. "Also, you need more orange juice," she added, shaking the empty carton over her head.
I closed the fridge I had been scanning for the absent juice, and I walked over to my sofa, picking up a book on the coffee table.
"You're here so much, you may as well just move in," I said offhandedly. "I daresay you're here more than I am. I'll just get you a damn key cut. Also, I still don't know how you get in."
"I still don't know how you guessed my given name," she replied, as I flopped down onto the sofa beside her.
"What are you reading?" asked Venice, eyes still glued to the screen. "Epic of Gilgamesh? Jules Verne? Kafka? The Argos catalogue?"
"New issue of Batman."
HIS UPDATE SPEED! IT'S OFF THE CHARTS! I have also not decided if this is Venice the OC or Venice the person we know and love. Decide for yourself.
I live in a small apartment above The Broken Spine. The store closes at seven on weekdays, and I clean up a little before retiring at half-past. As I ascended the stairs to the flat, I heard muffled voices coming from my living room. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying, though.
I grabbed a book and raised it over my head, poised to strike. I then noticed that it was a first-edition copy of Game of Thrones, and I put it back where I had found it. (I didn't want any skulls denting it.) I picked up a different hardback and continued up the stairs.
Lying flat against the wall, I pushed the door open just like they do in every bad cop movie ever. The voices didn't stop, and I still couldn't make out what they were saying. I jumped into the room, and prepared to strike.
Venice Rain was sitting on my sofa playing Mass Effect. The voices had been her Shephard trying to romance Garrus.
"Stop breaking into my house," I said, as I walked into my kitchen to get some juice.
"It's fun, it's easy, and you have an XBox," said Venice, not looking up from the cutscene. "Also, you need more orange juice," she added, shaking the empty carton over her head.
I closed the fridge I had been scanning for the absent juice, and I walked over to my sofa, picking up a book on the coffee table.
"You're here so much, you may as well just move in," I said offhandedly. "I daresay you're here more than I am. I'll just get you a damn key cut. Also, I still don't know how you get in."
"I still don't know how you guessed my given name," she replied, as I flopped down onto the sofa beside her.
"What are you reading?" asked Venice, eyes still glued to the screen. "Epic of Gilgamesh? Jules Verne? Kafka? The Argos catalogue?"
"New issue of Batman."
Wednesday 7 September 2011
New (still nameless) fic: Chapters Two and Three.
Author's Note: O HAI DERE! This is technically two chapters. This is because chapter three was short anyhoo, and also because I want to cut to the action. Enjoy.
The Broken Spine is my pride and joy. It's a little old building in Dublin, selling books and serving food. It's pretty simple. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, most with books, a few with comic books, magazines and newspapers. (No tabloids, broadsheets only. You want to buy The Sun, get the hell out of my store.) There's a small café in the back, where I sell tea, sandwiches, and, occasionally, one of Finbar's cakes. We have a few computers you can access for a small charge, but it's not really an Internet café. As well as full-on magical stuff I sell straight-up genre fiction. Horror, Fantasy and Sci-Fi, my personal favourites.
If the store's open, I'm probably there. Anybody with magic puts no stock in age, and ordinary muggles assume I just work there, even though I own the place.
Errant decided to show up just as I was helping an elderly lady pick out a paperback for her teenage granddaughter. He simply strolled into the shop and said Hi, which was rather inconsiderate. The old woman fainted, and I managed to catch her before she hit the ground, but only just. Fortunately, the shop was fairly empty at the time, and the woman was the only non-magical one there. I caught myself wondering how Errant got around the city. Most ordinary mages could pass as normal, but there was no hope for Errant.
"This is nice," he said, craning his neck and looking around the place. "Bit small, though."
"Much like yourself," I said, whilst trying to revive the old lady. "Except for the part where it's nice."
"Well, if it's like me, I assume there's more to this place than meets the eye?"
"It's a goddamn magical bookstore. Of course there's more to it than meets the eye. We've got the standard commercial stuff up here, and the magical stuff is downstairs." As I spoke, I felt the woman stir. "Go hide behind a shelf or something. She's waking up." Errant grudgingly did as I instructed as the woman came to.
"Welcome back," I said to her. "You fainted. It's understandable. It's pretty hot."
"It's minus two outside..."
The woman was indeed right. It was late November in Dublin, and it was bloody cold.
"Well... Maybe you just... My thermostat... What book did you want again?"
