The sacrifical lamb is always feckless.
I should have byed out the week we had the extension.
I haven't actually voted yet.
I gave it a shot.
Life won.
Here's a life for someone else :)
I should have byed out the week we had the extension.
I haven't actually voted yet.
I gave it a shot.
Life won.
Here's a life for someone else :)
The Book of the Emissaries
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
Four.
Mercatilla
The human footprint is a peculiar thing.
In the crypts and corners of the libraries, we have carved our names upon the walls. In reproduction, we have renamed our children after the ancestors of old, in hope of renewing their blood.
A squiggle of an initial, and a date - and a thousand years from now such letters are lost to all but the stone in which they were made.
After death, Evelyn had forgotten Mercatilla.
During a brief soujourn in the ancient British city of Bath, she had found the gravestone of the dead child quite by accident. She supposed that the museum had found it by accient, too, having recovered it from the middle of the ancient city walls.
Our ancient ancestors, it would seem, were much better at acting upon the mantra: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
Chuck the gravestone of that baby into the wall. Baby ain't gonna know.
Bath was not quite an ordinary city. It held, she knew, a great deal of historical status, but those who lived there often criticised it for being nothing more exciting than 'nice'. The quirk of the hot spring was certainly interesting.
Mostly, she had seen, it was full of tourists on tour buses (25% of whom asked if Jesus had ever visited the baths).
"Sure," Evelyn wanted to say, "He bathed here with the hobbits and Harry Potter."
"Did they really bathe in the nude?"
"How deep is it?"
"How hot is the water?"
Never mind, she had thought, roaming the streets of a long-dead city, that they'd bothered to place glass in their windows.
"That's a lie."
"Glass didn't exist back then."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Tucked far below ground, the gravestone of Mercatilla was displayed upon a wooden plinth.
Freedwoman, foster-daughter of Magnus. A girl who was born and died when the art of glassmaking was already a millenia old.
One Year, Six Months and Twelve Days old.
A slave given liberty.
Why?
As a living woman, Evelyn had wondered how such a thing had happened.
As an emissary, she decided to discover the answer.
Thus it was that Eveleyn - three-hundred-and-fourth emissary of the reaper - crept across the boundary between the world as if she were naught but shadow and dust.
She cut the boundaries of time and the universe in search of Mercatilla.
Mercatilla: one dead among the millions dead.
One dead, preserved in a museum.
Evelyn learned to walk across the boundaries of time for Mercatilla.
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
Four.
Mercatilla
The human footprint is a peculiar thing.
In the crypts and corners of the libraries, we have carved our names upon the walls. In reproduction, we have renamed our children after the ancestors of old, in hope of renewing their blood.
A squiggle of an initial, and a date - and a thousand years from now such letters are lost to all but the stone in which they were made.
After death, Evelyn had forgotten Mercatilla.
During a brief soujourn in the ancient British city of Bath, she had found the gravestone of the dead child quite by accident. She supposed that the museum had found it by accient, too, having recovered it from the middle of the ancient city walls.
Our ancient ancestors, it would seem, were much better at acting upon the mantra: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
Chuck the gravestone of that baby into the wall. Baby ain't gonna know.
Bath was not quite an ordinary city. It held, she knew, a great deal of historical status, but those who lived there often criticised it for being nothing more exciting than 'nice'. The quirk of the hot spring was certainly interesting.
Mostly, she had seen, it was full of tourists on tour buses (25% of whom asked if Jesus had ever visited the baths).
"Sure," Evelyn wanted to say, "He bathed here with the hobbits and Harry Potter."
"Did they really bathe in the nude?"
"How deep is it?"
"How hot is the water?"
Never mind, she had thought, roaming the streets of a long-dead city, that they'd bothered to place glass in their windows.
"That's a lie."
"Glass didn't exist back then."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Tucked far below ground, the gravestone of Mercatilla was displayed upon a wooden plinth.
Freedwoman, foster-daughter of Magnus. A girl who was born and died when the art of glassmaking was already a millenia old.
One Year, Six Months and Twelve Days old.
A slave given liberty.
Why?
As a living woman, Evelyn had wondered how such a thing had happened.
As an emissary, she decided to discover the answer.
Thus it was that Eveleyn - three-hundred-and-fourth emissary of the reaper - crept across the boundary between the world as if she were naught but shadow and dust.
