In the Book of Moons
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In the Book of Moons

I'm going to find some old posts of mine and set them up here for viewing. Hopefully these will entice you to hit me up for a plot, and generally showcase what my writing is like. ;D
04-16-2015 05:38 AM
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[as Liir Thropp, in an AU of Wicked in which he raises his child with Trism bon Cavalish, Alice from Alice in Wonderland, and Dorothy Gale. He names his child after his mother, Ephaba. Yes, very weird.]

Quote:The rain barrels were full to the brim and topped with a layer of earthen offal swept up in the hard gales. Reflecting the healing sky in mid-morning, drifting as a warped mirror of already drifting grey clouding. Liir stared at them sleepily. He wanted to give Elphaba a bath, standing with the basin at his feet having been drug from across the bedroom and onto the near-foundationless threshold of the front of the house. He could probably use one too.

The girl was in her swaddling on his back, with the benefit of a rather bland view of the wood planks keeping the front wall together.

"We'll leave some for the others, I think." And began ladling out water into the basin with nothing but the pitcher used to store Elphaba's daily goat milk. When filled about an inch, he'd forgotten that it would do much better for her heated, so he carefully tried to tip it all back again, spilling nearly a quarter, and tried again, this time taking a pitcher-full and bringing it to pour onto the cauldron over the fire.

"I'll get this one day, you just wait."

Elphaba hummed, and hoped it would be so.

Liir heard stirring from the house on both sides. He'd thought about waking everyone at a set time to develop routine, but he wanted to let Trism sleep more, and he decided it would be unfair to expect something else from the women. So he lit the fire and went to milk Nip alone, leaving Elphaba in her low high chair and locked the door on her.

Nip had nearly strangled herself on her tether the other night, so he'd decided to let her roam. If she was an Animal after all, she would know it to be foolish to wander, for not only were there beasts and bogies about, but there was good grain and hay in the barn, though they were running a little low. In time he decided he would go by himself on his broom and try to bring back a few things from the Emerald City, a far trek on foot from Apple Press Farm. He'd keep his head down, wear a cowl, slather dirt on his face and nobody in the bustle of the market would notice. Really. And the broom, he'd hide it somewhere, and tie all the bushels to the middle and fly off in some secluded sector.

It was a terrible, terrible idea, but to keep Elphaba alive, he needed Nip to be alive.

Nip bleated, and he shook his head, sat on the little milking stool that was actually a small crate. "Sorry, girl. But you know, you could always speak up properly about it instead of making such a stupid noise."

Nip huffed, but did not say anything in a common tongue that he could discern. Just a low, guttural rumble that might have been a growl or a belch or both. What fine company.

Quote:He had no trouble mapping the way. In the months he'd come to know most bends and crannies in the ditch-infested wilds of this unlikely farm country. In a copse there were many a rabbit hole, but he had no spear nor arrow nor angry smoking gun to kill one with. But the girls went into town and bought meat, and he was glad for it. He couldn't very well do good in asking each one whether it had a sentient mind, after all. Chances are any sentient Rabbit who remained was doing his utmost to keep to the shadows and run with the dullards of its kind.

Liir was careful not to make the same exact trail to the ravine again, for fear it would grow flat and thus serve as a long pointing arrow to the missing Gillikinese doctor. So he went in a zig zagging curve around to the farther left of the cliff, and walked its edge to the spot where he and Alice had left the coach, far down, smashed, but not completely, and the body, caught under a wheel, bloated from the river and not yet eaten by buzzards or rats.

The purpose of revisiting was to show Trism. Liir wore Elphaba's cloak, which he had begun to do in habit. Perhaps to ward off bad spirits. Or good spirits. It bloomed up, convex, behind him, as he stood about five feet from the cliff's edge.

Quote:The swaddle was unravelling, and he placed her on the counter to re-wind. Wondering if the way she bit him like a fanged dog was temporal or just temperamental. Little holes in his fingers, still not finished being gaunt, though he had reason for suspicion that the birth of a father's child left him fatter and exhausted as well as the woman who bore it, at least for a measure.

She had no name. He usually called her, 'you' or 'apple', for the press farm under which she'd been born. At times he wanted to call her Elphaba. The name would tip and wane on his tongue so persuasively that in the end he had to defeat it by saying another word beginning with 'el'. 'Elllfs', 'Elllevator', 'Ellllleven.'

