#orange peel quilt pattern

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ one hundred paired prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ a pot of fresh coffee and split knuckles

²⁾ orange peels and a car battery

³⁾ sand dunes and leather boots

⁴⁾ a printer and a knife

⁵⁾ incense and handcuffs

⁶⁾ a crushed velvet sofa and a video camera

⁷⁾ stale cigarettes and cotton candy

⁸⁾ loose change and headlights

⁹⁾ grey hairs and a gold belt buckle

¹⁰⁾ burnt coffee and grass stains

¹¹⁾ cherry cola and blue jeans

¹²⁾ chipped green nail polish and an empty dinner table

¹³⁾ a stack of paperwork and metal music

¹⁴⁾ a patchwork quilt and sweet tea

¹⁵⁾ a hockey sweater and a two-seater sofa

¹⁶⁾ perfume oil and rolled up shirtsleeves

¹⁷⁾ fallen leaves and guilt

¹⁸⁾ radio channels and a birthday card

¹⁹⁾ ravens and meadowsweet

²⁰⁾ apologies and bitter red wine

²¹⁾ library books and pouring rain

²²⁾ a breathalyser and popcorn

²³⁾ princess plasters and iodine

²⁴⁾ a tote bag with one broken strap and a winding staircase

²⁵⁾ a parasol and a tumbler of straight whiskey

²⁶⁾ fresh honey and a cult

²⁷⁾ wisdom teeth and blue eyes

²⁸⁾ sour cherries and a stolen hoodie

²⁹⁾ the flu and a heatwave

³⁰⁾ a boonie hat and a sunset

³¹⁾ vanilla perfume and a kitchen counter

³²⁾ a buffalo skull and a leather armchair

³³⁾ a throw pillow and a doorway

³⁴⁾ pink fluffy handcuffs and an unexpected guest

³⁶⁾ a package and a divorce

³⁷⁾ a stripper pole and a hangover

³⁸⁾ familiar cologne and a black eye

³⁹⁾ a lit candle and a snowstorm

⁴⁰⁾ an unsealed letter and a fallen pine tree

⁴¹⁾ headlights and footprints

⁴²⁾ a blocked number and traffic lights

⁴³⁾ a racesuit and a countdown

⁴⁴⁾ a butcher’s apron and a phonecall

⁴⁵⁾ battered comic books and a broken window

⁴⁶⁾ cold floorboards and a roommate

⁴⁷⁾ smooth vermouth and gold rings

⁴⁸⁾ a lip piercing and a rough hand

⁴⁹⁾ someone’s spare room and an eclipse

⁵⁰⁾ a game of mahjong and bad jazz music

⁵¹⁾ a jigsaw puzzle and a mortuary

⁵²⁾ a broke-up sidewalk and a knitted scarf

⁵³⁾ a poundshop wig and broken glass

⁵⁴⁾ a bunk bed and a crush

⁵⁵⁾ a red ink tattoo and a dinner gone cold

⁵⁶⁾ a warm palm and a flannel shirt

⁵⁷⁾ fresh basil and a half-empty bottle of arrack

⁵⁸⁾ a nightclub bathroom and smeared eyeliner

⁵⁹⁾ a busted lip and strawberry icecream

⁶⁰⁾ a floral-patterned dress and a looming balcony

⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar

⁶²⁾ a white mercedes and cheap perfume

⁶³⁾ a fwb and a housekey

⁶⁴⁾ a blue sarong and a fingertip tracing over a scar

⁶⁵⁾ a sauna room and a terse exchange

⁶⁶⁾ fried plantains and a briefcase

⁶⁷⁾ dried lavender and a tiled bathtub

⁶⁸⁾ a hotel room and a bouquet of lilies

⁶⁹⁾ sweet mango lassi and a suitcase

⁷⁰⁾ orange streetlights and a nightmare

⁷¹⁾ a crucifix and a thigh tattoo

⁷²⁾ a palm tattoo and the thrum of a heartbeat

⁷³⁾ a champagne room and a police siren

⁷⁴⁾ blue nitrile gloves and a hickey

⁷⁵⁾ a double-wide trailer and shotgun shells

⁷⁶⁾ stitches and pyjama shorts

⁷⁷⁾ karaoke and a snowdrift

⁷⁸⁾ an older man and a twin bed

⁷⁹⁾ chinese takeout and a graveyard

⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens

⁸¹⁾ carbolic soap and a creaking staircase

⁸²⁾ an undercover assignment and wrung hands

⁸³⁾ the back seat of a limousine and bustling night streets

⁸⁴⁾ a steamed-up bathroom and cold floorboards

⁸⁵⁾ a grand prix and a breakup

⁸⁶⁾ a third place trophy and a picture frame

⁸⁷⁾ the last slice of birthday cake and crossed legs

⁸⁸⁾ squashed raspberries and heated cheeks

⁸⁹⁾ pink lipgloss and brass knuckles

⁹⁰⁾ a ghost mask and a late visit

⁹¹⁾ loose bullets and slashed tires

⁹²⁾ a tactical belt and patterned bedsheets

⁹³⁾ a goaltender’s stick and a lonely walk home

⁹⁴⁾ a dog bed and a migraine

⁹⁵⁾ lit billboards and a floor-length gown

⁹⁶⁾ a divebar negroni and a game of pool

⁹⁷⁾ olive trees at harvest time and divorce papers

⁹⁸⁾ a caviar bump and vanilla coke

⁹⁹⁾ a whale tail and pantsuit

¹⁰⁰⁾ legs thrown into a lap and calloused hands

[mediumsizedpidegon]

Another avenue I want to explore in an Amity Park is Weird scenario is all the niche sub-cultures going on.

There is absolutely NO WAY there isn't a thriving goth community in Amity Park. They're holding picnics every full moon. They're holding crafting sessions in their friends' basements. They're adopting ghost animals left and right: eight-legged dogs and blob-cats, skeletal fish and neon bearded dragons.

There's a young man called Raphael who performs live music every week at a dance club with his band: he's got a myriad of shiny piercings, and a phone camera roll full of his rabbits, Morningstar and Salem. Perhaps those ghosts are bad business like the Fentons say, but the club's never felt more alive.

The scene and emo kids are multiplying at a rapid rate. The punks and grunge folks are doing shit with textiles that makes every quilting grandmother in a five mile radius swoop in to pass on their skills. Josie and Betty, old friends who periodically upload photos online of their handmade lace, suddenly gain an influx of young folks who want to learn how to make their own ghoulish patterns.

There's a new group peeling off from the goths that dress like the embodiment of Halloween– all bones, pumpkin orange and lengths of costume jewelry.

The historical costuming community is alive and well in these times, and they fall upon the few ghosts from times past willing to share knowledge like starving wolves. Their minds are full of patterning-math and fabric prices, and their excitement is, quite literally, infectious.

A revolution starts up in food service: a great many restaurants closed or moved to follow the many people who left Amity after the ghosts first came. A pair of brothers open a restaurant that has the best Polish food around: people politely don't comment on how the owners are dressed in clothes a century out of date or how their eyes gleam. Two cat cafes open, one space themed and another with loose definitions of what counts as a "cat." Assorted coffee and tea shops dot the landscape: some serve donuts, some have cupcakes, and others have breakfast wraps, sandwiches or savory hand pies.

People that can't afford to open a restaurant sell food out of their homes, advertised by cardboard signs with phrases like CAKES FOR $10, and BARBEQUE RIBS FOR SALE painted on them in gigantic bright letters. High school students bring in bags of cookies they made the night before and completely sell out of stock before the day is done. One woman's house has no signage and yet is known by word of mouth to be a herbalist, selling tins of homemade tea blends, flowers, assorted plant clippings, and cough drops.

Someone down the street of Casper High sells small batches of eco-friendly soap at a nearby corner store.

During summer time, lemonade stands are everywhere. Some of the lemonade is made with the strange fruits from one of the parks: no one dies, so it's fine.

The Farmer's Market has gotten... intense.

[wyrmscraft]

Another MSQC pattern made with a batik layer cake (or four charm packs). It’s a little short for a twin, but not by much. I mean, it’ll do the job LOL

I free motioned quilted it with spirals in each center and orange peels on each corner using my Husqvarna Topaz 20 and green glide thread.

[ditsyknits]

Some more photos of the green quilt! I'm about halfway done with the quilting and I've been really enjoying it now. The first photo shows one of my favorite parts of the orange peel pattern, which is the diamond star shape that appears in between the petals 🏳️‍⚧️

[stesierra]

Chapter Three of Cast Out

The wall of the large red tent billowed in the breeze, as if it were waving at me. The door flap was rolled open like an invitation and secured with a white-tasseled cord. A moon-patterned carpet lay in the entryway, a path into maroon shadows.

I walked towards it.

The sign outside read, "Wondrous Spectacle." Shapes surrounded the words, painted in a red clay pigment: harps and giants, two-headed men, and a naked woman whose prominent breasts made me blush. I frowned. Mother had said something about spectacles–

Fire-gold replaced the shadows of the tent interior as a large and brightly dressed woman waddled her way out. Red ochre painted her dark cheeks, and beads bedecked her braided black hair. The pattern dyed into her loose silk pants looked quilted out of orange peels. They bagged around her legs, but even so I could see her warped leg, the foot clubbed. She leaned on a cane decorated with snakes.

She broke into a wide smile. I startled. Gold crowned her teeth, like she was gumming a mouthful of coins.

Her lips moved. They were hard to read, with the flashing of her teeth distracting me. I caught only part of it. "...cast-out, my dear? ...Your flaw?"

I took a step backwards. Mother had said not to join the spectacles. I should have walked straight by.

Rest of chapter now available here.