She cut the boundaries of time and the universe in search of Mercatilla.
Mercatilla: one dead among the millions dead.
One dead, preserved in a museum.
Evelyn learned to walk across the boundaries of time for Mercatilla.
The Book of the Emissaries
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
Three.
The Stealing of Excalibur.
Evelyn Fairchild did not come upon the sword by chance. It was a gift - a gift from the air, from the dark, and, of course, from the stone.
Time, in the afterlife, exists in the same way as a ball of unkempt yarn. It isn't neat, and human linearity, once lost, takes with it all expectations of heroism.
Humans, it seems, have a tendency to dream of glory for only one purpose: to mask the perpetual mutiny of mankind.
Evelyn supposed that religion existed for a similar reason.
Humans are ... cruel.
The first time she met King Arthur, he was preoccupied - tossing the guts of Guinevere over a telephone wire as a companion to a pair of rotting sneakers.
She paused, and asked him why.
Why not?
You living human souls. You always want an answer. Evelyn had not quite lost that trait.
Why?
She was mine.
The second time, she found him plucking out the eyelashes of his father.
What will you do with them?
Send them to Merlin.
Why?
Why not?
The third time he was carving Lancelot's heart.
Why?
Why not?
The fourth and final time she met King Arthur, he was a boy, tugging at sword in a rock.
"Does this sword have a name?" He whispered to her, but she had already seen what was to come.
"Mine," she said, and walked away with it.
Later, the tales of these meetings ricocheted back into human existence. Weaving themselves into the mythology of the living, she realised that they did not quite end up as honest as she had expected.
Or, she thought later, perhaps the living did not want to see the truth in those they loved.
The Book of the Emissaries
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
Two.
The Cabinet of Thoughts
Murder, Evelyn learned quickly, was not quite as glamourous as one might otherwise have assumed. The exciting murders were all committed by the most senior Emissaries: the ones she imagined sat in chambers, chanting and polishing their guns.
Such creatures were little more than a rumour among the newest recruits – there was a perpetual whisper that the Emissaries of Sudden Violent Death wore red cloaks and the faces of little girl ghosts.
Evelyn had certainly never seen one of them.
Although, she supposed, seeing anything when you were already dead was likely to pose something of a challenge.
Evelyn, the newest of Emissaries, had a simpler and entirely more uninteresting task.
She was sent to collect ideas.
Unbound from the ordinary limitations of physics, Evelyn wandered freely through the minds of living souls. The simple ideas were ones she snatched from the brain like butterflies: they were not missed, and their absence posed no threat.
The complex ideas: the ones they kept in jars, were the ones for which she was required to kill.
“Dig,” she was told, and she learned that obedience can be simple.
Evelyn first kept the quarried thoughts in a green plastic lunchbox, all tangled up. Later, she would transfer them into clean pickle jars, topped off with formaldehyde. It is a challenge to quantify the size of a cabinet in the absence of time and space, but it would be far to say that the collection of thoughts, memories and ideas dug up by the Emissaries was rather large.
After a week, she discovered the purpose of the ideas for which she had so diligently mined. A leaflet found its way to her imaginary post-life front door.
Welcome to LiveFlix [The Cabinet of Thoughts]: the Afterlife Entertainment Catalogue.
For Romance: press one.
For War: press two.
For Children Falling Over: press three.
For Erotica: press four…
She wondered what was wrong with a good book.
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
Two.
The Cabinet of Thoughts
Murder, Evelyn learned quickly, was not quite as glamourous as one might otherwise have assumed. The exciting murders were all committed by the most senior Emissaries: the ones she imagined sat in chambers, chanting and polishing their guns.
Such creatures were little more than a rumour among the newest recruits – there was a perpetual whisper that the Emissaries of Sudden Violent Death wore red cloaks and the faces of little girl ghosts.
Evelyn had certainly never seen one of them.
Although, she supposed, seeing anything when you were already dead was likely to pose something of a challenge.
Evelyn, the newest of Emissaries, had a simpler and entirely more uninteresting task.
She was sent to collect ideas.
Unbound from the ordinary limitations of physics, Evelyn wandered freely through the minds of living souls. The simple ideas were ones she snatched from the brain like butterflies: they were not missed, and their absence posed no threat.
The complex ideas: the ones they kept in jars, were the ones for which she was required to kill.