He'd made a carrier to hold on his shoulders for her. Made of sticks and sack and sap and rope. She would wiggle and screech like a dying hyena when placed in it, and would often snatch things from his hands as he used them, leading him to turn the carrier over to have her on his back. But she would then just rattle and pull things from that position, often leading her to either nearly fall out completely or pull him along with her and nearly fall on top of her.

He could just let her alone. He tried. He thought of fleeing. Or finding some doorstep to place her upon, but every time he set out to do it, it was as if Elphaba herself would reach out a stick fingered hand and clutch at his throat until he had to step back through the threshold of the house and return to feeding her goat's milk.

Now he took her everywhere. For all the injury it wrought, he now feared her being discovered after some back-checking raid on the farm on the whim of the Seventh Spear. Fugitive Liir. Deserter Liir. Conspirator Liir. Bastard Liir. And your own uncle running the country as an exalted chosen one. Was life not jivey like that?

Presently, once she'd been firmly re-wrapped, little hands buried, a gust of brute wind riled up the countryside and roared like a wild beast ready to rampage. As suddenly as it had come it vanished, and the first brief worry he had was that it might be a dragon. In turn, once the ruckus died down, this lead to Trism Thoughts, and then to Burning Thoughts, and then to What Is That Outside Thoughts again, and he locked the door behind him as he crept to the orchard.

A girl in cover-alls with a little creature. A mangy cat or something. Her clothes looked far too nice for her to be some foundling from the back of the woods. No, too tall for that. But he was a moment to slow and she surely must have seen him run back to hide behind the farmhouse.
04-16-2015 05:44 AM
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Alandree
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[As Haku of Spirited Away, post-movie]

Quote:This was the locale of hostile gods. Some had old, layered faces of black and gold and green, slowly winding through trees and dipping into dark valleys long overgrown and littered with forest detritus. Some were young and wicked and sprightly, jumping about and racing along streams scaring away the birds and squirrels, finding the garbage carried in by the wind from human land and thrashing it to bits or setting it on fire. Some were shaped like creatures familiar, others wild twists of shapes not seen by mortal eyes yet. This was no place for a little river god. A former lackey of a spirit service provider. There were no soaps here. No baths. Nothing was clean or humid or scented with cloves or jasmine or chipping, old, metal flecks of paint.

Turn a young god loose without a guiding, elder hand and you turn him to his demise. In a flurry of ragged trees he rushed through the lower canopies, his dragon's face scarred and mottled with scratches, coat filled with mites and burs, scales and claws caked with dirt and the blood of other gods. They fought each other like dogs around here. For nothing much but sport. There were some who hunted humans and desecrated their villages. Some appeared to deserve it. Setting the trees flaming or dumping refuse into perfectly good things that nothing but the earth had made Herself. Kohakunushi had no river to be polluted, no orders to fill and no dirty deeds issued. It seemed that if one was no longer possessing his chosen item of godhood, then he was a pariah. How they all knew of his broken state he couldn't fathom. Some had been bath guests, but most were too wild to have ever been let into anything as much as a worship temple or simple pagoda. Perhaps they'd been the recepients of Yubaaba's bad deeds by his hand long ago. He couldn't remember their nasty faces any more.

He was, at this moment, avoiding this evenings latest and greatest sport. A volley back and forth between youthful and ornery older gods, a jolly good fight if there ever was one, and if ever it might become jolly good. He observed a little herd of kodama retreat swiftly into their tree. He longed to join them, but was not of the material to do so. All he might do was bash into it and knock the tree over or somehow revert and crash in a wash of river water instead. He hadn't appeared human for years.

The forest was infinitely darker than the clear land. It appeared mid-twilight and the trees seemed to choke the sky like lichen on bark. Light would now and then appear from a flash between some warring spirits, but other than that he flew in pitch dark.
04-16-2015 05:56 AM
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Alandree
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[As Mungojerrie from Cats]

Quote:If one is what one eats, does that mean that every cat is secretly a mouse? Or a magpie, as the case was with himself. In which case some soul conversion of a bird who liked things that shone was not far off.