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Just chapters and snippets

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[nevershootamockingbird]

[ image one: black italicized text against a white background. The text reads “There are boxes of clementines in the kitchen and the thing is that I love you again.” 

image two: a realistic color painting of an orange that has been peeled, with the wedges still clumped together and sitting in the peels. An orange blossom is laying on the table next to it.

image three: black text against a white background. The text reads: “At lunchtime I bought a huge orange-- The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave-- They got quarters and I had a half.”

image four: a realistic painting of two oranges on a table next to a tarnished silver pitcher. One orange is in front of the other. The orange in front has been partially peeled, and the orange in half is still in tact with a stem and leaves on it. 

image five: black text against white background. The text reads: “About a dozen tangerines fell out of my blue shopping bag and rolled down the bus aisle. That made them smile, though it was only a bag of tangerines rolling down the aisle.”

image six: a realistic painting of peeled oranges, with the segments mostly still in the peels.

image seven: black italicized text against white background. The text reads “She peels an orange, separates it in perfect halves, and gives one of them to me. If I could wear it like a friendship bracelet, I would. Instead I swallow it section by section and tell myself it means even more this way.”

image eight: a realistic painting of lemons and oranges on a blue patterned tablecloth. One orange and two lemons sit in a white shallow standing bowl. One orange is in front of the bowl, with a lemon and an orange right next to it. A lemon is in front of these, with a black-handled knife on the tablecloth directly in front of it. 

image nine: black text against white background. The text reads “   Spilled orange juice all over the table this morning. Sudden sunlight I couldn’t wipe away.

My hands were daylight all through the night.”

image ten: two color photos of oranges and grapes on patterned quilts.

image eleven: black text against white background. The text reads “And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new.”

image twelve: a color photo or extremely realistic painting of an orange on a wooden counter or table. The orange has been partially peeled, and two singe slices lean against it. 

image thirteen: black text against white background. The text reads  “  An orange on the table, your dress on the rug,  and you in my bed, sweet present of the present,               cool of night, warmth of my life.”

image fourteen: a realistic painting of a half-peeled orange on a glossy wooden surface. There is a purple-red plum on a leafy stem behind it. 

image fifteen: black italicized text against white background. The text reads “I love you. I’m glad I exist.”  / end id ]

musings on oranges

Alessia Di Cesare, Romero Barros, Wendy Cope, David Stevenson, Rebecca O’Connor, Andrea Kantrowitz, Nina LaCour, Augustin Rouart, Ocean Vuong, Chris Krupinski, Wendy Cope, Mickie Acierno, Jacques Prévert, Robert Spear Dunning, Wendy Cope

buy me a coffee

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Inflorescence: The Pasture at Rest by Marjorie Gowdy

ADVANCE ORDER: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/inflorescence-the-pasture-at-rest-by-marjorie-gowdy/

Marjorie Gowdy writes at home in the Blue Ridge mountains of Callaway, VA. Gowdy was Founding Executive Director of the Ohr-O’Keefe Museum of Art in Biloxi, MS, which she led for 18 years. Now retired, she worked in other fields that fed her love of writing, including as a grants writer. Her poetry has been published in the Roanoke Review (2015), Artemis Journal (2013-2022), Floyd County Moonshine (2021), Valley Voices (Mississippi Valley State University (2021), Indolent Books (2021), Clinch River Review (2021), Visitant-Lit (2021), RockPaperPoem (2022), the book Quilted Poems (2022), the Centennial Anthology of the Poetry Society of Virginia (2022), and in several national anthologies of poetry dedicated to the families of Ukraine. She has essays in Katrina: Mississippi Women Remember (2007). Gowdy also paints, with recent works accepted by the Virginia Beach Artists’ Center (2020), illustrations published in Floyd County Moonshine (20210, in Artemis Journal (a visual poem, 2021), Orange Peel Magazine (2022), and in an exhibition at the Virginia Tech Carilion School of Medicine. Her poems + verse, which she calls carmen duca, were also part of an exhibit, Welcome to Roanoke, in 2022 at the Roanoke, VA, Municipal Building. Gowdy is a summa cum laude graduate of Virginia Tech and has a master’s degree in liberal studies from University of North Carolina-Greensboro. Her work is informed by the tumbled Virginia mountains as well as her time on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and along the coasts of Virginia and North Carolina. She is newsletter editor for the Poetry Society of Virginia.

PRAISE FOR Inflorescence: The Pasture at Rest by Marjorie Gowdy

In Inflorescence: The Pasture at Rest Marjorie Gowdy immerses us in farmland and mountainside, with images and patterns timeless as the land itself. As she ambles “among the chest-high Susans,” or smells the “Flattened streams of smoked ham reach toward the vale,” she pulls us along with her. Marjorie writes the tender side of life, from bees and barn swallows to hands touching “beneath the ivy tree, years wrapped around a patient poplar.” Listen, too, for her condemnation of “Man’s callow disregard,” both for the Earth and for each other. In “A Murmuration” Marjorie writes “‘Tis not wit nor skill that keeps me alive,” but wit and skill are certainly alive in her writing. I for one, dear reader, am grateful Marjorie Gowdy is sharing her wit and wisdom in these poems.

–Pamela Brothers Denyes, Author, The Right Mistakes and The Widow’s Lovers

What a marvelous poet. Marjie Gowdy reminds me of the great Romantic poets, especially, John Clare, for she can name every flower and tree around her. She paints an indelible stamp. Only a seasoned florist and botanist could write powerful nature poems like these. She can be succinct and terse as Emily Dickinson. In thinking about her father in” Inflorescent”, she laments “Flowers return. He does not.” It reminds me of Emily who said “I heard a fly buzz before I died.” Buy this chapbook. It is worth far more than its listed price.

–Maurice Ferguson, Poetry Editor, Artemis

This book reflects the beauty of the natural world based on the knowledge and experiences of a seasoned gardener. The author treats every element nature as though they are old family friends. There is a kindness and appreciation of both the flora and fauna in the author’s world that is captivating and inspiring. The writing is beautiful and takes the reader into a world rich in complexity and subtlety that makes this poetry compelling.

–Peter Haslett Kelly, Poet and Composer

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry #nature

[itsquilttime]

Bird Seed quilt pattern - a FREE pattern on the Bernina blog (featuring Tula Pink’s Moonshine fabric line here in the photo).

[snackleggg]

Nails being dragged across a chalkboard

~~~

First time using my Far Below concept

Summary: Danny has a talk with a strange ghost

~~~

The sound was grating.

Like nails being dragged across a chalkboard.

The sound of someone peeling away dry paint.

The creak of old floorboards and the laboured breath of the dying.

It was all of these sounds and none of them at the same time.

Danny shook his head.

He had to get out of here. This place was messing with his very sense of reality and soon he wont even know down from up.

(Did he ever really know down from up in the infinite realms? Was there even such a concept?)

Danny made his way through the old wooden house, careful of broken glass and always knocking before going through doorways. It just felt polite. Something in his core warning him to be wary and to be a good guest.

As soon as he got to the other side of the house he was bolting.

Finally he came through a doorway and could see across the room was the door leading out. But the room wasn't empty or unoccupied like the rest.

The fireplace was burning bright with a warm yellow and orange fire. There was a kettle going on the stove top on the other side of the room and by the fireplace was a comfortable looking arm chair. It had an intricate quilt draped over it, like something you would see at a grandmother's house. There was a small coffee table and another chair, this one not as luxurious or comfy looking as the armchair, it was just a plain wooden one like you would sit at a dinner table.

The walls were decked with pictures of people, all standing infront of an open field with a small house visible in the background. The house in the picture looked almost exactly like the one Danny was in now, if only the one he was in now wasn't run down and at the bottom of the most dangerous place in the infinite realms.

It took Danny too long to notice the figure standing next to the stove waiting for the kettle to boil. The sudden comfortableness of the room infront of him shot his focuse but he managed to regain it as the kettle went off with a high pitch squeal- (like nails being dragged across a chalk board)

Danny shook his head of the thought as he focused on the figure that was removing the kettle from the stove top and pouring a black goopy liquid into two ceramic tea cups covered in intricate flower patterns.

They were tall, their head would probably hit the ceiling if they stood upright. They were hunched over slightly and like many of the residents of the Far Below they didn't seem to have any defining features about them, just a black shadowy mass for a body. They were humming a soft tune that made Danny's eyelids feel a bit heavy but he shook it off. He had to focuse!

He tried sneaking past but a creaky floorboard betrayed him.

"Why don't you sit down for a drink dear?" Came the smooth echoy voice of the ghost who still had their back turned to Danny. Maybe they had known Danny was in the house all along and had just been waiting for him to make it to the last room? But why?

With a resigned sigh Danny sat down over on the wooden chair. The fireplace drowned the whole room in a warm orange glow that only served to increase the feeling of comfort.

The ghost finally turned around as they made their way over with the two cups of black goopy substance. Their only features were two glowing white eyes on an otherwise completely void black face. As they placed the cups down on the coffee table that was between them and Danny he saw they had long sharp thin needle-like fingers that worked delicately around their surroundings.

The ghost sat down on the arm chair and Danny inexplicably felt himself relax.

'No! Bad Danny! Stay focused!' He reminded himself as he tensed again. The logical part of his brain knew not to trust anything that looked nice or appealing in the Far Below. It was always a trick, like a venus flytrap offering sweet necture to an unassuming fly. Danny hated the fact that he was the unassuming fly in this metaphor.

"Well little one?" They spoke again in that buttery smooth voice "What brings you to my parlor?" They asked.

Danny got the sudden urge to spill all his secrets, to tell this ghost everything until he had all his thoughts out on the table, like showing his cards but he swallowed the urge down as he spoke in a shaky voice "I'm just passing through"

"Hmm" the ghost tapped their long needle-like fingers against their chin "it is dangerous to travel these depths when so young. Would you like to stay here a little while until you are better prepared?" The ghost offered.

