To whom is may concern: Adrian is behind everything.


Wait wait wait, wrong story.

What I was going to say was, I'm moving blogs. I've used this one with more or less some consistancy, and noticed, in the shifting reality of the internet, that myspace is slowly going the way of the buffalo. Anyone I needed to contact from this hub of internet space can now reach me from facebook.com and it has forced me to realize that perhaps it is in my best interests to shift blog locations. I have used "Confessions of Crumpled Paper" as my blog banner for too long, and now it is time to bid it farewell, tuck it to bed, and remind the universe to lock up when it leaves.

For those needing to reach me in the future, I am located under my Christian name "Karly Noelle Abreu" on facebook.com, where I will also link to my blog entries, featured here: http://stardestroyr.blogspot.com/ on blogspot.com

For those still clinging to the masthead of this website, I will still post my stories and occasionally reply to a message or two until everyone has relocated. For all intents and purposes, I will say I had a good time on myspace, and have no regrets about my time spent connecting with others here.

~Karly

The first chapter of my extremely long long looooooong overdue story Castitius Lilium.
Enjoy!

Plain Text Version Here

Chapter One:
"Sleepless Dreams (DOWn the RAbbiT hOLe)"

Alice Hillstone was afraid. For her, fear fit like a second skin. She hated it, but she often found herself staring out of the corner of her eye at people who weren’t behind her rather than dead-on at the person in front of her. At 21, she could not place when the anxiety first manifested itself. When she was still small, her parents died, but she seemed to remember feeling the fear, less potent, even before. She stood in her low-rent apartment, gazing into the full length hall mirror. It was a practice in trying to strengthen her bravery. Alice was not afraid of mirrors, but had heard an old wives tale about Death appearing in your mirror at a certain time of night. There was more ritual to it than that, but the idea had stuck in her head. She would run past the glass if she had to pass it late at night, but now she was attempting courage. She made a face at herself.
“Idiot,” she mumbled.
She shrugged at herself and, careful to shut out the light after turning her back on the mirror, wandered into her bedroom. There were not any of the clever knick-knacks or framed prints most young single women’s rooms would have, not because she disliked decor, but because she had never gotten around to it. In fact, aside from her bed, a bedside table with a lamp on it, and a bookshelf, the room was empty. Her bookshelf was full of collections rather than popular paperbacks. Fairy tales, mostly. A thick leather-bound collection of Grimm’s fairy stories, a thin Blue Fairy Book she had snatched from a used bookstore. Arabian Nights had nearly a shelf to itself. Despite her fears, the dark simplicity of these folk-stories were a comfort,so absurd they couldn’t be feared, but so magical and weird they sent shivers down her spine.
She had always felt drawn to these stories, and her first drawings had been copies of illustrations. On her bedside table was a sketchbook filled with as much the same. She slid into the blankets and picked up the sketchbook. The last few were vague wispy sketches of a man.
She kept attempting him over and over again, but she could not get his eyes right. She saw him in her mind, perfectly and constantly, but he never turned out. He was not a fairy tale figure, though in some way he was larger than life, and Alice could not see through the trace lines whether he meant harm of good.
She snapped the sketchbook shut and set it on the bedside table again, and clicked off the lamp. Night crept into her mind, and with it, dreams.

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”
He was there every week, rapping on the window. When it started, Alice hid under her patched blanket, praying he was a dream until she knew it to be true. He had to be a dream. It was not so much that there was anything particularly frightening about him as a figure, at least, there should not have been. He was average enough in appearance, overly tall, with dark hair and pale skin. His face was far too lined for a man who could not have been a day over thirty, but he was not particularly scary to look at, unless you noticed his eyes. They were dark, endless, animal. They were too dark to show where the iris began and pupil ended, but it seemed like they would be slitted.
More frightening was the fact that he arrived at her window, every Monday at three AM without fail, tapping ever so lightly on it. On the window that was three stories up. It had been three months. He would tap on her window, and wait for ten, fifteen minutes, then leave. This night he had only been waiting for five. Alice pulled the blanket well over her head and shivered.
“Are you afraid of the big, bad wolf?”
His voice sent an icy thrill across her skin. It was smooth as oil, calm, but only calm in the way the eye of the storm is calm. There was a sort of hiss, or perhaps a growl beneath it. Alice tried to pull herself into a ball.
“Why are you haunting me?” Her voice squeaked to the phantom.
There was a chuckle, like an animal screech. “To be let in.”
“I don’t want you in.” Alice moaned into her pillow.
“Are you afraid, little pig?”
“Yes.” She tried to make herself invisible beneath the blanket.
He laughed, a hideous, ringing laughter. Then he was gone.