Not that he had anything shiny at the moment. He nearly got a shiner on his way over here, though. Just off to scope out the competition, mates. Is all. But those particular Jackanapes who'd been leaning and lounging at the station were either new or stonkered on nip and gin together in a terrible thimble of soup. It was, he had to admit, something of a hazard to venture without Rumpleteazer to even out a quick get-away cartwheel. It served to both tantalize and speed away with a lot of legs flying up at once; thus making the pair of them harder to hit.

He'd grown so used to crashing the Tribe that he thought nothing of sauntering right through an overturned half-cylinder of cheap tube and watch a few cats leap around. Smiling in his own blithe contentment, hardly shaken by the small tiff from before. Inebriated cats were jolly good for a laugh and to take the mickey out of them when they fell over their tails.

Spotting Munkustrap, he waved. One must be nice to the Heir. The Prince. The Main Man. At least, the Mainest of Main who could still walk about without two other cats propping his old legs up. He supposed Tugger was Main-ish, but would undoubtedly be laughed right off the throne should he somehow get it for himself.

"Oy, how is 'e now, his Highness? Yer Greatness?" He made a strange bow that was a bit of a curtsy as well.
04-16-2015 05:56 AM
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Alandree
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[As an OC in the '20s]

Quote: “Gertrude, we owe a cock to Asclepius. Please, don't forget to pay the debt.” Says Socrates. In death there is freedom. The cure is death. He lies, slowly numbing on the ground. In some odd cell in which there is no exit. This is freedom.

There is a bright light, and Gert weighs the situation carefully. Athena springs from his brow and stands before him, knowing too well that she was heavy inside his head.

“Gertrude.”

“Athena.”

“Gertrude.” Her spear tilts forward, and she pins him to the trunk of a gnarled tree.

He is numb, he has drunk the hemlock, and it matters not.

“Darn it, Gerty, why won‘cha marry me, huh?” She removes her helmet, and it gives him a black eye.

“You know I can’t.” And he climbs the tree with the spear lodged in his shoulder, into a higher orifice of what is soon glimmering night. Soon he will die. He cannot feel his feet anymore. He stumbles. There are plains and a cliff, and breakers silently sloshing.

Gert loses his footing. He falls. The water is hot, and what light remains flickers to die. His heart will soon freeze. But in the meanwhile there is tea under the sea. He drinks. It tastes like a taste might, but is not. He is lead by feathery friends along a dark hall, dripping wet, in a dome like Atlantis, but with poultry. The duck whistles back down the hall, after he has laid Gert onto a bed. But it is more like a lounging rise. Velvet and with the tingle of something. He lies and waits. Creatures fly on the ceiling, blotting his vision with spidery fingers and beaks of blue. They surround him, touch feather-light. He closes his eyes, and he feels a stranger’s hands, that clench too tightly, that whisper harshly. Breath is harder to get. He feels his heart slowing down, and a cold body press into him. Perhaps this is death. The spear is pulled from him, and a dark face looms close. Close close close and there is lace. The lace is scratchy, it is applied with force. His chest is raw and red, and he is pressed and pressed and pressed. There is fear and yet there is delight.

“Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.”

“An honest man is always a child.”

There is something inherently fake about fictitious nightmare. The dreamer awakes bold upright, sweat pouring down his face, eyes wide open, jolted, breathing heavily, perhaps with an audible gasp if the writer is in the mood. But when Gert awakened, he did nothing. His eyes remained closed, but he knew the dream was over. He felt his surroundings melt into solidity. The cool air of night, the moon halved and shining through the window. His heart beat swung rather like a pendulum, he supposed the shortness of breath was true. So was the sweat. But mostly the internal kind, where your fingers are cold and your veins feel electric.

When he did open his eyes, the ceiling was stained, as always, and its familiar markings led him to be somewhat comforted. He was safe. It was over. Dreams are not real. Dreams are fake. Dreams mean absolutely nothing. He did not gasp, but he did sigh, shoulders moving, feeling the hard, unwelcoming armrest beneath his bare neck, feeling comfort in that too. His legs still felt slightly numb. Perhaps that was from fear though. He felt the tingle on the top of his head, and he reached to cover it with his hands a moment. There was always going to be someone. Someone who will shoot you in the head. Maybe that’s why he wore hats.