"N-no thanks" Danny shakily replied. He had a white knuckled grip on the chair's arm rests.

"Very well, but I insist you have some tea before you go" the ghost said, gesturing down to the cups of bubbling black goo.

Danny looked down at the tea. It looked like tar, like some disgusting rotting substance. But as he focused on it the smell finally hit his nose. It smelled delicious. Like chocolate cake and flowers and all the good things in Danny's life. Danny had been travelling through this hell scape for a few hours now but it felt like it had been forever since he was home. Maybe one sip wouldn't hurt. Just to feel home again.

Before he knew it he had his shaky fingers around the cup and was bringing it towards him. The logical part of his brain was screaming at him to stop run get out. But it was just one sip? What could it hurt?

Danny held the cup in shaky hands up to his mouth. Why were his hands shaking? It was just a little tea. Then he made the mistake of glancing up at the ghost. Another feature was visible on their face now, a mouth of razzor sharp teeth, all curled into a sadistic smile. The image was such a sharp turn to the comfortable daze Danny had just been in that it shocked him right out of it, right before he took the sip.

He suddenly jerked the tea cup back down onto the table "I- I think I'm good! Thanks". The smile had disappeared from the ghosts face. Had it ever really been there? Danny didn't want to look back down at the cup, he didn't want to get entranced by it's empty promises of home and comfort.

The ghost sighed "I suppose it can't be helped"

They suddenly stood up and Danny tensed more. His mind, now clear, noticed all the little things of the room that hadn't clicked before. How the stove fire had never been on. How the people in the pictures on the walls looked unhappy, horrified even. How the fire had turned from a warm orange-yellow to a sickly green-gray with ash and soot routinely puffing out. The light it cast was no longer comfortable and friendly.

Instead of attacking like Danny expected they would, the ghost merely stood infront of the fireplace, their back turned to Danny again.

There was a silence. A pause. Danny considered leaving, bolting for the door as quickly as possible but he knew he would never make it in time. He was suddenly very aware of how easily those needle-like fingers could pierce his skin.

Finally the ghost broke the silence "Human's are like sheep in a factory, all meant to be slaughtered"

Danny felt petrified on the spot.

"Ghosts are the sheep that escape. They get a taste of life without death, or maybe it's death with life? But either way they will be found by the farmers and brought to their fate as well"

The ghost suddenly turned around. Their glowing white eyes pinning Danny in the spot with their intensity.

"But you, you are like a sheep that escaped and found it's way onto a raft in the open ocean. What will happen? Will you die, meet your fate like the rest of us? Or will you find lands untold? An existence that we could never dream of? A freedom of the slaughterhouse of inevitability" there was a brief moment were it was just silent. Like the whole Infinite realms was holding it's breath. Danny felt crushed under the silence, like it was suffocating him.

Then the ghost blinked and the feeling vanished.

"Such an interesting concept" they cocked their head to the side "Thoughts?"

Danny's ears were ringing. He could hear the sound of glass crunching under feet, of a cat sharpening it's claws on a scratching post, of nails being dragged across a chalkboard.

"I need to go" he managed to wheeze out.

The ghost nodded at the door and Danny got up and ran, never looking back as he escaped that house.

[librarychair]

My grandpa was the type of guy to mow his front lawn diagonally and then go over it again in the other direction to create a neat geometrical pattern. He also peeled his oranges to produce neat squares and triangles of peel. He taught me how to fold the paper napkin ring at a restaurant so it'd hold up a full glass of water. I inherited a tie clip with a tiny ball bearing on it from him. He wore nothing but plaid shirts and my aunt made quilts out of them after he died. All different but perfectly square quilts with the fabric from his dozen identical pairs of blue slacks used as border material. Mine lives on the back of the couch where I lean on it every day

[crochetysquare]

This Crochet Brunch we’re having Blood Orange Mimosas

🍊🍾

Can I tell you a secret, not-my-grandkids?

I hate writing these patterns. As I mentioned over a fried egg at our brunch two weeks ago, my process relies upon mistakes. You might have noticed that none of the Citrus Series is constructed exactly the same, and this is no exception. I could say that, going in with another hexagon, I wanted to have a different number of segments, but this is untrue. Fully finished with the white, I realized it curled in on itself beyond recognition, and I had to go back. Going back becomes more annoying when you know you're supposed to be writing down the pattern. I don't like to switch gears in the middle of crocheting. The process is whimsical, but logical. Each row affects what comes next, hence why I so often unravel whole rows to pursue an entirely new construction. But when it comes to communicating that pattern, it becomes more difficult. What did I do? In "Gin and Tonic" I don't think I doubled the stitches for the white pith, but for this Blood Orange I had to, to avoid that curling problem. In changing colors, one often loses or gains stitches as if the yarn is procreating, living and dying right under your hook, so my counting perpetually derails projects. So many choices must be undone, so much improvisation is required when I crochet that writing patterns becomes an arduous task. This blog was intended for play, and to share my Quarantine Quilt. I've tried, these past two brunches, to inject playfulness into my patterns, but have I succeeded? I have not succeeded in sharing my Quilt, so can I say producing patterns is any success at all?

Key:

Sl = slip stitch

Ch = chain

Sc = single crochet

Hdc = half double crochet

Tr = triple crochet

Please note: end yarns as necessary depending on your decisions.

Magic circle. 6 sc. Sl into first sc to join.

Ch 5 (counts as first tr), 2 tr in same stitch. 3 tr in next 5 sc’s, sl in 5th ch to join the row.

Change to white yarn. 2 sc in first 5 tr’s. Hdc into magic circle. (Pictured below) You should now have roughly 33 stitches.

Switch to orange yarn for peel. Since I used a “pulpy” yarn, I switched to a completely different one with a more peel-like texture. Sc’s around. With this yarn, I didn’t need to add extra stitches to keep the shape, but be wary of what your yarns demand of you. We are all at the beck and call of our yarns. Sl to join the row.

Switch to your “plate” color. Mine is the same blue as my fried egg, but with “Gin and Tonic” I stuck to the white because sometimes it’s just easier and neater to pull yarns already in the project than to add new ones. [Sc in first three stitches; Ch 6(? I wanna say 6 but if 5 looks better go with it) and skip next 3 stitches; sc in next 2 stitches, Ch 6 and skip next 3 stitches] 3 times and sl into the first sc to join the row.

[(Hdc 3, ch 3, hdc 3) in 6 ch space, ch 2 and skip 3 sc’s, (Hdc 3, ch 3, hdc 3) in next 6 ch space, ch 2 and skip 2 sc’s] 3 times and sl to join. End it.

Moving forward with our "brunches" I want to explore different ways of expressing the creative process to you. I have some ideas, but you will have to bear with the blog through its growing pains. None of the next Sundays will be quite the same. I think the point is to commit to having regular posts at all.

[carlpointing]

SELF-ASSURANCE — TAPE 1: “SOLILOQUY”

“I think it’s recording.” The dilated pupils of an elongated face, thin silver irises surrounded the black void, stared deep into the camera lens. The slim face had pasty-white skin, a fair complexion. A narrow nose led down to a pair of thin lips that rested above the young man’s lengthy chin. Black spectacles, rectangular in frame, sat on the bridge of his narrow nose. His hair was that of a light orange, medium length, though unkempt. The room was dimly lit, a sliver of yellowish light embraced the left side of his face. “I don’t know why I’m making these.” He spoke in a deep voice, no emotion could be heard whatsoever. “Perhaps I’m trying to prove a point to myself? I’m unenlightened to what that point is, exactly. Maybe I’m trying to be honest with myself, because I don’t even know how I’m feeling, but then again, I could just be tricking myself into believing what I’m not. I have done that for the last nineteen years of my life, I’ve convinced myself- and everyone around me-  that I am something which I’m not.” The black office chair he sat on creaked as he moved it from side to side. “My name is James Gordon Junior, most of my friends call me ‘Jimmy’- though, I don’t really have any friends. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a true friend, hell, no one even notices me, I’m not a memorable person at all. If I were someone else, I wouldn’t notice me either. I’m quiet and reserved, I don’t get around, I’m not attractive, I have little to no personality. I’m just the bastard child of the GCPD commissioner.” He pondered briefly, before leaning over and switching his desk lamp on. A white light grazed his face, revealing the previously dark room as that of a pigsty, clothes scattered the beige coloured carpet, a king single bed rested in the corner behind the lone red-head, a black quilt unneatly placed upon the sheetless bed. “Now, my father… He loves me, I do know that, but I also know he thinks of me as quite strange. He had me tested for autism repeatedly, due to my- ‘neurotypical’- behaviour, though nothing of the sort has come back positive. I know he’s always loved my sister Barbara more, I can just tell. She’s his little princess. I’m not phased by this fact, I’ve always accepted it.” James leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk, his face still as blank, and seemingly emotionless. “He naively follows a man dressed like a bat into battle; doesn’t he realize how delusional you have to be to dress like a bat and fight the madmen of Gotham? Yet, he is more concerned about me. Yeah, right. Gotham is not a city… No… It’s a Warzone, and Batman only makes it worse for-” Repeated knocking, around three, came from the door; Jimmy quickly stopped what he was doing, turning to it. The door was slowly opened immediately after the knock. From the door came a crevasse of light, a tall man in a sandy trench coat, a crimson tie draping from the collar of his off-white shirt, of which had its top button undone, his mature face, worn hair and grey moustache peeping through the doorway. “Are you alright, Jimmy?” The father worryingly asked his son. “I’m fine, dad.” The boy of his kindred replied, a cold tone. The commissioner’s eyes peeled around Junior’s messy room, anxious for his son. He truly loved Jimmy, though he didn’t exactly know how to show it. He couldn’t help but feel guilty that he wished that Jimmy was a normal kid. He wished he could have a normal conversation with him, he wished he could at least know how to communicate with the boy; his son. “Who were you talking to?” Jim’s eyes focused back onto Junior. “No one, don’t worry.”  The man “I hope there’s no girls hiding ‘round in here.” The moustache moved with Jim’s lips as he made what he thought of as a comedic remark, smiling at his son. “There isn’t.” The young man remained with a blank expression on his face. Gordon Senior uncomfortably gulped at his son’s awkward reaction, placing his finger in his collar. “Dinner’s almost ready, come downstairs soon...” “Alright.” Gordon Junior said, still with the same emotionless vocal pattern. The commissioner stayed, pondering on how to respond, he wished he could’ve just come up with an appropriate response, but rather he walked out of the messy room, slowly shutting the door behind him. The ginger-haired boy turned back around to the camera as the door shut behind his father. The viewfinder reflected in the lenses of his glasses, the reflection of his very own face seen within them. He looked at himself within the viewfinder, leisurely tilting his head. The edges of his lips slowly curved, one after the other, his eyebrows and eyelids stayed in their frozen position. A Closed Smile Formed on His Face.