Alice woke with a start. The classroom was empty. The lights were flicked off. Her professor and the rest of the students had disappeared. She moved her still unfocused gaze to the clock. Eight PM. They had left her, all alone and sleeping for three hours. It had been another near sleepless night, haunted by dark dreams, and the art history class had been so long, it had been so easy to slip. Now it was dark outside, dark and deep and unknown, full of things that created sleepless dreams. She tried not to panic. She gathered her bag and stood. She hurried out of the classroom, out of the art building.
Fear picked its way along her spine. She felt her breath escaping her lungs ragged. When she reached the parking lot, the eerie orange glow of the streetlights cast the world in more shadow than they removed. She hurried along, avoiding the temptation to look over her shoulder, until she reached her little white Chevy. She hurtled herself towards it, fumbled briefly with her keys, and slammed the door after her. She quickly inspected the back-seat, and finding it empty save a Coka-Cola bottle and some books, flicked the locks and allowed herself to relax.
She leaned her head against the steering wheel and sighed.
“So stupid,” she mumbled.
The fear was always there, watching her from just beyond her vision, lurking in dark corners and empty rooms, waiting at the end of hallways. Only now she could see the figure from the night-terrors. The man with his dark, animal eyes she could never capture. When she was in daylight, surrounded by people, she knew he was a figment of her imagination, and nothing more, yet when she was alone she could hear him in her head, begging to be let in.
She shook herself and started the car, and sped away into the night, watched by a large black cat, crouching in the bushes.

Alice did not live too far from the university. She arrived at her apartment complex within fifteen minutes. She grabbed her bag, unlocked the car, locked it again, and hurried up the stairs. The lights were flickering in the passage outside her door. She looked to either side, and saw nothing. But.. Out of the corner of her eye?
No. There was nothing. Those animal eyes were not real. She had certainly not seem them gleam at her from the shadows. She shook herself and pushed the key into the lock. As she swung the door open, she realized something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She smelled the smoke before she felt the burst of heat. She felt something pull her backwards as flames exploded out of her door. As they leapt towards her, grasping for her sweater and jeans, singeing the tips of her hair, panic seized her completely. She could not move or scream, and yet the other force was dragging her backwards and down the hall, and away, into the night air. She clutched the figure holding her, and squeezed her eyes shut. Everything was fear and heat and the singing twang of nerves.

When Alice could register something beyond the pounding of her heart, and the roar of blood through her being, she felt cold. Freezing. It was as if she were embracing icicles. It was too cold even to shiver. Her body would not respond to the aching chill. When she felt in control enough, she looked around. She was at a park or maybe a playground, seated on the slide, one of those slick metal ones that stick. There was a jungle gym nearby, with beads of dew glittering on it, and large swing set, the swings swaying gently in the breeze. Alice closed her eyes and tried to focus.
What on earth was she doing here?
She could not even remember the last time she had been in a playground. Large groups of kids made her worried when she was little, she had preferred to play one-on-one in a well-lit toy room.
She looked up. The hair on the back of her neck had prickled. No one was there. She jumped up from the slide and looked around. She did not want to be here. She did not know how she had gotten here. She forced her feet into action, and stepped quickly, trying not to break into a run or draw attention to herself. Soon she was bathed in the glow of streetlights. She blinked as she got her bearings. Her apartment complex was several blocks away.
Her apartment? What had happened to it? She tried to prod her brain. Nothing was making any sense. She had opened the door, but there had been.. Fire? But why? How?
She continued moving.