Quote:No one would believe him if he said it was his choice. She didn’t. Choosing sad, coverless sleep on scratchy cushions that scraped metal from naked, broken fastenings over linen and kisses and feather down and fingers. It would be a different matter entirely if she knew any Gaelic songs. Though of course Aunt Delainey would be knitting in a rocking chair instead. Seachad Ile o hi, 'm beul na h-oidhche o ho, las sinn coinnlean o hi, 's chuir sinn combaist air dooooooigh…Damned if he knew what it meant. Boat song. By a MacInnes.

Dark was good. Fuzzy, flickering. Perhaps the world really is this way. His thoughts shuffled like wind blowing pages. One will stick, but just for a moment before the next one folds over. Nails scraping away at sleep, taking a glance, but not enough to feel the rest of you. But you do feel something, don’t you Gert? This might be the time where he would fall off, and wind himself. It happened. Five times out of ten he wouldn’t wake for it, either. The other five may have had an instrument below. Strings twang and press against your face and wrench you away from whatever dream you had with a surface blur. A tinny copper plating that you lose later. He ran his fingers over his face, cold, and each plane awakened, at least a little more. He heard a noise, but it whispered through one ear and out the other, serving only as an instigator. Check the time. Perhaps get up, but that was optional.

The pad of a finger across one eyelid. Generous sighs. And at the button end he heard a laugh. That is where the bolt-plank-stiff-and-upright springs into action. The air whirring, seeping through thin cotton undershirt. He hadn't even slipped off the suspenders. Stone-dead-asleep indeed. The pendulum swung double-quick now, eyes wide, backing up until there was no room left, back melded to the armrest, legs pulling away. Mouth ajar. Pressed and pressed and pressed and red.

In the tinny nightworld, where colour was sapped and thin. A man. Man's laugh attached to what it should. But...who on earth looked like that? Seeming to exist only because of the moonlight. Sharp shadows accompanying. Teeth, teeth, teeth, white. The sort of face one sees in a magazine illustration. Without the pink cheeks or cherry lips, though. The everyman. The only man. But not a man at all. The magazine was for ghosts. A city's dream. But not real.

He eyed the window. Forced entry? He eyed the door. He eyed the bedroom. Just so slightly ajar. You might have heard her breathing if you listened carefully. Or saw the bust of Socrates on the nightstand, if you squinted hard enough. No. No. If he'd hurt Mavis, he'd have heard it.

Gert did not own a gun. Where an American man may have kept a pistol in a dresser drawer, Mr. Jernigan stowed away a backgammon board and a wad of shitty poetry on paper. His hand twitched. Perhaps to reach for the flatcap on the coffee table. But he didn't get far. And he was not conscious enough to shout. Or demand a name. Or flee.
04-16-2015 06:05 AM
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Alandree
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[As Elethis, an OC]

Quote:He checked his pocket watch. Eight on the dot. Clocks were fair devices. They went around the same way forever. Or at least until they needed to be rewound. To be a clock was to be certain of everything. All you had to worry about was heading too fast or too slow. Then again...wasn't that the bane of human existence in the first place? Rush in, and you miss everything. Ease in, and you miss everything. Which was the right way?

Time had always ruffled him a bit. If he'd completed his course and trained properly, he probably would have been taught how to control it. At least for a while. But touching things like that made him uncomfortable. Like he had the ability to string up each living thing and seal them away in an icebox. Perhaps that's why conjuration had been his preferred method. Best to create things that never existed in the first place than tamper with what the gods had already created. It was like giving birth. Nothing abominable about it. He was the father of many, in that way.

Eight on the dot was his time. Where he'd be at eight was rarely predetermined, but it was usually amid things at least somewhat flammable. Rarely quite so flammable as wheat feilds and barley, however. How forward.

He stood beneath a young thicket of trees, separating one crop from the other. Whittled to perfection by the human hands that intruded. He wore a suit entirely too refined for such a location, but comfort was always first before sanity, tact, or decency. At least within his realm of limitation. Or might he be limitless?