Meanwhile, he placed his hand on top of the camera, pressing down on the record button.

END OF TAPE 1.

[drones-of-innocence]

Sweater Weather

O~o~O

Summary:  On a cold winter's night, when Luigi can't sleep, Mario's answer involves sweaters and quilts. Inspired by _kairy_draws_'s adorable sweaters that she drew for the brothers!

Just a little drabble I wrote instead of doing homework

Links to other platforms: AO3; FFN.net; Wattpad

Here is _kairy_draws_’s Instagram!

O~o~O

There was a blackout.

Most of Toad Town was in the dark, or at least it would have been, if the Mario brothers hadn’t gone around to every door to hand out and light candles to the citizens. They made sure every house had plenty of light before they would move on. After leaving the final house, satisfied that the Toads would all have light and stay warm through the cold winter night, they finally turned to go back to their own house.

The heater was broken. Snow was beginning to fall. They didn’t have many candles left for themselves, but Mario used his Firebrand to light up the fireplace. They were too tired to worry about being very cold, or, more precisely, Luigi being cold. Mario didn’t get cold.

It was late. Both brothers wanted nothing more than to get some sleep. Luigi trudged off to his room with the sleepy promise of tinkering with the electricity down in town with his Thunderhand, and Mario mumbled something about building space heaters to distribute around. They just had to hope the castle would be okay without them until morning.

Then, they went to sleep. At least, they would have liked to. Not even five minutes later, the house was awake again with the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

“For the last time, there are no ghosts in the house!”

“But Mario!” Luigi wailed, trying to wrestle with the vacuum nozzle. Mario wouldn’t let go. “They’re in the curtains! And the rugs! They hide, it’s what they do!”

Mario yanked on the nozzle, but Luigi clung to it for dear life. “It’s two in the morning!” Mario protested. “Come on, it’s so late. You have to be tired. Let’s go to bed, okay?”

Shaking his head furiously, Luigi threw his whole body into pulling, and both the brothers stumbled. “No! I can’t sleep now!”

“Mamma mia,” Mario sighed, and abruptly let go of the vacuum cleaner. Luigi flew back and fell on the floor with a yelp. “There are no ghosts. You know this! We checked last weekend.”

The only light in the room was the fireplace, crackling away. The nearest light was several meters away, down town. The house was apparently very cold. Mario rubbed his eyes and glanced between the fire, Luigi shuddering on the floor, and the dark hall that led to their bedrooms.

Tilting his head, Mario looked to the floor again. “Luigi.” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s not ghosts you’re afraid of, is it?”

Luigi blinked at him. His eyes darted all around the walls and the carpet before focusing on Mario again. Then, cradling the vacuum cleaner in his arms, he shook his head.

Mario’s expression softened. Stifling a yawn, he came to sit down on the carpet with Luigi. “Your nightlight.” he said. “It’s not working. So it’s dark in your room. Is that why you’re scared?”

Back in Brooklyn, there was plenty of light, even at night. The dark had never been a problem for Luigi until after they had come to the Mushroom Kingdom so long ago. The city may never sleep, but the Mushroom Kingdom certainly did.

After weeks of being unable to sleep, to where Luigi had started walking into walls because of how tired he was, Mario was determined to find out what was wrong. He tried everything. Fluffing the pillows every night, reading a bedtime story, making Luigi hot tea before bed, Mario tried every trick in the book.

He wasn’t sure how he put it together, exactly. But after listening to Luigi talk about the nightmares he had at night, and observing how he napped during the day just fine, Mario got gut feeling that told him the dark had something to do with it. So he went and found a nice little nightlight.

And it worked like a charm; Luigi hadn’t had any problems sleeping since that day. Until now, at last.

Tracing the patterns in the carpet with a finger, Luigi avoided his eyes and finally nodded.

The firewood sputtered, and Luigi jumped. Mario gave a tired smile. “I told you that you could use the candles. I can light them for you,” he started to make a move to get up, but Luigi grabbed his sleeve and shook his head. “What?” Mario stopped.

“Someone else might need the candles.” Luigi mumbled. He shivered so hard that his jaw clenched. “I don’t want to waste them.”

Mario just shook his head. He could argue, and tell Luigi that using the candles for himself wasn’t a waste at all. That was a surefire way to keep them bickering out in the living room for another hour before they would sleep. But it was two in the morning. He didn’t want to argue, he wanted to go to bed. He could work on Luigi’s perception of wasting and using another day.

“Come here,” he peeled the vacuum cleaner from Luigi’s grasp and wrapped his shivering little brother in a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so cold?”

Luigi didn’t answer except to hug back, which was enough. “Okay. How about this. I will get some blankets. You sit on the couch in front of the fire. We sleep out here tonight.” he let go after a moment, and stood up to head back to his room.

He heard Luigi get up as soon as he left. “We?” he called out tentatively.

Mario peeked from around the corner and pretended to roll his eyes. “Yes. We.” he answered.

The Firebrand was immensely useful for the dark. Mario summoned a handful of fire to light his way with one hand, while he rummaged around his room for blankets with the other. They didn’t actually have much in the way of blankets; the Mushroom Kingdom had nice weather year round, so they didn’t really need them. Even when it did get cold or hot, they had set up heating and cooling in all the houses in Toad Town.

He ended up finding a couple of sweaters. One was his, but he didn’t remember where he got it. Orange and red striped pattern, crocheted with a goomba in the middle. He smiled. The other was Luigi’s. It was so big that it seemed like more of a blanket than a sweater, with a blue plaid design and little pink hearts scattered about.

Just as he slid his sweater over his head, he heard Luigi sit down on the couch and let out a yawn from the living room. Mario shook his head and closed his bedroom door on the way out once he grabbed the quilts. He knew Luigi hated leaving doors open.

“Here,” he handed the blue plaid sweater to Luigi, and he saw the instant Luigi recognized it.

He ran a hand over the fabric. “Oh. I remember this,” he murmured, just as Mario set his green quilt beside him on the couch. He slid his arms in the sleeves, which were way too big, and made him look like he did when they were little. Mario couldn’t help but chuckle while he lay his own red quilt out on the floor in front of the couch.

After taking one pillow for himself and giving the rest to Luigi, Mario went to sit down on the end of the couch with a pillow in his lap. His body was practically a space heater. He planned on sitting there until Luigi was warm and could fall asleep before he would move to lay down on the floor. The quilts were gifts from Princess Peach, way back when they had first come to the Mushroom Kingdom and finally decided to stay. The sweaters, though, Mario couldn’t quite place where they had gotten them. They had been on so many adventures and met so many people, the sweaters could have come from anywhere.

Mario was too tired to think. He would ask Luigi about it later. “Cozy?” he looked down to Luigi, just as Luigi lay down with his head on the pillow. Luigi answered him with an affirmative noise. Even so, Mario reached down and touched Luigi’s quilt. His Firebrand heated up the heavy blanket with ease, and he hoped it would be enough to keep Luigi warm throughout the night.

He settled with his cheek resting in his palm, and closed his eyes. The fire danced about in the fireplace, casting soft orange light around the room. He listened to Luigi shift around until he was comfortable.

After a moment, Mario nearly nodded off. The sound of the fire, his brother’s breathing, the wind outside, were all soothing to him. They had plenty of work on their hands tomorrow, but for now, they could sleep.

“Mario?” he vaguely heard Luigi say.

He processed that it was his name being called. He didn’t want to open his eyes. “Hmm?”

There was one more shift next to him on the couch. Luigi curling up under his quilt. He felt the weight of Luigi’s head finally relax on his lap. “Thank you.” he said, in a small voice.

Mario tried to make some sort of noise in response, but he was too tired to focus on a coherent reply. He hoped Luigi understood. His breathing lengthened. The world faded out.

Outside, snow blanketed the town, inch by inch. The lake was freezing over. Winter had begun, and two brothers slumbered in their house, up on the little hill overlooking Toad Town. The frozen kingdom awaited them in the morning. But for now, at least, they were warm and cozy, dreaming sweet dreams about blankets and old sweaters.

O~o~O

“Hmm, maybe they’re not here?”

“Well, look. There’s a fire going. Surely they’re inside. It is late; perhaps they’re just sleeping.” Peach whispered.

While Daisy went to peek through the windows, Peach shuddered and rubbed her eyes. She wished she was sleeping in her warm bed. But after hearing about the blackout and how the brothers had gone around town to give out candles, she was just consumed with worry for them. Daisy was spending a few days at the castle anyway. So Peach asked for her to come along.