“Dig,” she was told, and she learned that obedience can be simple.
Evelyn first kept the quarried thoughts in a green plastic lunchbox, all tangled up. Later, she would transfer them into clean pickle jars, topped off with formaldehyde. It is a challenge to quantify the size of a cabinet in the absence of time and space, but it would be far to say that the collection of thoughts, memories and ideas dug up by the Emissaries was rather large.
After a week, she discovered the purpose of the ideas for which she had so diligently mined. A leaflet found its way to her imaginary post-life front door.
Welcome to LiveFlix [The Cabinet of Thoughts]: the Afterlife Entertainment Catalogue.
For Romance: press one.
For War: press two.
For Children Falling Over: press three.
For Erotica: press four…
She wondered what was wrong with a good book.
The Book of the Emissaries
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
One.
The Recruitment of Evelyn Fairchild.
Right now, in the very moment you are reading this, a story is beginning somewhere in the universe. Slimy and squalling, and quite possibly covered in shit – life begins.
In polite company, we seem to avoid talking about the inevitability of the end.
This is not polite company.
This is the story of the messangers of Death.
We meet Evelyn Fairchild at the end.
The circle of life shall not be resolved.
Last night, you see, Evelyn tiptoed along the bank of the river with a pound coin in the pocket of her dress. Unsure how to summon the ferryman, she took the most direct approach.
Drowning is never quite as elegant as the poets would have you believe.
Later, she would describe death as the simple absence of time. It was, she realised, much the same as being alive, without the hassle of corporeal toileting habits.
She missed the taste of gin.
Without time as a constraint, her thoughts became entangled.
Linearity is the preserve of the living.
Of course, Evelyn had been born and lived a thoroughly unremarkable life. Like you, she entered the world as a slimy, squalling babe, layered in blood and shit. Like you, she has already died.
Most people die covered in blood or shit.
Is the beginning an echo of the end, or does the end follow the beginning?
By the time she was pulled into the boat and clothed in the cape of the night, the memories of her life had faded. No matter. She had actually been, until now, quite dull.
“Miss Fairchild.” A whisper from everywhere and nowhere. “Welcome.”
There was a scythe propped against the trunk of an ancient oak.
She was faintly surprised to see a tree in the afterlife.
This line does not work in the absence of
She was given one instruction. It began as this:
“We have a murder for you to commit.”
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
One.
The Recruitment of Evelyn Fairchild.
Right now, in the very moment you are reading this, a story is beginning somewhere in the universe. Slimy and squalling, and quite possibly covered in shit – life begins.
In polite company, we seem to avoid talking about the inevitability of the end.
This is not polite company.
This is the story of the messangers of Death.
We meet Evelyn Fairchild at the end.
The circle of life shall not be resolved.
Last night, you see, Evelyn tiptoed along the bank of the river with a pound coin in the pocket of her dress. Unsure how to summon the ferryman, she took the most direct approach.
Drowning is never quite as elegant as the poets would have you believe.
Later, she would describe death as the simple absence of time. It was, she realised, much the same as being alive, without the hassle of corporeal toileting habits.
She missed the taste of gin.
Without time as a constraint, her thoughts became entangled.
Linearity is the preserve of the living.
Of course, Evelyn had been born and lived a thoroughly unremarkable life. Like you, she entered the world as a slimy, squalling babe, layered in blood and shit. Like you, she has already died.
Most people die covered in blood or shit.
Is the beginning an echo of the end, or does the end follow the beginning?
By the time she was pulled into the boat and clothed in the cape of the night, the memories of her life had faded. No matter. She had actually been, until now, quite dull.
“Miss Fairchild.” A whisper from everywhere and nowhere. “Welcome.”
There was a scythe propped against the trunk of an ancient oak.
She was faintly surprised to see a tree in the afterlife.
This line does not work in the absence of
She was given one instruction. It began as this:
“We have a murder for you to commit.”
Half a decade has passed.
I am interested to see that I can remember my password, but not quite how Livejournal works. Writing this post would once have taken mere minutes: today, it takes longer (although I confess that the sluggish nature of my typing might be a result of the injury I sustained on Sunday, when the breadknife I was wielding went rogue and mistook my finger for a loaf of crusty white).
I wonder, as I write this, how much time has passed since I first signed up to Livejournal.
The answer is this: 14 years and 4 months.