I managed to get the woman to leave, and I threw in an extra paperback for her granddaughter because I felt bad. As she thanked me and left, I went up to the door and flipped over the "open" sign. We were now officially "Closed for lunch, please come back in ten minutes." This was a necessary precaution. I intended to take Errant down below, and I didn't need anyone coming in when no staff were present.
As we descended the ladder that was hidden behind the checkout desk, I braced myself for more comments about the size of my shop. "Downstairs" is simply a small, windowless, concrete room lined with more bookshelves. The entire thing is maybe seven feet by seven feet, but we have a pretty wide selection of books for you to choose from.
I turned around, preparing myself for an insult, but instead I found a doll in a Ramones shirt poring over a large Grimoire on the study of possession.
"You rip that, you buy it."
Errant himself is a Possessive, I later found out. Possessive mages can usually touch something and take it over, making it animate if necessary. They leave their unconscious body and get "back into" it by touching it again. Errant possessed a doll twenty-odd years ago, as a Hallowe'en prank, but when he tried to return to his house, someone had stolen his body. Unable to change forms without returning to his original body, he was stuck as a doll until he could find his old one.
"Are you going to buy that?" I asked him.
"Nope."
"Well then, put it back. In the right shelf. Right-way up."
"And if I don't?" he said, looking up at me.
"Then I kick you in the head and take the money myself. Maybe I'll even let you keep the book." If we sound as if we're being horrible to each other, we weren't. It was mostly just friendly, I'm-going-to-take-this-piss-out-of-you-because-I'm-Irish-and-you're-Irish-and-that's-what-Irish-people-do banter.
"Jesus. Calm down," Errant said grudgingly, reshelving the book."
"Jesus doesn't need to calm down, I do. See anything you want?"
"Not down here." Errant looked back up the ladder. "Do you have any Stephen King?"
"Now, what kind of bookshop doesn't have Stephen King?" I smirked.
After picking up a brand new copy of "Bag of Bones", Errant left the store. The next time I saw him, I would be significantly less pleased to be in his company.
The Broken Spine is my pride and joy. It's a little old building in Dublin, selling books and serving food. It's pretty simple. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, most with books, a few with comic books, magazines and newspapers. (No tabloids, broadsheets only. You want to buy The Sun, get the hell out of my store.) There's a small café in the back, where I sell tea, sandwiches, and, occasionally, one of Finbar's cakes. We have a few computers you can access for a small charge, but it's not really an Internet café. As well as full-on magical stuff I sell straight-up genre fiction. Horror, Fantasy and Sci-Fi, my personal favourites.
If the store's open, I'm probably there. Anybody with magic puts no stock in age, and ordinary muggles assume I just work there, even though I own the place.
Errant decided to show up just as I was helping an elderly lady pick out a paperback for her teenage granddaughter. He simply strolled into the shop and said Hi, which was rather inconsiderate. The old woman fainted, and I managed to catch her before she hit the ground, but only just. Fortunately, the shop was fairly empty at the time, and the woman was the only non-magical one there. I caught myself wondering how Errant got around the city. Most ordinary mages could pass as normal, but there was no hope for Errant.
"This is nice," he said, craning his neck and looking around the place. "Bit small, though."
"Much like yourself," I said, whilst trying to revive the old lady. "Except for the part where it's nice."
"Well, if it's like me, I assume there's more to this place than meets the eye?"
"It's a goddamn magical bookstore. Of course there's more to it than meets the eye. We've got the standard commercial stuff up here, and the magical stuff is downstairs." As I spoke, I felt the woman stir. "Go hide behind a shelf or something. She's waking up." Errant grudgingly did as I instructed as the woman came to.
"Welcome back," I said to her. "You fainted. It's understandable. It's pretty hot."
"It's minus two outside..."
The woman was indeed right. It was late November in Dublin, and it was bloody cold.
"Well... Maybe you just... My thermostat... What book did you want again?"
I managed to get the woman to leave, and I threw in an extra paperback for her granddaughter because I felt bad. As she thanked me and left, I went up to the door and flipped over the "open" sign. We were now officially "Closed for lunch, please come back in ten minutes." This was a necessary precaution. I intended to take Errant down below, and I didn't need anyone coming in when no staff were present.
As we descended the ladder that was hidden behind the checkout desk, I braced myself for more comments about the size of my shop. "Downstairs" is simply a small, windowless, concrete room lined with more bookshelves. The entire thing is maybe seven feet by seven feet, but we have a pretty wide selection of books for you to choose from.