She smelled the smoke before she turned onto her street. A cloud of it filled the air. A fire-truck rushed past her. She sped up slightly. Arriving at the brownstone building, she saw that the blaze was mostly taken care of. Fellow tenants stood around blearily in pajamas, while firemen in yellow rushed around, packing things up. One noticed her and came forward. He looked at her.
“You wouldn’t be... Alice Hillstone?”
“Yes,” she tried to say evenly.
“Oh man, I hate to say this, ma’am. It was your apartment. Everything was completely destroyed.”
Alice closed her eyes and let this information wash over her.
“Did anything make it?” she gulped.
“It’s not very likely. I’m so sorry,” he said, shuffling his feet. Big strong men aren’t really cut out for sensitive news. He placed a hand awkwardly on her shoulder.
“It appears to have started from the inside. Do you think you maybe left an oven on or a tossed a stray cigarette?”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes unfocused.
“I don’t smoke. I never use the oven.”
“Well, sometimes these things just... They just happen. I’m sorry ma’am. My recommendation to you is to find a friend to stay with for the time being... Ma’am?”
She shook herself. There were no dark eyes glittering at her from across the street; it was stress and imagination. She looked up at the apartment complex.
“Why me?” She asked the world at large.
“These things happen,” the fireman said helplessly.

Alice prided herself on, while often a wreck, never being hysterical. In the lobby of Motel 6, she felt she could be failing even at that, as she gathered her key card from a sympathetic desk clerk. She wandered down the hall to room 106, and slid the key card into the lock. The green light blinked on and she entered. She did not bother with the light-switch, or adjusting the temperature. She literally leapt onto the bed and gathered herself under the blankets. She felt numb, and sleep came quickly. She dozed, but fitfully, seeing only fire, and such strange, dark, animal eyes.
Outside a cat was wailing.
It was three in the morning when her eyes, red, tired, aching from exhaustion, snapped open. The wailing of a cat outside had become unbearable, even in her weariness, to ignore or sleep through. It sounded just like an infant, abandoned to the coldness of the world, screaming for attention. Alice opened the window, and found there was no stopper to keep it shut, no screen to keep her from falling out. She stared into the night. In the bushes beneath her window, yellow-green lamps glowed at her. A cat, so dark it seemed less black than void in cat-form, was hidden behind those eyes. It mewed pitifully at her.
“There, don’t do that.”
She reached a hand down and stroked the fur, it was smooth, shining, soft.
Its eyes gazed into her own pleadingly. As if to say, let me in.
“Alright.” she said softly, picking up the animal. She brought it into the room, and closed the window.
“Just for tonight, though.”
The cat clawed and wriggled in her arms. She dropped it and gasped.
“Hey!”
The animal dropped, but it never hit the floor. Before her stood a man with dark, inhaling eyes.
She stared up at him in abject fear. Her legs wobbled, her lip shook. She was frozen to the spot. But inside she was crumbling.
Her mouth squeaked out the words, “No. No not you.”
“Oh yes, me. You let me in.” He grinned. “You finally let me inside.”
Alice squeezed her eyes shut and clinched her fists. “I know you aren’t real. You can’t possibly be real.”
He slid around her, his voice shivering her spine.
“I’m more real than you could possibly imagine. More real than you will ever be.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Her words were laced with the agony of fear.
“I’m doing nothing to you.”
“You are tormenting me. Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough?”
“All I’ve ever done, is ask to be let in, little girl.”
He seemed to float around her, moving suddenly, but seeming to flow from place to place.
“Now, you need to sleep, girl. Sleep deep.”
The words poured into her mind, soporific. Her eyes grew heavy. Her thoughts swam. Fear was replaced by a hazy exhaustion. Then there was nothing.

