miss-bibliophile

[miss-bibliophile]

How long is too long in a relationship you no longer feel 100% happy with? Is it simply being content with being able to have a roof over your head? Because that sometimes seems like the only reason you give in the day when asking: Why are we together?

I feel like my relationship has reached a point of complacency and frustration that is actively destroying my desire - emotionally and physically - for the guy I have been with for almost 7 years now.

From the bottom of my heart, I love him.

I would give up my life if it meant he lives through a life-or-death situation. He still makes me smile and laugh; amazes me with his passion for Pokémon every day; knows how to keep me happy with material needs. But...

There is an emotional and physical need that I don't feel is being fulfilled. And that is why I feel as I have for the last three years together.

Am I doing something wrong?

By personality, we are vastly different. He is confident and has an "I have no fucks to give" attitude.

[miss-bibliophile]

Complete the Story #1

This will be a limited series. The prompts are taken from a book called “Complete the Story” that was bought from Barnes & Noble years ago. I had been working at the store when I bought this, but never got around to using it. Now that I have some time, I will share with you some mildly revised versions of what I write for each prompt. The prompt will be in bold followed by what I managed to fill the page.

At first, we thought the black liquid was oil, that we’d struck it rich and that we’d be able to retire and live in leisure. We actually started [discussing] all the ways we’d spend the money. Our first choice was to buy an expensive car to show off at school. Someone suggested to save it all. Half of the group groaned when Lucas said we should donate all or some of it. Arthur argued that if we split the money he should get the most because what we found was on his uncle’s land. We all began to argue about how much each person would receive. No one knew who started it, but Arthur was soon swinging his fists at Derek. Both of them ended up falling into the puddle of black liquid. Derek was able to jump out of [it immediately], but Arthur started coughing violently.

We could only guess he accidentally swallowed some of the liquid. Seeing Derek in pain - his skin [showing signs of a chemical burn] where he had come into contact with the liquid - I rushed him to the side of the house and began trying to wash it off with [water from the] garden hose. The two of us could hear Arthur retching up everything in his stomach.

Derek was cleaned. We could see now how much damage was done. Red and peeling skin. Grey pus pooled where the damage was the worst. I heard sirens approaching. Lucas came up to us to let us know he had called 911. Arthur was no longer vomiting. I wanted to see how he was doing, but Lucas stopped me from seeing him. Derek suddenly panicked and reached out for me. He cried out about not being able to see a thing.

“What the hell is going on, Chris?”

[miss-bibliophile]

Plans on Plans on Plans

I went through the apartment and gathered all of the journals I have not given away or lost in a move. A few are completely blank, others are half filled with older journal entries (from 2009 and 2014), and two are actually activity books. After plopping the stack and sorting through them to make something of an order of what I found, I decided to pick up journaling again.

Tumblr is, of course, a site that I want to use. To share creative writing, maybe share one of the journal entries I write, and whatever else. There is so much that I have yet to do with the blogs I have managed to create and so much other stuff that I have to do away from the keyboard - I feel I am overwhelming myself. Piling too many things on my “to Do” list has caused me to fall back into my procrastinating ways. I have always been a procrastinator.

But this feels different than when I was younger. This time, it feels like it’s doing more harm than good.

[miss-bibliophile]

THE TEAM AT ITS BEST, IT’S JUST LIKE OLD TIMES.

[miss-bibliophile]

Update on Health

Last week, I sliced off the top of my ring finger on the dominant hand (right-handed). A couple of days ago, I had to take my boyfriend to the emergency room. Both of us are recovering nicely so far. My finger is still in bandages and cannot handle everyday tasks. My boyfriend is still shaking a bit and doing stress breathing despite saying he's doing better. The trip to the emergency room has shaken him up a bit. We did some existential talk while there, and now we've both agreed on some changes we're going to try to follow to better our lives. For those curious: it was most likely a panic attack culminated from months of anxiety pent up since the beginning of the city's quarantine in response to the pandemic. He never told me how he'd been having the tell-tale symptoms until the night we were in the emergency room. I told him I'll help him as much as I can because I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder. He has decided to make an appointment with a cardiologist, and hopefully get some blood tests done. He's been a smoker for a few years before turning to vape and continues to vape for almost ten years now. He also has a bad diet habit of doing things like drinking 5 cans of soda a day and putting salt on top of DiGiorno pizza. Anyway... I'll be more active with writing as soon as it's not as awkward to type, use my phone, and/or write without my right hand fully functional.