Of course, Daisy was as eager to see them as she was, especially Luigi. The same way Peach was always eager to see Mario.

She came despite the late hour because she knew how cold it would be getting. She could use her magic to keep their house warm for them until they got the heater working again. There was no telling how long the blackout would be.

“Hey, check this out.” Daisy bent down and lifted the welcome mat in front of the door. “Luigi showed me where they keep an extra key.” she grinned as she lifted a small key up into the light for Peach to see.

Clasping her hands together, Peach smiled. “Oh! How clever! I never would have thought to look there.” she said. “They must have learned that trick in Brooklyn.”

Daisy shrugged. “I guess so. Anyway, let’s get inside; I’m freezing.” she went to unlock the door, and Peach noticed her shivering as well.

It took a moment, fumbling with the key, before Daisy managed to get the door open. What they saw had them both cover their mouths, freezing in the doorway.

The brothers were fast asleep in the living room. Mario had somehow dozed off while sitting on the couch, with Luigi’s head resting on a pillow in his lap. It was common knowledge that Luigi could sleep like a log, but Mario was a light sleeper. Startling him could be dangerous if he thought someone was breaking in. Daisy and Peach signalled for each other to stay quiet while stifling giggles.

Peach went to shut the door before the chill could rush in and wake anyone up. Daisy went to go look at the snoozing brothers, trying as hard as she could to not laugh. It was understandable; they were so used to seeing the brothers on high alert, ready for action. To see them sleeping was a rare, but nice change. They hardly ever got a chance to relax.

Once the door was locked, Peach let out a deep breath and raised her arms to use her magic. The house was warm again. She knew Mario would have been fine; his Firebrand gave him a unique tolerance to the cold. But poor Luigi didn’t get the same gift from his Thunderhand. Perhaps that was why Mario was sleeping there with Luigi; to keep him warm.

She was touched. The nature of the brother’s relationship was always a privilege to witness; Daisy was the closest thing Peach had to a sibling, and she was sure the reverse was true as well. So they always loved to see the way Mario and Luigi acted around one another.

“I love their sweaters,” Daisy whispered, reaching over the back of the couch to touch Luigi’s sleeve.

Peach smiled and nodded. “I know. They look so comfy,” she kept her tone low and careful, as she went to stand in front of Mario. She couldn’t touch him; he would wake up.

But they just looked so cozy sleeping there. Peach got an idea, and shared a playful look with Daisy. “Oh, it’s so dark and cold outside, Daisy. We can’t possibly trek all the way back to the castle in this weather,” she pretended to sigh.

Playing along, Daisy put a hand to her forehead. “You’re so right, Peach. I guess we don’t have a choice.” she came around in front of the couch. “We have to spend the night here.”

Their exaggerated tones worked. Mario stirred, and blinked blearily. “Wh…” he started to say. He must have been too tired to be alarmed. He shifted, but Luigi didn’t wake up. “What…”

“Oh, Mario, thank goodness!” Peach reached out and touched his cheek, and the gesture immediately had the intended effect. Mario jolted up, looking with wide eyes between the two of them. “It’s so very cold outside, I’m afraid we have to stay here with you two until morning!”

Mario didn’t even have time to say anything as Peach and Daisy moved to join the brothers on the couch. “Here, I’ll take this one off of your hands,” Daisy sat on the other end of the couch, and pulled on Luigi’s arm until he was laying against her instead. Luigi curled up a little bit, his hands disappearing in his sweater sleeves, but he didn’t wake up. Meanwhile, Peach went to take the vacated spot beside Mario.

His sweater was soft, and he was even warmer than she expected him to be. Their plan had worked flawlessly. Peach and Daisy shared smug grins before settling to go to sleep.

“This must be a dream…” Mario said to himself, and he had already started to nod off again. He adjusted his arms around Peach.

Luigi mumbled something into Daisy’s shoulder, and smiled in his sleep. Daisy giggled and held him close. The brothers were just too cute when they were sleepy.

“Hush, now. Sweet dreams, hon.” Daisy whispered.

Late night sweater cuddles were the perfect way to spend a blackout at the start of winter.

O~o~O

Thanks for reading!

[deathbyvalentine]

Character Bedrooms

Amelia

It was a small room, her bed and desk only a few steps apart, her wardrobe with just enough space to open the doors and stand in front of the mirror and no more. The walls were painted an inoffensive magnolia, the carpet dark and unremarkable. But she had draped her beds wooden headboard with fairy lights, the comforter a patchwork quilt, the pillows having a hint of frills.The curtains that hung beside the bed were floral (as was the delicate perfume in the air, roses and something else, something light). 

The second hand desk was painted white, a stool tucked neatly in the alcove. On the desk, there’s in-progress projects, open sketchpads, pencils in caddies, paintbrushes in muddy water glasses. Above the desk, there’s a pinboard. It’s covered in postcards, small art prints, photographs, handwritten notes. There’s a forgotten cup of tea in a large patterned mug. There’s two lamps - a short one with an orange shade, apparently used for ambience and a white posable one, used for when she sketched into the night. Peeking out from under the bed were stacks of worn paperbacks, nearly all of them classics, some of them tea-stained or dogeared.

Cramped, but tidy. Safe, warm, hers.  It’s seen best in the evening, when gold light pours in from the window, only momentarily dimmed by the lace draped across the glass. If there was just one word you could use to describe Amelia’s sanctum, it was ‘cosy’.

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Cherry Blossom

It had belonged to two boys once. Now it housed one, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the extra space. It was a bare little room, white washed walls and a concrete floor. There was no door, only a beaded curtain in the entryway. No curtains, only a pinned up sheet. A window looked out onto the bustling street - their flat was above a busy shop and peace was hard to come by. Cherry didn’t mind and usually kept the window open. He couldn’t stand silence.

His bedroll sat flush to the wall on one side of the room, pillow and blanket resting haphazardly on top. On the wall itself, several street posters and instruction manual pages were stuck up. Mostly they were from the Brocade Guard but occasionally there were instances of circuses or performers.

His clothes were (or at least, an attempt at) folded at the foot of the bed. A crate sat on it’s side, making a makeshift bedside table. Within it there were a few books, a notepad, some leaking inks, some tangled hand wraps and a first aid kit. Now, if you were particularly observant you might notice two things. One, a number of his belongings were very slightly scorched. Two, there were some papers tucked under his bedroll, one corner just peaking out to show a signature from someone called Duty.

__________________________________________________________

Astrid

An explosion of pink. A beacon of girlhood. An utter mess. It’s a room that is used and lived in and used as a staging area. Clothes are scattered far and wide, in shades of bright pink and blue. It’s tiny as all the rooms in the Tenements are, but she’d made it her own. One wall is blue, another pink, one is half painted violet. A custom neon sign flickers intermittently. On the floor, there’s a fluffy faux fur rug in (what else?) pink. The bed (unmade) is just big enough for two. There are no windows. 

A chest of drawers sits impotently, mostly used for balancing a mirror, a selection of fans, perfume bottles and two jewellery boxes. One contains accessories, spilling out and glittering. The other contains some folded up credits and several small bags of white powder and bright pills. The mirror itself is layered with a hundred lipstick kisses. There’s one or two in a darker shade, indicating that Syn had been here and left her mark.

There’s a door leading to an ensuite bathroom where another mirror lives above a sink. The sink is splattered with make up in every conceivable shade, containers balanced precariously on the porcelain and a fine layer of glitter coats the taps. On the floor, with the wire trailing in from the bedroom, there’s a hair curler. On the back of the door, on a hanger, as if waiting for something, is a kimono.

________________________________________________________________

Sacrifice

Once the door clicks shut, it’s impossible to tell where it was. The walls and ceiling and floor are a slick, reflective black. There’s an odd sort of light, enough to make the place a room of mirrors. At first, you think it shows you yourself, standing alone in the echoing blackness. A little longer, and you might see other movements, far back in the fractals. It looks like someone you lost.

_______________________________________________________________

Tommy

Tommy technically had four rooms. The shrine to his childhood that his parents undoubtably still maintained, his bedroom at Jones’s, the apartment in Kos with Asclepius and then finally, this one. The one he used as an office and could hole himself up in for weeks at a time - if he didn’t make sure he was there for Jones, which he did. However, the one in Asshole Towers is the most interesting, so we’ll focus our gaze there. 

There was technically a bed in there, making it a bedroom. It was a single one, with generic blue and white sheets. The walls too were a generic blue and white, painted by someone who knew his gender and little else. It was a pleasingly large room, being an attic conversion, though that meant the ceilings and angles sometimes sloped or sat alarmingly, waiting to cause a bump on the head. There was no wardrobe, no couch, nothing really adding any sort of comfort to the place. What there was was information.

The wall next to the bed was covered in papers. Pinned, cellotaped and blue tacked. There were newspaper articles, handscrawled notes, pages from books, odd photographs, postcards, maps, tickets and paintings and more. It spread up like mold, covering even the sloping ceiling above his bed. Pieces of string connected them, colour coded with a quick key of what the colours meant scrawled near the light switch. 

Another wall was covered by a huge, dark bookcase. The bottom shelf was occupied by heavy leather tomes, the spines peeling with age. As the shelves went up, so did the relative age of the books, the top shelf apparently devoted to Penguin books of myths and basic fairytales.

There was not one, but two desks. One held a laptop, a desk lamp and a stack of books. The drawers were full of pens, notepads and other various bits of useful stationary. The other desk looks like a chemistry lab from the eighteen hundreds. A small iron cauldron sat, surrounded by test tubes and loose plant ingredients. The drawers belonging to that one were rather more chaotic. There was a filofax of untested spells, a calculator, yet more pouches, packets and tubes. The one below that held ritual daggers, old coins, various candles and colours of ribbon. The bottom one held... Medicine bottles and packets? It was almost full, Tommy’s full name printed neatly on the side of each, along with a date from several years ago. 