Alice’s eyes flickered, then opened. She realized she was laying down on some sort of soft bed. There was no light, only an emptiness that seemed to carry on forever. The air felt old, spent. The fear came back, in full force. Her body began to quiver.
“Scared?”
Her eyes adjusted enough to see the man, with his dark glittering eyes, standing over her. He was grinning with satisfaction.
Alice put her hands over her face. “This is just a dream.”
“I don’t think you’re waking up.”
She opened her eyes and stared up at him. “Where am I?”
“My house.”
“Who are you? Why have you-”
“One question at a time.” He grinned. “I won’t tell you my name.”
“Why me? What did I do?”
“You exist. It’s a good enough reason,” He lowered himself to eye level with her. “Master.”
She shivered. “Wh-what?”
“Alice of the Hillstone family, I am in your service.” His eyes sparkled sickeningly.
Fear was arching in her back, like a tiny cat with a thousand feet. “I don’t understand.”
He rose to his feet. “Up,” he commanded.
Weakly, she followed.
“Through the tragedy of your birth into the Hillstone family, you have been marked as prey,” he said, as she followed him out of the room and down a dark hallway.
She absorbed this. She was destined to be eaten by a man with the ability to turn into a cat, to torment her mind. She did not reply. She had nothing to say. There was nothing to do.
“The Hillstone family has became a target for many... Unique persons.”
A human sacrifice, to a bizarre and powerful cult, what a death.
“I wasn’t even raised as a Hillstone, I was raised by-”
“Your godmother, Anne-Marie Lyle, until you were emancipated from her care upon your eighteenth birthday and moved to this town in order to further your studies.” He nodded. “Please, don’t bore me with trivialities. It was unfortunate your mother and father were so... Tragically killed.”
A lump formed in her throat. She had only vague memories of them. She had been taken into her godmother’s care when she was six, if you could call it care. Anne-Marie was not an evil woman, but too young and unready for children. She had left Alice to her own devices, by and large, and now... A figment had appeared knowing all about her, her history, her life.
“Did you kill them?” she pondered.
Surprise briefly burst across the man’s face, and was quickly replaced by a gloom. “Never.”
The dark intensity he said this with surprised Alice, as if the suggestion had been the deepest offense to him.
“Did you know them?”
“In a way.”
He stopped, they were in a large, circular room. There were no furnishings, but the walls had a mural on them, a strange scene depicting a story perhaps, of violence and ancient times.
“With regards to your lowness, I’ll try to keep it simple. In the time this tapestry was created, a pact was made between...” He paused, then said enigmatically, “My kind... And your family.”
She did not ask for clarification. Something about him, his dark animal eyes, his pure hugeness, so big he could only be fiction, held her silent and captive.
“The jist of this is, you are in my care.”
She widened her eyes, the spell broken by shock.
“What?”
“Through your lineage, you have found yourself my service.”
“So you’re my...”
“Servant, bodyguard, accomplice. Whatever you need me for, I will be that.”
“But you, you’ve done me nothing but harm.”
“Harm has come to you because of who you are. If you had allowed me to, I could have prevented your trials. Such as the burning of your apartment.”
She felt her knees weakening. “That really happened?”
“You would have been burnt to a crisp had you crossed the thresh-hold. To your luck, I was able to pull you from danger.”
“Th-thank you.” Her eyes were distant. Her head felt light. She shook it, as if to clear the confusion. “This is too much. Please just... Just..” The lightness traveled down her spine and darkness opened up at the back of her skull.
She fell forward, and with amazing speed, the man caught her before she hit the floor. He watched her solemnly, as her consciousness swam against the current of darkness back to him. She blinked up at him after several minutes. Everything rushed back to her.
She pushed against him, but he did not let her go. “According to my kind, I cannot tell you my name. Names hold the key to the power of every living thing. Names are a sort of control that no one must have.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You may call me November, for lack of a better name.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Take me home.”
The man called November raised an eyebrow. “I already have.”

I feel the same way. If this baby didn't have to recharge, I'd just grab my towel and be off.

Of course, I feel like I'm cheating on my Kindle with half.com right now. I just found all of the Harry Potter series for .75 cents (a piece, not together, plus shipping is like 4 bucks...)



All the same, I think if you got Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on your Kindle the universe would implode.


In other news: I did not spend all day yesterday playing Sims 2.

I took time out to watch a rather poorly downloaded copy of Oliver and Company.


In other other news: I *hate* myspace. I keep it for the blogging features but I'm like, so over it. Crawl out of your holes, people.

I can't get the blog to indent, I apologize for a distinct lack of paragraph breaks.