[miss-bibliophile]

Character Intro (Unifnished)

A/N: This was part of an original character introduction blog posted on Reign of Blood back in 2018. I never continued it, but I have plans to explore it in the future. The character isn’t the man, by the by.

A man alone trudges through a valley of dense grass and weed. He gathers the pack hanging off his shoulders close for warmth. His teeth chatter and skin pales under the glowing sun. The signs of prolonged exposure to cold winds and rain set heavily on his face. He takes a moment to rub the unkempt shadow darkening the contours of his jaw. Each step he takes is carefully placed as he continues forward. The destination, the end of his journey is up ahead at the feet of the mountains. His attention is taken by sudden movement. He stops to view a dense gathering of small birds take flight from the treetops a short distance his right. The wind dies down to a solemn whisper. It is soon cut through by a guttural distortion far off in the mountains. The last of the anxious flock leave towards the south. Away from the man's destination. He adjusts the weight of his pack, and then continues on.

The last light of day watches over the man. Hours passed by before he reached the thick forest surrounding the mountains. Great and round, the trees have branches that get larger the further under the canopy he ventures. Sparse numbers have the beauty of a flourishing sampling. Many try to reach out hungrily towards him to draw blood. He comes prepared for the journey: a hatchet of unnatural strength to clear out these wretched and greedy branches, food and water to last a week, a harpoon as long as he is tall, and clothes made of material harvested from mithril and steel. He pauses at the sound of groaning wood. It becomes louder as he stays still. After the sound gradually silences, he retrieves a book from his pack. A little thing wrapped in weathered animal hide, bound with a sap mixture strong enough to make a demi-god struggle, and written in his own thin writing. The silence pushes down around him. He opens to a page, careful not to break each fragile piece of vellum, messily detailing the plans laid out; preparations for harvesting beasts, ways to steal into coveted hoards, and possible scenarios of death. None brought a chill to his spine. Not the obstructed way he came through to enter the forest. Not the somber drumming of unnatural sounds seeping up from beneath every tree. ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ Time is lost in absence of light. Despite an ache in his bones, the man travels over damp earth and through shallow ponds. The only hint of life surrounds him in a dull hum. How long has he trudged? How long ago since he last ate? Thinking of it brings up a rumble from below his chest. He pauses to find the driest place to rest, and then takes out a limp bag. The tie meant to keep creatures out gives him some difficulty. All of his effort to finally open the bag reveals how fruitless he has become. What nibbles are left leave a chalky sensation at the back of his throat. A quick drink should be enough to moisten it, and for what little he has left suffices. He takes time relieve himself next to a tree. The sounds of the forest suddenly turn into deafening silence. As it lingers, the man rushes to retrieve something from his pack. Smooth, milky transparency, and cool in his fingers - the stone is held above his head. He focuses on gazing through it. The stone grants him some vision of the world outside the canopy. Pale in comparison to the shadows below. A weak disc of light glares at him before it is eclipsed by a large shadow. Branches lurch under a heavy wind that follows the shadow’s appearance. As soon as the world above is visible once again, the wind calms. A warning rips through the canopy. The guttural distortion has been amplified and sharpened. It sounds more familiar. The depth of it is enough to send short tremors through the earth. This close to discovery, the man hurries to sort up his pack, and makes for a marked trail ahead. ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ The moon is queen now. Her open shawl of dark blue hues and sterling detail replaces the view of constricting branches. It is almost time for the intelligent life to set up a safe haven for slumber. The man, however, is determined to complete this stop of the journey. He wearily walks along a sharply formed wall of rock. His vision teters slightly to the left every other step. One hand braces against the solid earth for support. At this leg of his journey, the effects of starvation pick away at his fortitude. His dismissals are strong enough to tame hunger for a while. Until a savory smell of cooked flesh beckons him. It begs him to walk several feet further. Further until a dip in the solid rock gives way to a tunnel. At the entrance, his eyes drink up the sight of a freshly extinguished fire complete with a half-eaten carcass. The hog’s flesh is whole. Bits of skin, charred and shredded, sway with the calm night breeze. Embers of the fire simmer. Their hissing barely a threat to anyone. The man drops his pack and lunges for the remaining chunks of animal meat resting on the ashes.