Three fifths of the students I now teach weren't actually born at the time.
In this half a decade of absence, I have bought a house, eloped to Las Vegas, qualified as a teacher and in my spare time run a half decent cadet unit in the South West of England. Not so bad, as adulting goes, although I have killed an alarming number of houseplants and still can't really cook (see earlier breadknife).
In spite of this sudden onset of adulthood (or perhaps because of it), I have written almost nothing in the five years since I bailed out of Idol Season 9. I spend my days buried in books and poems (and data, and detentions), but I am no longer sure that I know how to write.
I suppose I'd better give it a try.
So:
This is week zero, and this is a statement of intent.
The days, after all, are growing cruel.
The mantle of the night is drawing in.
The monsters of your soul are meandering home from a party in the gates of the abyss.
My oars are dipped.
Begin.
therealljidol Season 11.
Sign Up.
Topic: Week 0.
I am interested to see that I can remember my password, but not quite how Livejournal works. Writing this post would once have taken mere minutes: today, it takes longer (although I confess that the sluggish nature of my typing might be a result of the injury I sustained on Sunday, when the breadknife I was wielding went rogue and mistook my finger for a loaf of crusty white).
I wonder, as I write this, how much time has passed since I first signed up to Livejournal.
The answer is this: 14 years and 4 months.
Three fifths of the students I now teach weren't actually born at the time.
In this half a decade of absence, I have bought a house, eloped to Las Vegas, qualified as a teacher and in my spare time run a half decent cadet unit in the South West of England. Not so bad, as adulting goes, although I have killed an alarming number of houseplants and still can't really cook (see earlier breadknife).
In spite of this sudden onset of adulthood (or perhaps because of it), I have written almost nothing in the five years since I bailed out of Idol Season 9. I spend my days buried in books and poems (and data, and detentions), but I am no longer sure that I know how to write.
I suppose I'd better give it a try.
So:
This is week zero, and this is a statement of intent.
The days, after all, are growing cruel.
The mantle of the night is drawing in.
The monsters of your soul are meandering home from a party in the gates of the abyss.
My oars are dipped.
Begin.
therealljidol Season 11. Sign Up.
Topic: Week 0.
Hello lovely people!
This is
serpentpixie's journal :)Around 50% of my posts are friends only. I welcome new friends, so if you've added me, then comment here to let me know so that I can add you in return!!
Love and cookies,
Esta <3
Greetings, Livejournal!
I still exist!
This is actually a post requesting INFORMATIONS AND THE LIKE.
You see, the boy and I have booked ourselves a holiday (a "vacation", I suppose, if I'm going to translate into American). We're going to be visiting New York and Montreal at the end of May, and I came here wondering if you kids have any GOOD AND AWESOME SUGGESTIONS for things to do in either place. We're staying in New York for four nights and Montreal for eight nights (and being all crazy and taking the train from one place to the other).
To give you an idea of the kind of people we are, we both saw the website for Barcade Brooklyn, "a combination Bar and Arcade with a focus on classic Video Games and American Craft Beer." and thought it looked like the BEST PLACE EVER.
I like theatre (but hate commercial west-end stuff), art, vintage/second hand things, beer, books, sports/exercise and being outside. Boy likes comedy, live music, comics, books, beer, computer games and not having to exercise.
We're not rich kids, so free/cheap suggestions are definitely very welcome - although we do live in London, so we're used to things not really being so cheap. Good bars, restaurants, places to go, things to see?
Also, you know, any general advice for either city - transport, cultural things, all that jazz. I'd especially like to know how these places work with regard to tipping (My impression is generally that Americans tip for EVERYTHING and we totally don't, and I have NO IDEA how Canadians approach tips).
:)
I still exist!
This is actually a post requesting INFORMATIONS AND THE LIKE.
You see, the boy and I have booked ourselves a holiday (a "vacation", I suppose, if I'm going to translate into American). We're going to be visiting New York and Montreal at the end of May, and I came here wondering if you kids have any GOOD AND AWESOME SUGGESTIONS for things to do in either place. We're staying in New York for four nights and Montreal for eight nights (and being all crazy and taking the train from one place to the other).
To give you an idea of the kind of people we are, we both saw the website for Barcade Brooklyn, "a combination Bar and Arcade with a focus on classic Video Games and American Craft Beer." and thought it looked like the BEST PLACE EVER.