Plain text version here

Sight
Karly Noelle Abreu

Valentine put the thread in her mouth the, one eye closed, pushed it through the eye of the needle. She tied it in a knot and plunged it into the coat. She began stitching quickly, absentmindedly. She looked up at the man leaning against her wall. She opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by the chiming of the Clock. It only sounded four times, and she didn’t take her eyes off of him. Her eyebrows raised slightly.
“I don’t know how you live there, Clock tower Man.”
He rolled his eyes and thumped the floor with the edge of his boot.
“The day you call me Silas I’ll be struck by lightening.”
“One can only hope, Clock tower Man.”
He frowned. “Just shut up and sew.”
She bit the edge of the thread and held up the coat. It had once been a stylish Western coat, in ages past, and now it was a tattered mess of patches of every texture and pattern. The majority of them were dark green or grey, but here and there something brighter would pop out if you looked hard enough. There was a hood on it lined in fluffy grey fur.
“I’d say good as new, but I think you’ve had it since you were born.”
She tossed it to him.
“Thank you, love.”
“Yep.”
The man slipped into the coat. It was like a second skin. He was almost never seen without it. In her more whimsical moments Valentine wondered if he was compensating with his flamboyant coat for his complete lack of hair. Silas Anhaven- the Clock tower Man-was a singular character. He was thirty-one years old, and had his features been less sharp, he would have been very handsome. His head was kept completely hairless, save his dark eyebrows; somehow favoring his overdone features, his build was lean and muscular. He had a graceful but very masculine way of moving that, like his features, was over the top, and he grinned in a way that made many women weak.
Valentine, due to proximity, was immune. She eyed him haughtily. “I notice you haven’t left.”
“I just wanted to see if you’d take me up on my offer.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What offer?”
“Marry me.”
“I would rather die.”
“I can arrange that. Would you prefer suffocation or a good hanging?”
Valentine stood and began walking towards the kitchen.
“And a lovely funeral. Lots of crying,” he called after her.
Valentine poked her head back into the main room. “We’re out of tea.”
Silas grinned and seated himself across Valentine’s bed. “You look down on my profession, sure. But when you need tea it’s ‘Silas, darling, be a dear and mug someone for their tea.’” He leaned back dramatically. “Then ‘take me Silas, take me swiftly for I grow faint with longing!’”
“I’ll let you know the day I feel like that,” she replied in a frosty tone. She reached up and pulled a blackened Western pot from a shelf that leaned over the stove.
“Please do,” Silas leaned up. “Your bed smells nice.”
Valentine rolled her eyes and filled the pot with fresh well-water from the basin. Her house was planted firmly in the northern part of East Clocktown, near the Forest. It was one of the oldest parts of the East, tucked in a far corner away from the bustle of the market, and the noise of the day. The Forest near the edge was quiet and calm. Its residue poured over her house though, like a force of energy she could tap into whenever she pleased. Magic did not really work like that, the Forest bestowed power on whoever it pleased, but it felt concentrated in her little log and mortar dwelling.
“Where’s your brother?”
Silas had come up behind her and she felt his breath against her neck. The kitchen was too small for both of them.
Valentine’s eyes glowed a pale red, perhaps pink.
“He’s not here,” she said softly. She tapped the pot and it began to steam. Silas backed away.
“Give me a warning before you do that, will you?” Silas attempted a hurt tone.
Valentine’s eyes snapped back to liquid black.
“I’m sorry, did I burn you?” She asked sweetly.
He stared at her, point-blank. “Yes.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Valentine said, perfectly sincere.
Silas plunged on, “What, you’re not going to kiss it better?”
She slapped him. Her hand still blazed with heat.
“That seemed uncalled for,” Silas said evenly, rubbing his face.
She took a string of dried vegetables down from the ceiling and started throwing them into the pot with abandon.
“But you didn’t answer me,” Silas continued
“I refuse,” she replied, continuing her secret ritual with the pot and vegetables
“Do you even remember the question?” When the woman did not reply, he continued, “Romulus. Where is he?”
“I said he wasn’t here.”
“Yeah, so?”
“He’s wherever he wants to be. He’ll be back soon. He likes seeing you.”
“Well, who wouldn’t?”
“Me.”
Silas stared into the pot distastefully. “What on earth are you making?”
“Soup.”
“I’ve had soup a fair few times in life. I would measure my soup intake in gallons. And that is not soup. It’s... Water and plant-life.”
“I’m not done, Clock tower Man.”
“I certainly hope not,” he crossed his arms and loomed over her shoulder.
“Look, are you planning on keeping up this banter all night?”
“Um... Yes?”
She forcefully pushed him into the main room.
“Stay off of my bed.”
Valentine turned back to her mysterious confection in the kitchen. She stared hard at it, then peered around the corner at Silas, who buried himself in her pillows.
“Some milk would be nice as well,” she said.
“I’ll make a shopping list, shall I?”
Valentine returned her attention to the pot. “I’d prefer you get it from the market. The Western stuff is ridiculous. Where do they even raise animals to get milk?”
“The mayor’s house, I swear on my life.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s a sight I’d love to see.”
“I could show you, but then you’d have to pay me in favors of questionable morality.”
Valentine tried to hide her grin, saying, “I thought the West didn’t have mayors anymore, I remember that being all over the hospital district.”
“Yeah, but they still have one. No one even remembers what he’s supposed to be called. Most people just call him the mayor. I call him very flimsy.”
“Oh you say that about everyone in power. Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Valentine waved the spoon at him.
Silas smiled good-naturedly. “He does have an awful lot of hair.”
Valentine opened up the little wooden cupboard in the corner, and her eyes wandered over it. She reached out and grabbed a few bottles.
“If you are so concerned, you could always find him,” She caught herself. “Romulus, I mean.”
Silas ran a hand across the top of his head. “Too weak right now.”
“Huh. A man who admits to being weak? Shocking,” she mocked
“What is that supposed to mean? I am perfectly honest.” Silas started bouncing his left leg. It made the bed rattle.
“Except in making a living?” Valentine had laced this question with poison before shooting it off.
Silas just kept smiling. “Naturally.”