[miss-bibliophile]

I visited an antique shop last fall, and photographed these books. There were so many beautiful oddities there, and I hope to go back once the world has healed a bit.

[miss-bibliophile]

[miss-bibliophile]

Dark academia moodboard // Chetham Library, Manchester (2018)

[miss-bibliophile]

Shelf on a Finger

What happened took place on the 17th of June 2020.

I am missing about an eighth of an inch of the ring finger of my right hand. My thumb has a pretty deep cut, but nothing was chopped off there.

This happened because I was being an idiot. I used a mandoline to cut some cucumbers. Instead of cucumbers getting sliced, my hand was sliced. I was quick to stop most of the bleeding with the help of my boyfriend. He called off in the middle of work to take me to an emergency doctor visit. The visit took longer than anticipated; starting out extremely annoyed but ended on a happy note.

What annoyed me the most is the hour or so wait in the waiting area. I was maybe five minutes late due to the closeness in time they wanted me to come in at compared to how long it would actually take us to get to the office. I was only one of four appointments in total (two of which were already being helped by the time I came in). One woman came in about ten minutes after I arrived and was seen immediately.

Due to anxiety, I wanted to have my boyfriend with me but the request was denied. Yet the spouse of the woman who checked in after me came in without his temperature being checked (did I mention this was a required step whenever anyone entered the building?) and sat some feet away from me.

It was after an hour of alone time in the waiting room, I hear the doctor ask if I ever checked in or was still waiting. SERIOUSLY?? Someone calling saying they have cut their finger up and had lost blood was treated like an after thought.

Now I know why I only see the ARNP of that office. While I was waiting to simply be treated, the doctor treats the visit like a general check up and commences to talk about blood tests and going over my weight. SERIOUSLY??

Meanwhile, the nurse who treated me was quick, efficient, and such an angel. I informed her of my needle phobia (found out it’s clumped together in a phobia triad known as BII phobia) because they wanted to give me a tetanus shot. Second ever tetanus shot I’ve ever had. She made it virtually pain-free. I felt nothing. At all. Except some stiffness and a bit of itching the day after.

Now, my finger is healing well. It’s not bleeding as much as it had. I wrap it in an anti-bacterial pad and the stretchy medical tape with polysporin. I think it’s actually got a blood clot forming in the deepest part of the cut. When I’ve had to clean with saline solution, it doesn’t bleed more than a few drops.

[miss-bibliophile]

suffering

A/N: I realize I missed the #throwbackthursday entry for another old creative writing entry. There has been a lot going on lately, and I’ve been actively destroying myself for no particular reason other than depression. This poem or prose I had written 3 years ago seems fitting to share at this time.

sitting alone in a bare bones house the only light in a far corner of the room barely illuminates the area inhabited by the only creature in silent pains that no one can see but can hear in the complaints - ignored after hearing them for so long it has been the same thing but while they say they want to help they give up because it is useless to tell them the same thing over and over again just like the pains expressed by the suffering deep inside no one understands why it is a plague of the mind, an uncontrolled variable given control by medications that can help or worsen the disease but to refuse so-called miracles is taboo as a decision detrimental to the individual's health that is looked over by words repeated by an outdated script many can't help but follow down familiar road and method instead of simply being there to hold the pain until it is gone is not worth the time of those reading the script because all that is played is a loop in their mind the pained are in need of help with medications to drown out all that they don't know the solution to even though no one knows how the mind works a cry for help is not answered by others but by the crier it is struggled to reach the end of the suffering is a state of mind a state of mind which can only be achieved by the strong-willed the weak-minded on medications when simply talking it out does not help what do you want me to do is what is asked when nothing can be done to help the ones that refuse the medications that dull the pain what do you want is asked when nothing else can be said and it only makes things worse because there is no real solution to stopping the pain and going numb there is no desire to leave this world that has so much to explore for the rich and the poor places to explore experieces and people to find a never ending rollercoaster of explanations and mysteries for everyone to one day seize the choice to fight for life and light that illuminates in the corner of the room where we sit alone in a bare bones house

[miss-bibliophile]

What a Whirl’d

Well... somehow I find my life spiraling into depression again.