There was one more set of shelves, opposite the desks. One held an odd mix of objects. Olive oil, a small carving of an owl, a waxen heart, a portrait of a peacock, a twist of vine leaves and a small metal snake. Standing aside from the rest, there was an ankh with ‘Ra’ engraved on it. There was also a krater neatly tucked to the side, holding a miniature bottle of wine and a clear vial of water. 

The shelf below that had a stone carving from an asklepion, a triskele in ancient copper and a lightning bolt in steel, all set equal distances apart from one another as if in respect. The bottom shelf had several shoeboxes tucked in there. The first held letters, some impossibly old, some simply the age of a grandparent. The second box held more valuable magic items - a glimmering ruby, a candle holder shaped like skeletons and other, more mysterious things. This was his magic room and therefore his work room - sentimental gifts and photos adorned his room with Jones.

The final wall only had one thing to decorate it. Tommy had spray painted a sigil of a labyrinth right onto the wall, the black paint running just a little. Despite the room being busy, it somehow seemed to dominate, pulling the eye straight to it.

_______________________________________________________________

Ash’s Childhood Bedroom

She shared a bedroom with her sister. Technically there were enough rooms in the house for them to have separate ones, but they had chosen to stay together. Luckily it was large. Two single beds lay against opposite, lavender walls. It was undoubtedly feminine, filled with soft pastels and frills. It is, however, abundantly clear who’s side of the room is who’s.

Violet’s side has a bed coated in teddies. There seems to be hundreds of the bright, fluffy objects. When she was asleep there, it was hard to see her amongst them, looking as doll like as she ordinarily did. There were a few picture books tucked neatly on the window ledge, along with a wind up music box and a selection of disney DVDs. There was a small chest of drawers opposite the end of her bed and a few pink toy boxes tucked underneath. Secreted under her pillow was a lipgloss and mascara she had almost certainly stolen from Ash.

The most obvious difference on Ash’s side was the band posters. They were pinned up beside her bed clumsily, slightly tilted. They were a little frayed at the edges, well loved or cut from magazines. Amongst them there were snapshots of her with girls her own age, usually laughing or pouting, posing for the camera. A laptop sat on top of a deep purple blanket, stickers covering the pink case. 

Her chest of drawers was a little over-packed, the top drawer unable to close completely, shirts spilling out of it. There was a jumble of converse sitting at the bottom, kicked off and abandoned. On top of the drawers, a mirror sat, eyeliner and cheap eye shadow palettes cluttered around it. There were also childish pieces of jewellery, bright and plastic, or merchandise from various gigs.  There was a small bedside table tucked flush to the side. Under the lamp, a family photograph was framed, and then one of just the sisters. There were books stacked in the alcove below the drawer. They were mostly YA novels, one or two schoolbooks mixed in with them carelessly. 

The middle of the room was a jumble of objects. Toys mixed with schoolbags, Ash’s jackets mixed with Violet’s pyjamas.  A wastepaper basket contained empty soda cans and screwed up childish sketches. It wasn’t quite enough to be a mess - their mother saw to that. But both of her daughters had the unfortunate habit of walking into their room shedding everything in their eagerness to be done with school.

_______________________________________________________________

Horatio

His room is technically in the servants’ quarters, though everyone and their mother who works there knows he spends much more time in his master’s room than his own. It’s a simple place, two steps down into a stone room, scrubbed clean with pride. You might notice a slight looseness on one of the steps - inspect it and a stone comes away, revealing a gap where a swathe of letters sit, tied together with a blue ribbon. There’s one window, set high in the wall so it peeks out at the ground level of an impeccably maintained garden.

There’s a bed pressed underneath it, a wooden carved frame and a knitted blanket sitting on top, a sign of love from the cook or matron perhaps. It looks comfortable, though the mattress is no longer firm with age and the pillow poking out with a few feathers. But then, a bed in the servants’ quarters is always going to be considered comfortable. Next to the bed there’s a neat, if precarious, stack of books on magic.

There’s a shelf on the opposite wall above a mirror and basin. On the shelf, a few carved figures sit, momentos from a childhood he was apparently not entirely free from, no matter how long he lived in a manor. There were also a few withered, dried flowers and scorched unidentified objects. Early experiments. The only other object in the room was a wardrobe, oddly full compared to the sparseness of the rest of the space. There were outfits from plain white shirts and aprons for dashing about in the kitchen to lush evening jackets - though never quite as beautiful as his employers of course. No matter what, he was still a ward after all. Otherwise, he’d have a room upstairs.

______________________________________________________________

Matthias

Like everything Matthias keeps in his life, it’s beautiful. Walk through the west wing of the villa, open the end door and here you are. One wall is completely open, spaced out with carved pillars. The view looks out over the mountains of Kahraman and the small grove of trees that his parents have managed to cultivate here. For when the weather (rarely) turns, there are thick curtains to pull across between the pillars, turning it into a wall of sorts. The floor is tiled and shines brightly, reflecting the candles that light the room.

The room is dominated by two things: his bed and the pool. The bed is four poster with thin crimson curtains and soft red sheets, edged with gold fringe. It was piled high with pillows of every shape and colour, making it almost impossible to actually lie in the bed. There was a small, but still intimidatingly large, mountain lion asleep on the bed. The pool was at the far end of the room. It was shallow, the mosaic pattern (a flame, naturally) at the bottom clearly visible. It was his fancy to drink syrah on hot days, his feet resting in the cool water and perfectly angled to gaze out over the nation.

There’s a three chests in a row against the third wall, underneath a long stretch of mirror. They hold his clothes, once they were all mixed together but now one belongs to Flame, to Dust, to Glass. They look like treasure chests and to him, they are. There’s another mirror on a different wall, but this time a shelf stretches underneath it. On the shelf sits small coloured pots of paint and moisturiser, paintbrushes and flakes of gold. There’s jewellery too, chains to hang from his antlers and neck, jewels to sit on his fingers, twists of gold to serve as a bed. There’s also a small bowl that glitters beautiful, over spilling with mana crystals. In a much more official looking box, engraved with a labyrinth is some small bottles of liao.

There’s art dotted around, from blown glass vases to a painted mask from the League, a book from Highguard that has hastily been bound in orange fabric, a firmly locked display case for his coin and resources. Glass and metal lanterns hung from the ceiling and scented candles burnt. The most striking art though is the wall beside his bed. There’s portraits, dozens of them. Those with sharp eyes might notice such famed kohan from the Golden Harpies and an unsmiling portrait from Sol, perhaps a little tear stained. There’s others with very dramatic red crosses slashed across them. Matthias does not handle break ups well.

This was not his only room of course. He was a Freeborn. This place was a base, a place for his family to use as storage, to come and go, to arrange to meet. There were also the tents he resided in and that often formed around the villa to house every one of his relatives of which there were many. His sisters scorned permanent rooms altogether, much preferring their tents or the open expense of the sky - at least until it rained.

________________________________________________________

Trick

Trick’s room was the smallest, bar the bathroom. He called it a cupboard with pretentions, fondly but with a more than a hint of truth in it. When you opened the door too harshly, it immediately cracked against the wardrobe that sat directly next to the frame. In order to make it so he could open the wardrobe, he had disregarded a bed frame and there was just a mattress and a tangle of blankets on the floor. There was a small metal radiator underneath the sliding window, painted white with flaking paint. The walls were not in better shape, condensation and heat causing it to curl at the edges. It was not an attractive room.

He had made it his though. Posters of The Smiths, The Cure and Blondie splattered the walls, along with a hundred Polaroids of him and the Burnouts in a hundred different poses and situations. Almost half of them were solely of him and Mel, arms around each other, pulling faces, talking, drinking. The offending camera sat inoffensively in the corner, along with a boom box and a bunch of cassettes. Trick clearly liked his music, it only over shadowed by his love of books. The room was filled with them. He had no bookshelves so he lined the walls with them, balancing one on top of another. King, Barker, Shelley - all the horror greats were represented along with the fifty p paperbacks you could pick up at car boot sales with terrible writing names. There was also a tottering stack of comics and a smaller stack of newspapers beside it. Pens and notepads were beside the bed, along with a lamp and a plastic typewriter. It was beloved even if it was cheap and he would not have given it up for the world.  His wardrobe was not just for his flannel shirts and jeans. With a lack of storage space, it was crammed with other bits and pieces too. School bags, a skateboard, a eyeshadow palette, a bottle of vodka hidden in a boot, a single photo of his mother, a note signed with an F. There was all the debris he needed for his many jobs too, a heavy toolbox, newspaper bag and car manual amongst them. 

It was a room that seemed too small to contain him as well as thee meagre belongings here and when he was in it, he did feel like it was a cage designed to hold him, suffocate him and keep him here forever. It was succeeding. The longer he stayed, the harder it would be to leave. Once he gave up, perhaps it would stop hurting. This town was like drowning.

________________________________________________________

Alexei 

The child who had once lived in little more than a shack now lived in a palace. Sometimes they marvelled at how far they had came but mostly, it just felt like they were where they were always meant to be. They adjusted to royalty as if they had been born into it. 

The room was huge and felt like walking into a cavern. The walls were painted pitch black, the carpet a thick, dark red, like drying blood. It was cold, almost enough so that you could see your breath mist in front of you. The western wall was dominated by huge, arching windows that let in the cold winter light. The curtains were swept to the side, the heavy velvet barely used. Alexei liked gazing out of the windows too often. They would sit up in their (four poster, naturally) bed, the silk red sheets and heavy black blanket pooling around him and with young eyes he would watch the snow, or rain, or dark. He only used the curtains in the summer, when sun attempted to invade his sanctum. There was no need for the sun - a candelabra hung from the ceiling and there were candlestick holders scattered on top of the surfaces in white, black and red.