It was at this point that the subject of this roundabout discussion came into the front room. Romulus never entered a house. He entered a room. He was nonchalant about it, and inhabited so little, and opened and closed doors so quickly and silently, that he simply appeared. As to being outside, well it was theorized, but never confirmed. Considering the lack of rooms aside from the main one, the kitchen, and the back room, it seemed a likely choice.
Silas turned and noticed him. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Romulus repeated.
“Oh.”
Valentine peered around the corner. “I’m hearing a lot of ‘oh’s.”
Romulus nodded. “Indeed.”
“Oh, indeed,” Silas agreed emphatically.
“No, just indeed,” Romulus insisted.
“Indeed,” Valentine agreed.
Silas sat up and stared hard at the part of Valentine visible through the doorway. “You have no say in this, it’s a man-to-man conversation.”
“You suddenly became a man?” Valentine said, moving her mysterious bottles over the pot.
Silas turned to look at Romulus. “She always acts like this as soon as you come in. I tell you, before you come in, it’s nothing but sweet nothings.”
“So... A lot of nothing?”
Romulus was quick. He was also incredibly sweet about it. You could never think of Romulus as mean, even if he struck like a snake. He had an aura of sweetness that sort of melted you, like sugar candy. He and Silas were friends, and both of them knew it, but it was expressed in a lot of cryptic comments and rhetorical questions. To an outsider, it was like a brand new language.
“So Romy, what were you up to? Your dear sister was killing herself over where you were.”
“I was doing disreputable things,” Romulus replied.
Silas of course, knew this was inherently not true. Romulus was twenty-two, five years younger than his sister, but could have been placed at any age between fifteen and twenty-five. He and Valentine looked quite a bit alike. They both had dark eyes that never gave way between pupil and iris, and similarly dark hair, and strong noses and high cheekbones. But Valentine sat firmly in humanity, on the attractive-but-not-in-a-hurry-to-prove-it side; whereas something about her brother suggested otherworldly. It was not that he was particularly more attractive than anyone else. He was not unattractive either- he was the sort of person you looked at and forgot instantly. His whole mode of operation was somewhat enigmatic. But there was nothing even moderately sinister in his nature. Perhaps a bit distant, perhaps a bit less naive than his far-off look would suggest, but nothing dark.
Silas shrugged. “Well, it’s not my business.”
Romulus looked at him. “What is your business here, exactly?”
Silas decided to try honesty. “Ripped the coat.”
Romulus nodded sagely. He understood about the coat. In the kitchen Valentine stifled a yelp. Silas looked up quickly. He turned his gaze to Romulus. A small stream of blood ran down his left pinky finger. He held it up and looked at it. “Ouch.”
Valentine came into the room, with a strip of cloth wrapped around her own left pinky finger.
“Sorry, Rom, did that hurt?”
He shrugged. “Be more careful with the knives.”
Silas was also familiar with this. Many Easterners were granted a special power, a gift from the Forest. There were different levels of it, but only one was given to each person. Romulus appeared to have the power to feel nearly any strong sensations his sister felt. Silas did not know the extent of this ability, and he tried not to follow the line of thought to a rational conclusion. It was a very Western thing to do, on top of being a very creepy line to follow.
“So, Silas,” Romulus said, looking at him while Valentine wrapped a strip of cloth around his finger. “You’re staying for dinner?”
“I think sister dear might try to poison me.”
Valentine looked up at her brother, “I make no promises.” She stood. “But if you wanna keep him so bad, I suppose a dog in the house for a while won’t be too bad.”
“Ah, young love,” Silas murmured.
A smile played on Romulus’ mouth. Valentine just turned and headed towards the kitchen. “It couldn’t be, since you’re so old.”
Silas fell back as if wounded. “Oh, sweet agony. Take me away.”
“And don’t come back,” Valentine called.
Romulus sat at the table nearby, and motioned for Silas to join him. The look on his face was serious.
“Could I ask you to See something for me?” he asked quietly.
“You could. What is it?”
“The foxes.”
Silas frowned. “Forest creatures? I suppose I could try, it gets unclear, though, you know that.”