What started as - what I was hoping for, anyway - a good weekend has swiftly turned into a full-blown panic attack. And it’s still continuing.  I’m hoping that writing it down will help me relieve some stress. I will try to be brief with this entry.

My boyfriend and I work for the same company. He managed to get into a salaried position as part of the quality assurance team. He works on the coding and debugging, basically. I started inside the call center position (same position he had started at his first year), and had been invited to join a new team on a new project but still within the Customer Service department.

He makes roughly $15-$20 USD more than me for one hour of work. Based on how much I currently bring home, I can afford up to $900 towards bills and rent. I am basically the only one paying for needs such as food and household necessities (except furniture). After everything I pay for, I maybe have around $100 to myself for the entire month.

After a recent performance review, I fear I am on the brink of losing my job. If I lose my job - based on the pressure my boyfriend has placed on me to be the sole provider for food and the one thing keeping us from losing an apartment - then it will be my fault we will not be able to pay rent.

* I want to make a note that where we decided to live for apartments was not my decision. He wanted to live downtown and get a two-bedroom. While I understand he needs something for his desk and at-home work set up, he continues to want to live in an apartment that is above our needs.

Continuing about my job performance...

My preferred method of learning is more hands-on and asking a lot of questions than it is by reading for reviews and limited questions. If I don’t understand the answer, I ask the same question until someone has expressed an answer in a way that’s easy for me to understand.

In my performance review, my supervisor told me that I am basically the worst on the team and they don’t believe that I will survive the harshness of the real work when the project launches publicly. Specifically, his words were: “You were found to be the one to ask the most questions and need the most coaching.”

I used to be the second best - if not the best - on the previous product team. Unfortunately, there is no returning to that product team as it has been outsourced. So why do I find myself at the bottom? What am I doing wrong?

My superiors keep expressing that any questions are welcome, and my level of questioning has never seemed to bother them in previous years. I review, re-write by hand every note for study, and keep materials ready during work. Is there something that I am missing? What am I doing wrong?

[miss-bibliophile]

“The reading of all good books is like conversation with the finest (people) of the past centuries.” – Descartes

[miss-bibliophile]

Writing Prompt: Labyrinth (Part 2)

A/N: This is part two of what was planned to be a three-part short story for a writing prompt.

The Prompt: You wake up one morning and find that you aren’t in your bed; you aren’t even in your room. You’re in the middle of a giant maze. A sign is hanging from the ivy: “You have one hour. Don’t touch the walls.” Finish the scene.

It hits me hard. If time is tangible, what form does it flaunt? An elephant squatting its derriere on a Taco Bell Diablo sauce packet? A support beam crashing through a glass ceiling into a calm pool of water? ‘Bejeebus, what’s wrong with my mind?’ I glance around. Good, no one around to be smart. The moment of reflection dies as quick as that hot sauce packet is depleted by the buttocks weighing a ton. What time is it? How much have I already spent running only gods know how far from the groping vines? My unspoken questions receive an answer in the form of another rose blossoming below the sign furthest away. Or, I think? Two more gradually bloom. A cluster of three: one red, one pink, one white. The choice of colour and flora species raises the creep factor a little. Just a little. Is this place of fog and vine-covered walls trying to court me? Or is there something or someone else around? Toying with my nerves and feeding paranoia. The Queen is vulnerable: check. The wind kicks up. Sounds of life come into focus the longer I stand still. Morning doves call out to each other. The serenade slowly dies, and I watch as a fourth rose blooms left of the first three. The pink rose melts away - literally, I can only describe it as candle wax bubbling and dripping down. Another rose blossoms next to the other. The white one melts. It appears that with each new bloom, an old one decays. My heart and feet kick into overdrive once more as a greater cluster appears; just as many decay, and then become ash. The fresh roses turn around the corner - down the path heading left. It’s a trap! Right? Right? @&$!% this shit! Whatever I need to do to get out of this maze. No way am I waiting for whatever to happen in an hour. Careful to not touch the walls, I follow the blooming and decaying path of roses. Red fades to white to black. First left, then right, left at a fork, and straight on toward an unknown compass direction. I long forget about the time as I am lead either deeper into or further away from the end of this labyrinth. The roses turn a third - maybe fourth - right before they decide to stop. I freeze immediately once the roses have all melted to ash. My path is straight. All of the fog has stayed constant in color and thickness throughout. So why have I been stopped? The fog before me begins to recede to reveal several more feet in front of me. A bear. Large. Brown. In a harlequin tutu. Sitting on a tiny bicycle. Holding a matching umbrella, and looking nonchalant - seemingly unaware of my presence as much as I am very aware it blocks my path.