He could very well burn down the tree. He could very well burn this entire stretch of land. His fingers brushed the bark, rather tenderly, like the initiating caress of an anticipating lover. New love. Perverse love. But love all the same.
04-16-2015 06:07 AM
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Alandree
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[As Delirium, from Sandman]

Quote:Alone today. She sniffed the cool breeze, and climbed a little barn fence on the edge of the road. There were squiggles in the sky. Lightninginging. She hopped from one fence post to the other, counting to exactly seventeen before starting back from one again. Trying to remember what numbers were supposed to be lucky. Gnarled wood groaning, leaving little crumbles to plop in the over-grown grass. A field mouse trailed from view. She also knew that there were three things she must wait for. One was going to say the word ‘enervate’, the other two she wasn’t certain of.

There were three neat, white daisies sprouting solitarily next to an empty trough. They caught her attention like diamonds for a grande dame and she tumbled to the ground in her haste, legs flying over head to land in a sprawled position, dirt puffing into her nostrils. Another lightning. Ning ning ning.

It did not frighten her, but it did make her get a bit electric at the hair follicles. She touched her head absently, and planted one foot brazenly in front of the other towards her desired treasure. Perhaps one of the flowers would say ‘enervate’. She wasn’t entirely certain of what ‘enervate’ meant in the first place, but in the second place, neither did most flowers.

Her small fingers pinched the bottommost space of one stem, and she punctured it with her nails like a crab’s pincers, and squeezed out the plant-white-green-blood. She then held the head to her ear and listened. It wasn’t talking. She picked another, but it did the same. And the third was the smallest of them all, and it merely lost a petal in wake of being severed from its base.

Chewing her lip thoughtfully, Delirium heard, from her available ear, the swish-swish of feet over grass. The crunch-crunch of shoes not meant for the country. The Lightningningning from above. No rain yet.
04-16-2015 06:07 AM
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Alandree
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RE: In the Book of Moons

[as Edward Courtenay, from Downton Abbey]

Quote:Upon the first throes, nothing came forth but bursts of galaxy and dust in sunlight; Unending black in shades and textures only as his eyelids stuck shut. The pain on every inch of skin. The air had clouded and stung, burning him as he'd fallen over on his stomach. Splashing in the saturated mud. They'd shot out the HS. Someone grabbed at his ankles, and then his arms and shoulders and then his feet had met air.

The screams were not what chilled him, they came to rest at the end point of his consciousness; floating in and out of focus in his ears like the white noise of a busy market day. He couldn't recall if he'd screamed himself, for his throat had gotten it too; choked and burned, reached in to kill. But it hadn't killed.

There had been claws; his own. They, wracked with dirt, blood, hard cracked skin, gave him scars and surely popped a vessel for how hard he attacked himself. When he'd been dragged far enough toward a cot, he had bled, it ran up and down again into his hair as he lay. A nearby someone shouted for a nurse, and then he must have fainted. Awakening in flashes to expel and hack out what gathered in his lungs, and then sleep again.

That was the last thing he could recall before he awakened to hear nothing but a motor and a rumbling under his back. He was getting carted off. Discharged. Sent back to be thrown out like the other broken tin soldiers. Someone had cleaned and changed him. Wrapped a deteriorating wet cloth over his eyes, a pathetic soother, for it would dry again. He could feel them scratch and tickle his cheeks even now.

There had been moments, he must have blacked out, for then he could see - A green pasture, lambs, and crows...crows and not cows - then nothing again, nothing but noise, touches, smells. All real. Down to the pump of his heart and the drum of each pulse hammering through the worn cuffs of his uniform.

Then...then what...noises like towns...gulls...sea salt air...not a boat but a harbour and up lanes with worse roads than those leading out the trench just days before.

At least two hospitals. He languished as nurses hovered over him, offering drainage and painful antiseptic and alcohols. Smells foul and stinging. By the second one, his eyes could open, but it had been too late; now all he saw were lights and colours with no form. No faces, just a bit of shadows and flickering. It felt like a tunnel with the end in sight, only at a hundred miles off. It was calm for now - at least relative to what had been. The swishing of nursemaids' skirts, smelling fresh, clean, friendly.

He tried to focus, but his eyes remembered that he could not. It made them water, and he moaned from the sting. In another bed. He felt his sleeves, the same uniform, most likely. Must have been washed - else he'd smell of a cattle farm.

With swollen vocal chords, he tried to rumble out a word or two. Someone. Somewhere. Tell me where the hell I am. And if the 'where' is perhaps 'hell' itself..
08-15-2015 01:46 AM
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