I turned around, preparing myself for an insult, but instead I found a doll in a Ramones shirt poring over a large Grimoire on the study of possession.
"You rip that, you buy it."
Errant himself is a Possessive, I later found out. Possessive mages can usually touch something and take it over, making it animate if necessary. They leave their unconscious body and get "back into" it by touching it again. Errant possessed a doll twenty-odd years ago, as a Hallowe'en prank, but when he tried to return to his house, someone had stolen his body. Unable to change forms without returning to his original body, he was stuck as a doll until he could find his old one.
"Are you going to buy that?" I asked him.
"Nope."
"Well then, put it back. In the right shelf. Right-way up."
"And if I don't?" he said, looking up at me.
"Then I kick you in the head and take the money myself. Maybe I'll even let you keep the book." If we sound as if we're being horrible to each other, we weren't. It was mostly just friendly, I'm-going-to-take-this-piss-out-of-you-because-I'm-Irish-and-you're-Irish-and-that's-what-Irish-people-do banter.
"Jesus. Calm down," Errant said grudgingly, reshelving the book."
"Jesus doesn't need to calm down, I do. See anything you want?"
"Not down here." Errant looked back up the ladder. "Do you have any Stephen King?"
"Now, what kind of bookshop doesn't have Stephen King?" I smirked.
After picking up a brand new copy of "Bag of Bones", Errant left the store. The next time I saw him, I would be significantly less pleased to be in his company.
Monday 5 September 2011
New fic: Chapter the first.
Author's Note: Whilst I was in Spain, I wrote fourteen chapters of fic, because that's how I roll. This was done with no references to anything. Also, you will note that Dianne is mentioned and then promptly forgotten about. I want you to forget about her. She never existed. The character slot of "insanely awesome female partner has now been occupied by Venice.
ANY QUESTIONS? NO? Well, okay then.
I was hunting for antique furnishings in Dublin when I first met Errant Carrol. Dianne had managed to "persuade" my brother that I should move up to Dublin. (Thought manipulation may not be especially ethical, but dear god is it convenient.) I'd managed to acquire a storefront with an apartment above it (More "persuasion" on Dianne's part.), and I was trying hard to make it as home-like as possible. What better way to do so than with a nice nineteenth-century armchair? (I relate not to the uncouth youths of today's world, but to the polite chaps of yesteryear. (Except for geeks. I relate pretty well to geeks.) Brckets within brackets. (Parenthetical Matryoshka. (Parenthetical Matryoshka is a good name for a band.)))))
Whilst strolling alone down the aisles of Carrol's Curioddities, an extremely quaint antiques broker, I caught sight of the single most horriying thing I have ever seen. Sitting on top of a (rather splendid) old fifties radio was a doll. Dolls are creepy at any rate, but this one was easily the weirdest doll in the history of ever. It looked like it was supposed to be female, but someone had given it stubble using a black marker pen, and its plastic-y red curls had been hacked short. Somewhere along the line, the doll had acquired a baby-sized Ramones T-Shirt, and was wearing it over the elegant little Victorian-era dress I supposed was its original outfit.
Then the doll hopped off the radio and said Hi to me.
Understandably, this scared the hell out of me, and I barely supressed a shout before I kicked the doll as hard as I could upside the face. As it sailed through the air, I could hear it sigh a little, and it folded its arms as it flew. It hit the wall with a thud, and stood back up again.
"Look, buddy, you could try NOT kicking lumps out of people you've just met," said the doll in a surprisingly gruff, testosterone-filled voice. "You know, you only get one chance at a first impression, and, in my experience, kicking people in the face generally isn't a great start." The doll was dusting nonexistent dirt from its shoulders, and it looked at me funnily. (Its eyes weren't expressive, and it had no movable eyebrows, but somehow I knew it was a funny look.)
"Who are you?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question, and I was glad I opted not to go with the slightly-more-rude "What are you?"
"Errant Caroll, dealer in rare antiquities," he said, and I noted that I was doing quite well, considering the fact I was talking to what should have been an inanimate object.
I paused, unable to think of anything to say. "Where do you keep the armchairs?" I finally asked.
***
I realise now that I haven't quite explained why I moved away to the great big city. The short answer is that I wanted to. Skulduggery, Gepard and Venice could all be found in the area. All of my friends were there at least some of the time, and I wanted to be where my friends were.