[miss-bibliophile]

Writing Prompt: Labyrinth (Part 1)

A/N : This was a prompt that I had found from a creative writing group on another site. I had written enough that it was supposed to be in three parts. There was no limit to the word count for the prompt.

Unfortunately, I never finished the third part. Here is the first part.

The Prompt: You wake up one morning and find that you aren’t in your bed; you aren’t even in your room. You’re in the middle of a giant maze. A sign is hanging from the ivy: “You have one hour. Don’t touch the walls.” Finish the scene.

'Mmm... nuh.' The sound leaves my parched lips as I come out of a dream. Something of an uncertain purgatory occupied by man-eating wolves the size of sedans and children turning to stone. Thankfully, I am aware it was all just a dream. A harmless blend of memories old and new, with fears and anxieties taking special forms that very well may prevent sleep for at least the next twenty-four hours. The last moment to rouse me from my dream is remembered only of screams and the imminent mauling of my face. Nothing like the lingering smell of warm, wet flesh to stir someone awake. Though I am already awake, the smell lingers. I do not open my eyes just yet out of the fear I may have transferred into another dream; of which has happened from time to time when the hours before sleep had been particularly vexatious; one mongering dream begins as soon as the last one ends, to create a false sense of security before causing a sharp rise in palpitations.

One, two, three… I count to ten in my thoughts before deciding whether or not to open my eyes. The smell is not the only change that has me worrying over what is reality and what is not. How did it go? Said Alice, ‘Nothing would be what it is…’? There are no sounds except for a wind. It blows through, softly and quietly, on the lightest of cat paws. A quick smack against my cheek by something hard and curved jolts me to full awareness. Now I can see exactly what kind of dream I am inside. It is not what I was expecting. The ground beneath is nothing more than earth, brown with patches of clovers struggling to stay alive, but it mimics the firmness of the bed I fell asleep in not but a few hours before. My pillow has disappeared - though before I noticed what had replaced it the curiousness of the foggy surroundings catches my eye - and where I was resting my head, instead of a down pillow in a cotton sack, is a rather large red flower in full bloom with a yellow center peaking through; the perfect size for my head to rest upon. As I question out loud with colorful vocabulary what I am looking at, I rise to my feet at a full height of someone who needs at least one step of a stool to reach the kitchen cabinets overhead. Not only do I notice the ground, fog, flower, and stench. My clothes are the same as before I fell asleep: long cotton pants decorated boorishly with black and white sheep, and a black “Dodge Ram” tee-shirt two sizes too big for my small stature. There is no explaining what I was dreaming. This new experience gives me reason to question my sanity. Is this even still a dream? Maybe aliens have abducted me and, realizing how utterly useless of a human being I am, dropped me off at the first planet they had access to after Earth. At least it is nothing like Dagobah with fathomless swamps that may or may not contain swamp monsters. It is as I look around for a star or satellite - anything to source direction from - when I realize that not only am I not in my bed, but a place between two extremely tall walls of engorged vines. Only left or right - or up - are directions available for moving around. I look left. Five feet of visibility before the white fog begins to thicken. I look right. Five feet of visibility before the white fog begins to thicken. I look up. The fog settles over the top of the walls to prevent me from gauging true height of the structures. As I question more profanities to myself, one of the engorged vines begins to move. I take a few steps forward as I witness the rapid growth of a stem into a red flower bud. The flower bud gradually blossoms into a miniature rose: the exact same appearance as the plant that replaced my pillow. It is different, however. More pungent. The smells of warm, wet flesh permeate heavily from the petals. I bring my face inches closer as my curiosity mounts. It violently sneezes golden pollen directly at me. I yelp with arms flailing to fan the pollen away, and hit my back against the other vines behind. They begin to slither apart. Smaller ones achingly reach for an ankle and already have one of my elbows in a slowly tightening grasp. ‘Oh, hell no!’ The words burst out faster than I can blink. My adrenaline finally kicks into overdrive, and I pull myself away from the vines. Fight or flight reflexes are wonderful. Until you stop after running down one direction for who knows how long; which direction I gave no care to think of because damn it all if I was going to let some Goblin King’s vines consume me! At this point, I am convinced this is a reality. Everything is too real to be a simple mishmash of memories and repeated mechanic body functions. Where I have stopped appears to be a circular corridor. Hanging from the vines equal distances apart are four identical signs in silver lettering: “You have one hour. Don’t touch the walls.” ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ comes out of my mouth in shallow breathes.