I like theatre (but hate commercial west-end stuff), art, vintage/second hand things, beer, books, sports/exercise and being outside. Boy likes comedy, live music, comics, books, beer, computer games and not having to exercise.
We're not rich kids, so free/cheap suggestions are definitely very welcome - although we do live in London, so we're used to things not really being so cheap. Good bars, restaurants, places to go, things to see?
Also, you know, any general advice for either city - transport, cultural things, all that jazz. I'd especially like to know how these places work with regard to tipping (My impression is generally that Americans tip for EVERYTHING and we totally don't, and I have NO IDEA how Canadians approach tips).
:)
Odd, disjointed thoughts:
1. After five years of being vegetarian I've started eating meat again. Mostly it's weird because I never learned to cook meat for myself, so I feel a bit lost in all the recipes. I was never a "moral vegetarian" just... didn't like meat. Then along came an insatiable craving for a steak, and here I am. Tastes change, it seems. Although I still don't like bacon or fish. Controversially, I feel considerably healthier for it.
2. Also on being healthy, following the vast quantities of wine consumed in December, I'm having a dry January. My bank balance and my body both approve.
3. I got the dreaded "So when are you going to have children?" over Christmas. Twice. WTF? I'm way too young for those kind of shenanigans. Besides which, I am far too attached to my 8 hours of sleep per night.
4. I learned to knit. I already made one scarf and I'm half way through two more.
4a. I've started listening to Classic FM when I'm in the bath and when I'm writing. I'm visiting friends in Sheffield at the end of the month and I'm looking forward to going for a walk in the Peak District and drinking real ales. I also read the Guardian on a daily basis. When the fuck did I get so old?
5. I wrote a Mission 101 list that I started on the 1st of January. I don't know whether I will post it here or not, but I will try to follow it. I don't know. Do you people care about reading those kind of lists?
6. I should try to come here more often, really. I'll get on that.
1. After five years of being vegetarian I've started eating meat again. Mostly it's weird because I never learned to cook meat for myself, so I feel a bit lost in all the recipes. I was never a "moral vegetarian" just... didn't like meat. Then along came an insatiable craving for a steak, and here I am. Tastes change, it seems. Although I still don't like bacon or fish. Controversially, I feel considerably healthier for it.
2. Also on being healthy, following the vast quantities of wine consumed in December, I'm having a dry January. My bank balance and my body both approve.
3. I got the dreaded "So when are you going to have children?" over Christmas. Twice. WTF? I'm way too young for those kind of shenanigans. Besides which, I am far too attached to my 8 hours of sleep per night.
4. I learned to knit. I already made one scarf and I'm half way through two more.
4a. I've started listening to Classic FM when I'm in the bath and when I'm writing. I'm visiting friends in Sheffield at the end of the month and I'm looking forward to going for a walk in the Peak District and drinking real ales. I also read the Guardian on a daily basis. When the fuck did I get so old?
5. I wrote a Mission 101 list that I started on the 1st of January. I don't know whether I will post it here or not, but I will try to follow it. I don't know. Do you people care about reading those kind of lists?
6. I should try to come here more often, really. I'll get on that.
Evening Kids!
(Whoa, new updater? WTF?! I don't like change :O )
This is just a quick post to say that I'll be sending out cards at some point in the next few days, and to remind you that I have an open card post right here: http://serpentpixie.livejournal.com/196751.html
I'll happily send cards to anyone that wants one, however well I know you. Just ping me your address between now and the end of the weekend and I'll get them sent out!
I also should say that if you're not comfortable with snail mail cards for whatever reason, if you leave me your email address I'll send an e-card instead :-)
(Whoa, new updater? WTF?! I don't like change :O )
This is just a quick post to say that I'll be sending out cards at some point in the next few days, and to remind you that I have an open card post right here: http://serpentpixie.livejournal.com/196751.html
I'll happily send cards to anyone that wants one, however well I know you. Just ping me your address between now and the end of the weekend and I'll get them sent out!
I also should say that if you're not comfortable with snail mail cards for whatever reason, if you leave me your email address I'll send an e-card instead :-)
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I hope you'll be back for Second Chance!
Of course we've all heard of Bath, seen it on Masterpiece as it would have been a hundred, two hundred years ago, more. We've heard about "taking the waters" and that's about it.…