The slightly longer answer was that I wanted to open a book store. I had several reasons for wanting to do so. One: I wanted a place for magical folk to be able to hang out. Two: China's library was cool, but a lot of people like to actually own their own copies of books. Three: I'd wanted to own a bookshop since I was knee-high to a snake. Four: I'd thought up an awesome pun for the shop name, and I never let a good pun go to waste. And last but not least, Five: I had no money.
***
Back at Carrol's Curioddities, I found myself purchasing two armchairs, one couch, one television cabinet, and one massive mahogany desk. (My house and bookstore were both lined with bookshelves, but I bought those from Ikea. (Ikea, just some oak and some pine and a handful of norsemen. Ikea, selling furniture for college kids and divorced men. Everyone has a home, but if you don't have a home you can buy one there.) I found myself warming to Errant, and, when I discovered he was a keen reader, I invited him to check out my store.
"Hello, my name is Niall Montblanc. Welcome to The Broken Spine Bookstore, how may I be of assistance?"
ANY QUESTIONS? NO? Well, okay then.
I was hunting for antique furnishings in Dublin when I first met Errant Carrol. Dianne had managed to "persuade" my brother that I should move up to Dublin. (Thought manipulation may not be especially ethical, but dear god is it convenient.) I'd managed to acquire a storefront with an apartment above it (More "persuasion" on Dianne's part.), and I was trying hard to make it as home-like as possible. What better way to do so than with a nice nineteenth-century armchair? (I relate not to the uncouth youths of today's world, but to the polite chaps of yesteryear. (Except for geeks. I relate pretty well to geeks.) Brckets within brackets. (Parenthetical Matryoshka. (Parenthetical Matryoshka is a good name for a band.)))))
Whilst strolling alone down the aisles of Carrol's Curioddities, an extremely quaint antiques broker, I caught sight of the single most horriying thing I have ever seen. Sitting on top of a (rather splendid) old fifties radio was a doll. Dolls are creepy at any rate, but this one was easily the weirdest doll in the history of ever. It looked like it was supposed to be female, but someone had given it stubble using a black marker pen, and its plastic-y red curls had been hacked short. Somewhere along the line, the doll had acquired a baby-sized Ramones T-Shirt, and was wearing it over the elegant little Victorian-era dress I supposed was its original outfit.
Then the doll hopped off the radio and said Hi to me.
Understandably, this scared the hell out of me, and I barely supressed a shout before I kicked the doll as hard as I could upside the face. As it sailed through the air, I could hear it sigh a little, and it folded its arms as it flew. It hit the wall with a thud, and stood back up again.
"Look, buddy, you could try NOT kicking lumps out of people you've just met," said the doll in a surprisingly gruff, testosterone-filled voice. "You know, you only get one chance at a first impression, and, in my experience, kicking people in the face generally isn't a great start." The doll was dusting nonexistent dirt from its shoulders, and it looked at me funnily. (Its eyes weren't expressive, and it had no movable eyebrows, but somehow I knew it was a funny look.)
"Who are you?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question, and I was glad I opted not to go with the slightly-more-rude "What are you?"
"Errant Caroll, dealer in rare antiquities," he said, and I noted that I was doing quite well, considering the fact I was talking to what should have been an inanimate object.
I paused, unable to think of anything to say. "Where do you keep the armchairs?" I finally asked.
***
I realise now that I haven't quite explained why I moved away to the great big city. The short answer is that I wanted to. Skulduggery, Gepard and Venice could all be found in the area. All of my friends were there at least some of the time, and I wanted to be where my friends were.
The slightly longer answer was that I wanted to open a book store. I had several reasons for wanting to do so. One: I wanted a place for magical folk to be able to hang out. Two: China's library was cool, but a lot of people like to actually own their own copies of books. Three: I'd wanted to own a bookshop since I was knee-high to a snake. Four: I'd thought up an awesome pun for the shop name, and I never let a good pun go to waste. And last but not least, Five: I had no money.
***
Back at Carrol's Curioddities, I found myself purchasing two armchairs, one couch, one television cabinet, and one massive mahogany desk. (My house and bookstore were both lined with bookshelves, but I bought those from Ikea. (Ikea, just some oak and some pine and a handful of norsemen. Ikea, selling furniture for college kids and divorced men. Everyone has a home, but if you don't have a home you can buy one there.) I found myself warming to Errant, and, when I discovered he was a keen reader, I invited him to check out my store.
"Hello, my name is Niall Montblanc. Welcome to The Broken Spine Bookstore, how may I be of assistance?"
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