[miss-bibliophile]

James: Spring Duettino, 1815

A/N: This is my second entry from Reign of Blood involving original characters I had created.

This one I was focusing on a different character, James Henry Hawthorne, and Atticus Willhelm Ashley Haugen. And good gods that’s a long name, why don’t I just shorten it to Atticus Willhelm Haugen? Or just Atticus? Anyway, they were part of the same story I had been conjuring up at the time.

The original plan was to go into more depth (at some point with future entries) about the world and characters. Atticus and James would be exposed, eventually, as vampires; Atticus being the older by almost a century (that includes his human years) and James being his aide or companion.

As with the first recollection of past creative writing entries from my Reign of Blood account: I have not edited or revised anything presented after the cut. As for the dialogue and word choice, there may be anachronisms. This is, again, because I’m not intimately familiar with how people spoke or acted in the past. As for when this takes place, I remember picturing it in early 19th century.

Please continue reading below for the prose.

_____ & _____

The large double doors were swung open by two gentlemen wearing white gloves. The dark entry became immediately illuminated by the light of candles, reflected off grand mirrors on the far walls. From corner to corner was the color of cream, gold, and reds and whites. It was a very warm atmosphere thickened by the air of excitement and sweat. James had not been to a party this large in size. Atticus glanced around with a bit of indifference, smiling when someone greeted him, and moving between the bodies standing from wall to wall. Both men dressed up in fresh, tailored outfits. James looked at Atticus. The older gentleman nodded his head.

While Atticus made for the less crowded area nearer the small ensemble playing a light opus, James walked aimlessly with his eyes searching for someone to join a dance. The room became stuffy rather quick. Everyone in attendance seemed unaffected by the throbbing air. He was not used to these kind of gatherings not like Atticus. His collar frlt tight. Just a small adjustment and he already drew glances from some judging eyes framed by crow's feet and sagging skin.

James stood off to the side to get a better view of the room. Laughter and chatter battled against the backdrop of strings and a piano. He caught word of gossip as he stood.

"Did you hear about Mr. Waterston's daughter?" "Yes! The miller's son - I daren't believe!"

"The stock will surely plummet by the end of this week." "What did I tell you about Lord Mark? An idiot if I ever saw one."

He drowned out what he could to draw focus away from the ones surrounding him. They all smelled of tobacco and rust. His mind reeled at the number of people in attendance. This was his first true outing in fifteen years. Not since Atticus had saved him had he made an appearance to a party. Everything was familiar. Everything was new. He could hear all the sounds in the room. He could taste the air, mixed with smoke from candles and cigarettes and the burning friction of the dancing feet against the wooden floor. It was such a disgusting smell for a beautiful sight.

James glanced over to check on Atticus, but the other was no longer there. The music quieted. James looked around to find a partner for the next dance. A small quartet of young ladies stood to the side. He approached them with a forced calm and a charming smile. "Excuse me, ladies."

They stopped their chitter - which James had picked up being over who looked ridiculous in which fashion styles and who they perceived as trying too hard to fit into status - to look at the tall gentleman. Whatever he did, he heard each of their hearts beating faster. His smile grew wider.

"Would any of you ladies allow me the chance for a dance?"

One of the blonde ones, short and rather thin in her periwinkle dress, giggled. "It would be a pleasure to be your partner, mister... uhm?"

"Hawthorne."

None of the others spoke. They grinned and waved their friend and James away onto the floor. Immediately, the music picked up into an energetic canter. The young woman he danced with felt weightless in his arm. He had to remind himself to be careful with his grip; the last thing they needed was a snapped spine to sour their evening.

The music continued, and the dancing went on for several minutes. A glimmer of light caught James' attention above the rest. His gaze darted over heads as he spun with the blonde. He found what distrcted him after the fourth turn.

Ringlets of ebony held into a tight crown with thin ribbon. Skin kissed by the sun. He spotted a distinct freckle to the left of her right ear. Lips tinted to accentuate the color of her dress. James did not notice the music faded. The dance had sped up faster, but time was slowed down.