All the furniture in the room was carved out of dark wood, ornately carved. The patterns were birds, flowers, figures, sometimes entire stories across the top of a chest or doors of a wardrobe. When a surface was smooth, it was polished to such a shine you could see your reflection in it. Not that you had to - on the south wall a large oval mirror hung, it’s frame curling with black leaves and vines. It wasn’t magic, but it may as well be. Alexei gazed into it fairly often and seemed to come away dissatisfied or glowing.

There were a few more recent additions to the wall. Stencils of crows, ravens, magpies on the strips of wall between the windows. That was not the most recent addition. The scarlet hand print placed over every one of them was. Alexei’s hand print, naturally. He couldn’t help but be a witch at times like this. Magic curled around him like smoke. Which explained the shelves of odd items and mementos - a lot of bones, a crystal ball, talons, feathers. 

There was a door to an ensuite bathroom, black tiled and with a huge clawfoot tub placed in front of a crackling fireplace. There was magic here too, of a different sort. In front of the mirror there were pots of rouge for his lips, a shine for his cheeks. The truth was Alexei rarely used make up - his appearance was naturally a creation of extremes, but sometimes you needed a little ritual, for yourself. There was another place for rituals in his room.

There was a well worn desk, the inkwell full, a long black quill sitting and waiting. Pages and pages of parchment. There was a bookcase beside it, a small, unassuming one. It was filled with hand bound books, ones that Alexei had written. He could throw a scarf over it to hide it if the royal soldiers came a-knocking, but it would take a substantial amount of guts for a single one of them to step inside their territory. The entire place was doused in death and ghosts. 

______________________________________________________________

Lance’s Childhood Bedroom

It is absolutely a teenage bedroom. The bed is still unmade, crumpled sheets in rich fabrics. The walls are covered in pictures of fighters, cross section images, propaganda shots. There’s a few bigger ships mixed in, but it’s clear where his heart lies. There’s an occasional pretty boy, girl or other gender pin up but these are few and far. The shelves at the end of the room hold a few (surely incredibly valuable) books. There’s also a few data slates, a few models, a few old dolls of knights and power armour. An empty hamster cage. A few picts of a very young Lance and his mother. More of him and his father. A couple of him and Astrid, painfully teenage and not yet into his confident phase. 

There’s a desk covered in tools and bits of machinery, half made experiments and devices. It’s organised chaos, a notebook open with scrawled text and notations, bits of paper labelling a few pieces on the flat surface. Some of it looks alarmingly advanced. Between that and the books and dataslates, it seems Lance was slightly more nerdy than he cared to admit. There’s some drawers tightly shut.

There’s other random clutter of course, and a messy wardrobe with everything from formal clothes to boiler suits. There’s a hole in the wall suspiciously fist sized, a broken mirror, a stack of older notebooks left in a corner. Storage boxes under the bed, a las pistol tossed aside, something that looks like it might be some sort of ceremonial sword. A bedside table. There is not a single aquila in the room.

_____________________________________________________________

Aeneas

He supposed it counted as a bedroom at this point. He’d been staying in it for almost a year after all. It was a motel bedroom, not quite the cheapest there was but not too far off. In the slow, unintentional way it often did, it had become personal. 

A sheer red scarf had been draped over the ugly lampshade besides the bed, softening the harsh glare of the white bulb and bathing the room in a rosy glow. Next to it there was an ash tray, heavily used but often emptied. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter waited expectantly beside it. The bed itself was neatly made, though not by a maid - there was a sign hanging outside the door as it had done for months, warning staff to not disturb. Under his pillow, there was a knife. He didn’t trust so easily, especially now. There were people who would see him dead in a moment. 

There was a cheap table that had been treated as a desk. A huge amount of newspapers lay scattered upon it, certain pages torn out or highlighted, articles cut carefully out and placed aside. They all appeared to be about Zeus, the massacre in the Trojan district or Helen. A notebook lay amongst them, full of notes and theories. There were a few cheap books from the library exchange downstairs, crime novels or dry historical non-fiction. He had to while away the evening hours somehow. The half empty bottle of whiskey resting there too showed that much.

He had unpacked his few clothes, each neatly placed in a drawer in the bureau. He didn’t have enough clothes to fill it even half way. Consequently it looked a little lonely whenever he got dressed. He had managed to sweet talk the desk downstairs into giving him an iron so at least the clothes were clean and pressed perfectly. It was in these small ways he felt like he had a modicum of control over his life. He needed that right now.

______________________________________________________________

Dimitri

He slept in a dormitory. He didn’t mind. And besides, it’s not like his particular Light temple managed to bring in a whole lot of revenue so grumbling wouldn’t have done much good. There were ten beds in this particular dorm, five on each side, neatly spaced out and with a trunk at the bottom end and a bedside table carrying a candle at the top. Dimitri was especially in luck as his bed was underneath a window, allowing him to use the sill as a smidge more storage space. Not that he had much to store. He used it for his symbols of the Light, letting them bask in the morning sun, making them warm to the touch when he picked them up and put them around his neck each day.

The trunk was merely full of clothes and weapons polish. He had arrived here only with the clothes on his back and despite the years passing, the only other objects he had gained had been a few weapons and the trappings of a paladin of the Light. He took great pride in both these things. His tabard was always clean, his blades shone in the sun like diamonds. He tried to be a good example in all things, not just the heroic or exciting stuff. The little things mattered too, like praying every day and practising the magic that flowed through him just as much as his weapons.

The only other things he owned were in his shelf in the bedside table. A collection of small bottles, glimmering green, red, and blue. Healing and magic restoration potions of various types. Then a silver knife rested, waiting.

[thebifrostgiant]

If You Know Where to Look - Part 19 (1/2)

Summary: in which you do some studying and pick a fight. A fire is started.

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 2,220

Rating: T

Pairing: Loki/Reader

*

Chapter 19: Nothing at All Is Hard to Find...

The walk back to the inn is long, and your feet plod mindlessly, suddenly reminded of how tired you are. The scarf, a soft woolen thing of deep green, keeps the worst of the wind’s chilly little fangs from your ears and nose — even despite the wind, your neck is rather toasty — but your fingers are still stiff to aching and your toes aren’t too far behind. It’ll be good to be back at the inn. You’d like nothing more than to take a nice hot bath and bury yourself under the thick quilt of your bed and drift off to the familiar, comforting clicking of the heater, snug and safe and so deliciously warm. Thinking about that makes you move a little faster.

[[MORE]]

And then it starts to rain.

Cold, wet, lashing drops of water come upon you all at once, pattering against the earth and your jacket, and you’re soaked within seconds, gasping like you’d plunged headlong into an icy river.

Loki looks at you with an expression of similar shock, and after a moment, literally frozen, you both begin to run, as fast as you can over the slick grass, skidding, trying to cover your face with your hands to keep the stinging rain out of your eyes.

Lightening slices the sky with flashing fingers, and you run, if possible, even faster, cursing and spluttering in the impossibly cold water tumbling down.

When you reach the inn, you stumble up the steps, immensely grateful for the lip of the roof overhanging your heads, and you clasp the railing tightly, gulping lungfuls of air. You take a moment to just breathe, dripping all over the porch and shivering, and you catch Loki’s eye.

He’s also breathing heavily, teeth bared against the cold, cheeks red and his hair- his hair is plastered to his skull, clumped against it tightly and it-

You laugh.

“What?” he asks, plainly unsure what is particularly funny about being caught in a horrifically cold thunderstorm. Even he looks like he’s feeling it, arms wrapped tight against his middle, jacket saturated, making him seem smaller than usual and-

“I’m sorry!” you gasp, wide-eyed and grinning. “But you just-“ Another peal of laughter escapes, and your sides heave with it. “You look like a drowned rat!”

For a moment, you think he might be offended, and it’s almost enough to make you stop laughing. Almost. But then he crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow, and pointedly looks you over. Right. You’re not looking much better at all right about now.

“I know, I know!” say in emphatic delight, still terribly amused. “I do too. I feel like a drowned rat!”

And even he’s biting his lip, shaking with quiet laughter, until your teeth are chattering too hard to stay outside.

Stepping into the inn feels like stepping into an oven, and it’s almost too hot, but it’s blissful. You stand there a moment, soaking it in, beads of water trailing from your hair down your face and neck.

Loki puts his hand on your shoulder, giving it a little push.

“Quick,” says he, “before our dripping floods the floor.”

You giggle again at that, and skitter up the stairs faster than Ratatoskr on his way to gossip with the eagle.

You peel off your jacket once you’re in the room, boots kicked off by the door, and hang it over the curtain rod in the washroom. You grab a fluffy towel and toss Loki the other, and rub dry your face, your hair, your arms, until you’re merely damp, and on the way to warming up.

“That was,” you say, still vaguely out of breath and much calmer now, but smiling, “exhilarating.”

Loki huffs, what might be amusement or incredulity, and pulls the towel away from his face to give you a bemused look.

“That is... one word for it.”

“Don’t tell me it was too cold for you.”

“I thought it was lovely,” he says, and it’s not even a good lie, not at all. But his eyes are mirthful, and so brightly green that you nearly find yourself staring.

“So...” you say, innocent and guileful, “You’re saying you don’t need any hot chocolate to warm you up?”

Loki grimaces, caught in a trap halfway of his own making, and you cannot help smirking just a little bit.

“You know me,” he says lightly, far too lightly, “I would never say no to the finest beverage in all of Midgard.”

“Do you think Kathy will make us some if we ask nicely?” you ask, already turning toward the door.