"Sir?"

James came out of a stupor. Before him, the hair of blonde turned dark. Amber eyes turned to a smokey blue. He let out air he had been holding forever, and looked around in a daze.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Hawthorne, miss." He gathered himself enough to speak.

The lady smiled as if she found something charming about his bewildered state. "Mister Hawthorne, I am Catherine. You look like you need a drink. Why don't we introduce each other over one?"

[miss-bibliophile]

Atticus: Autumn of 1792, Pt 1

A/N: This was my first attempt at writing a blog entry for one of my original role-play characters on Reign of Blood: Atticus Wilhelm Ashley Haugen.  Crazy name, right? Well, I thought at the time I’d do what I could to stand out.

I’m submitting this here blindly: I haven’t edited or revised anything from the original entry. Yes, there will be mistakes. I will admit that I am not familiar with the pattern of speech or the proper way they lived back in the late 1700s to early 1800s.

I had at one point shared the profiles detailing each character similar to how someone would write down a Dungeons & Dragons character. I had a sheet for all the characters. Some of them have been saved on a Google document just in case I ever wanted to use them in the future.

For Atticus, I had chosen the actor Martin Freeman to represent him. It was around the time of a Sherlock drought. I still like to imagine Atticus as being similar in appearance and voicing as the actor.

Please continue reading below for the prose.

_____ & _____

"To My Dear Estra, - The days pass by so quickly, I cannot remember -"

The sound of the pen scratching the paper increased as I wrote the beginning of my letter. It had become difficult to finish the sentence. The pen dug into the wood beneath. I crumpled the paper, barely the weight of a feather in my hand, and then threw it across the room. For the past month, my life became increasingly stressful. I needed someone to talk to. She was the only one who seemed to care. She had never treated me with a thin veil of shame or disgust, and was at my side when I needed help. I had always loved her for that.

Light of the setting sun cast long shadows into my upstairs room. They formed a crown around the posts of my bed. Every small sound or movement sent my thoughts into a fenzy. My muscles tensed. I heard footsteps, softened by the ground they traveled. No one should be awake in the manor. None of the airs I kept mind to keep track of for their safety stirred. But someone was awake. And outside.

Sleep never came easy. I could sleep, yet I never slumbered every night like my family and friends. This queer behavior allowed me to discover and familiarize with the surroundings of my family home, Caulfield Estate. My mother had been given the housing and the surrounding acres of land as part of her union to my father, Cadfan. He built a workshop on an acre just a short walk from the house. The Haugen family were handy people, usually known for their woodwork and skills with building.

The presence that lingered outside was new.

I extinguished the flame of my lamp, and then I leaned against the wall beside the window. It would not be able to see me. What frightened me of this presence was not the anonymity; this one reeked of something strong. Age and earth. Blood. Fresh blood.

An image of someone dressed in my clothes appeared before me. He could not be in my room. So real. If I was not unwilling to move from the wall, I would have reached out toward the figure. Whomever it was looked familiar, but I had never seen him before. The apparition departed after being seen for small seconds. The scent of the presence outside had become stronger.

Sounds of echoed voices loudened. They rang in my ears like the shrill of water circling a glass rim. I tried to cover my ears, to block out the echo, but failed to hinder anything. It overcame me. Weakened me to the point I had to slide down to the floor for better support.

The image, the apparition; the man who was me and not me. He came to me again. He crouched before me as I crumbled into a fetal position with my hands still over my ears. His reappearance coincided with the closeness of the presence outside. The echoes and the ringing dulled. I could make out a familiar pattern of letters. It sounded deep. His voice, I assumed, barely spoke above the others.

"Atticus?"

I strained to hear. A force greater than me overpowered my senses. It felt like a threat and a friend.

"Silly name."

I did not respond.

"Atticus."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I would like-"

"Atticus?" My name, clear as day and just as bright, interrupted the other voices. When I opened my eyes, the apparition had vanished. The ringing had gone, too. I knew that voice. It was her. She soothed me out of the agony without being present.

Once I felt everything was safer, I eased the tension in my muscles. My arms felt limp resting over my knees. After I rubbed the stress from my face, I stood up to return to my desk. The rest of the night I needed to attempt a letter.