“I suppose we shall find out.”

***

In the end, you don’t even have to ask Kathy, because the kitchen has little packets of cocoa already prepared, and it’s only a simple matter of heating some water in a kettle before you’re able to inhale the rich, sweet aroma of the chocolate and suck up the warmth of the mug through your hands. Loki, of course, belies his words by opting for leftover coffee from breakfast, although you cannot begrudge him, not when he is holding it close to his face and letting the steam wash over him with a tiny smile.

You shuffle into the main room, with all the patterned couches and organized clutter, and settle in an armchair near the hearth. There’s a soft brown knitted blanket draped over the back of it, and you wrap it around your shoulders and snuggle down with your drink. The rain sounds pleasant and soothing from in here, the rumble of thunder far from frightening at this distance.

Loki wanders into the room a short while later, his hair still damp but looking much less ridiculous, in deep black waves about his face.

“You’re not going back to our room?” he asks, forehead bunching at the center.

“It’s warmer out here. The heater in the room isn’t on at the moment,” you say by way of explanation.

“Ah,” he says. “You’ve been paying attention to that?”

“You don’t find it distracting?”

He shrugs elegantly, and softly walks to the other armchair tucked up close to the fire.

“I’ve learned to tune things like that out.”

“It woke me up the first few nights,” you admit. Loki had slept like the dead right on through. “But I kind of like it now.”

You look into the flames, watching them leap and flicker, ever-changing and steady. The firewood crackles and pops, shifting from time to time and releasing sparking ashes and settling once more. The smoke curls high and out the chimney, and the soft orange glow bathes the area in warm light.

Energy and light, Loki had said. Nothing more. Energy and light and so much potential.

You sip your hot chocolate, feet curled under you and cozy, staring at the fire for a long time.

“Research?”

Loki’s voice pulls you from your trance-like state, and you blink, feeling suddenly quite sleepy.

“Hmm?” You don’t follow.

Loki tilts his head to indicate the fireplace.

“You were studying it.”

The side of your mouth tugs up in a grin.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Figuring it out, more like.

You catch sight of the book in his lap, surprised. One of the leftover ones from the library, which you’ll need to return at some point, come to think of it.

“And you? Why are you still reading that thing?”

“Not research,” he says, folding the book closed with a finger to mark his place, and shows you the cover, embossed leather with gold letters titled A Guide to Runes, Spells, and Potions. “I just found this one rather interesting.”

You nod, and the moment slips into a thick and comfortable silence. Your eyes find the fire once more.

“It’s what lead me to you, you know,” you say quietly, after a long while.

Loki looks up from his book, shadows pronouncing the confused frown on his face.

“What did?”

“Fire,” you murmur, watching the hearth. “The fire Bǫlverkr and Lyngvir lit. I followed the smoke.” You turn your head and watch the dance of the flames reflected in Loki’s wide eyes. You smile softly.

“That’s a lot to attribute to mere happenstance,” he whispers.

“I know.”

***

For all the tenderness in the way Loki had spoken about magic, you wouldn’t have guessed that trying to practice it would have you near tears. You blink viciously, and bite hard at the corner of your lip, willing them away. But hopeless, choking frustration has lodged itself like a burr in your chest, growing bigger with each passing day, each new attempt the same as the last. It’s been weeks, and you have managed to do nothing.

“Maybe I just can’t do this,” you say without inflection, even though the thought makes your eyes sting once more.

“You can,” Loki says immediately, somehow managing to remain calm about this. He sits with his legs crossed, indifferent to the cold ground or the dirt. “Try again.”

You do not want to try again. You want to be done trying, you want to just do something already. And, shamefully, part of you just wants to give up. At least with the books, you had something to show for all the uselessness of the endeavor.

You turn away from Loki, and scrub a hand furiously over your eyes.

“How long did it take you to conjure fire?” you ask, even though you know you are stalling, because you just, just can’t right now.

Loki looks sheepish. He runs his fingers through his hair, tucks a stray dark lock — loosened by the faint breeze — behind his ear.

“A few days.”

“Days,” you repeat, the lump in your throat sinking deeper. “I’ve been trying again for weeks.”

“And you’ll get it eventually,” he says. “I had the benefit of being taught by one of the most gifted magic users in all the realms.” He’s got that wistful sort of look in his eyes again, just for a moment. Then he snorts, cracking a wry grin. “You’ve just got me. I cannot even show you how it’s meant to be done.”

“Easier than explaining it?” you ask with a watery half smile, reluctantly reassured, just a little.

“Very much so.”

You nod, once, and remind yourself to breathe. You widen your stance and lift you arms yet another time.

Fire, you try again. Sparks rising in the heat. The golden waver all around. Changing, resilient, beautiful. Only, something shifts in your mind, and you picture a sharp white-blue flare, gone in a blink, but the afterimage in your mind like you’d stared at the sun. Lightning was fire, was it not? Once it struck, it could engulf an entire forest in an ever-hungry, ever-spreading flood of flames, a wildfire from a single branch. Energy and light and heat, and sound too. The thunder was merely the voice, the echo; the true power was in the frightful streaks of lightning, both deadly, and inspiring a sort of awful reverence. Power, and a soul, and magic.

You hands shake, and your eyes fly open, and for a moment you watch them, waiting.

There is nothing.

And like that, what little motivation, what tiny thread of hope had been renewed, wilts utterly. Cracks. You clench your fists, but they still shake, and you shove them in your pockets so you don’t have to see them.

“Sit.”

You jerk your head up, startled. You’d almost forgotten that Loki was still here. Still watching. Seeing yet another failure. It just makes you feel worse.

You stare at him, torn between irritation and a fragile sort of need, but for what, you’re not at all sure. You don’t understand how he isn’t ruffled by any of this, how he can sit there like you’ve all the time in the world to figure it out, like it’s just a trivial matter, insignificant, and not a way home. Eventually, you’re sure, he will run out of patience. You know he wants to go home as badly as you. To see his brother again. His parents. Eventually, that composure will crack, like day old ice beneath your feet. And that... You wet your lips. You don’t like that thought.

But for now, his gaze is steady, as immovable as the ash tree he leans against. It’s like he has become part of the forest, like he belongs there, among the fallen leaves and moss-flecked rocks, with only his eyes and scarf as vivid contrast to all the brown and grey and dull orange of autumn.

He reaches a hand up toward you, never blinking, and you hesitate only a moment before pulling your own out of your pocket and letting him take it, letting him tug you down beside him so your back is against the strong, straight trunk as well. The smell of leaves is stronger down here, warmed by the dapples of evening sunlight that reach this little glade. You lean your head back against the tree, and your eyes fall shut without you even meaning to let that happen. Some of the tightly-wound chagrin loses its footing.

“I chose this place for a reason.”

You open an eye to give Loki a long, measuring look, but what he meant by that, he does not say.

(2/2)

__________________________________________

*Tag List*

@steve-rogcrs @ps-ghost @ha-tep @professionalphangirluniverse @whosaidididthat

[judieasley57]

The Emissary

The One Great Year Series,

Book 1

Tamara Veitch & Rene DeFazio

Waterside Press, Oct 2018

200 pages, Kindle, paperback, audiobook, audio CD

Urban Fantasy

Provided by Authors

✮✮✮✮⭑

The cover is subtle but attractive. When I first saw the design, I thought of an old quilt pattern called Orange Peel. However, once I got involved in the story, I realized that the six petals within the circle are a flower design. It is the flower of life. The pattern and mention of it recur often in the story. This is not simply a pretty line drawing to cover the front of the book, but an integral part of the story that one comes to understand as you get into the story and get to know the characters and events unfold.

The story itself is simple and yet it may seem complex at the same time. The people of Atitala were facing the end of their world. To carry the knowledge and cultural ideas of their advanced civilization out to the generations to follow, they sent Emissaries into time. These Emissaries would live and try to spread their knowledge, die and be reborn to start all over again. In this way, the knowledge and cultural ways of Atitala would be carried on down the centuries until the world was ready for it again. There is good in the world and we see it so clearly because there is bad in the world to compare it to. So with the Emissaries, there were good and there were bad.

The authors created characters for each of these roles and did so well, that one just can’t imagine any of them crossing over to the other’s camp. Marcus and Theron play by the rules and are squeaky clean. Theron is the daughter of the highest of the Elders, White Elder. There are eight Elders, each assigned a color of the light spectrum from white to black. The Black Elder does not mingle with the common population as he is definitely “bad” and can’t function within the society as others do. At the other end of the spectrum, as you may guess, White Elder is the best of the best so that Green, Red, Yellow, Blue, Orange, and Grey Elder fall somewhere in between. I love using color for designators. Into this elevated, enlightened culture was born three children, Marcus, Theron, and Helghul. All three predicted to do great things for their people and culture.

The authors have created characters who travel through time with each of their rebirths and sometimes recognize each other and sometimes not. With each rebirth, they must create a new character and yet retain something of the original character, which the authors have done rather cleverly. As turn and turn again over the centuries the three main characters tumble through time, only two of them retaining any memory of their joint past. The third often a catalyst for violence and destruction.

The pace keeps things moving from start to stop and the tension remains high for the most part. There were times when I thought things were being drawn out a bit, but you can’t tell the story of centuries in just a few pages. The meeting at the end of this book took me not so much by surprise but seemed a bit abruptly handled after the previous centuries. But perhaps that was to make it feel immediate and in the present, which it certainly did. Now, I need to get the second book of this set to find out what happens. I recommend this to readers who enjoy fantasy with a mythological feel to it, almost a Biblical feel to it. I sort of kept looking for Moses to show up with some stone tablets but the culture is way too advanced for stone tablets, maybe iPads. Book two of this set, The Emerald Tablet is due out June 4th! And Book three already has a cover!