“Just try, please.” His face was still passive, but there was an undertone of desperation in Romulus’ voice.
Silas raised his eyebrows. “What, right now?”
“Well, yes.”
Silas ran his hand across the top of his head. “I’m too weak right now.”
Romulus imperceptibly shook his head. “How can that be? You’re here at the edge.”
“Trust me, I know when I can See and when I cannot.”
“Please, when you can, please tell me.”
“I will, I swear to you.”
Just as this conversation was finished, Valentine came into the room, and tapped on the edge of the doorway with the wooden spoon.
“Come and get it,” she said. “I’m not serving.”
She went back into the kitchen and exited with the full bowl of soup and sat at the table across from Silas. Romulus stood and went to get his own, and Valentine mouthed, What were you talking about?
Silas shook his head and put his finger over his lips, then mouthed later. Romulus returned and Silas got his own soup. Once they were all seated, they chatted playfully, but Valentine kept looking nervously at her brother. Dinner ended and Romulus excused himself, looking meaningfully at Silas. A few minutes passed in silence as Silas and Valentine cleared the table, then she turned to him.
“What did he want?” her face was fearful.
“He just wanted me to See something. I told him I’m too weak.”
She widened her eyes. “ “But you’re not. Your sight is very powerful here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You can’t lie to him. He knows you’re lying!” she hissed.
“I cannot do it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He sighed and straightened. “Both.” He sat down on the edge of Valentine’s bed.
“I’ve been too weak lately, only seeing things in flashes. I wouldn’t be able to see what he wants to begin with and even if I could, I’m not comfortable doing this. He wants me to find the foxes.”
“In the Forest?”
“Yes, of course in the Forest, where else do you find foxes?”
She shook her head. “But why would he want that?”
“I’ve no idea. Do you think anything could be wrong with him,V?”
She looked at him. Valentine had practically raised Romulus. Due to their connection, they were always close, and their parents had died when they were still young. When Silas was with his mother, who was an Easterner, he visited them. They hadn’t been badly off, the whole community had taken care of them, but Valentine had become extremely protective of her brother, fearing for his safety above all else.
“Well no, I mean, I don’t think so. He was acting normal. I mean, for him,” she replied. “Did you- see something? About him?”
He shook his head. “Hard to say.”
“Please, don’t be mysterious for once, Please.”
“The sight is blurry, I just feel as though something is not right with Romy.”
“Please, if you see anything clear, let me know, Clock tower man, ”she had grasped his wrist.
He smiled at her. “I’ll try, okay, love?”
He shrugged, as if to remove the heaviness from the room. Seeing the anxiety on her face, Silas raised his eyebrows.
“Now, love, how about my auspicious offer?”
She simply crossed her arms, still looking worried. “Marrying you?”
“It’s not everyday a man can offer to make all of your dreams come true,” he flashed a grin.
She bit the lure, changing her expression with some effort. “I... I already gave you my answer. A quick steady death. And I would prefer it with a knife.”
“By your own hand or mine?”
“Whichever is faster, Clock tower man.”
He put a hand on the doorway, and prevented her from moving. “I’d prefer my hand, I long to have your flesh under mine.”
“There was no possible way to say that appealingly.”
He leaned towards her, and pressed his lips against hers. In response she placed her hands against the small of his back, beneath his coat, and he pulled away, quietly cursing.
She clinched her hand which was blazing with channeled heat, smiling.
“You still do not have me, Clock tower man.”
“I’m confident that will change one day.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
When she looked back at him, his posture had locked up, and his eyes glowed a pearly white.
“The Forest has always been hard to see into as it is, but to lock onto a whole colony of creatures...” he said to no one in particular.
“You don’t have to do this to impress me, Clock tower Man. And you said you were too weak.” 
“Now, love, even I’m wrong sometimes, and anyway, I’m not doing this for you, I did, in fact, make a promise to your brother.”
Silas’ sight was a peculiar thing, a gift unlike anything the East had ever encountered, certainly not like anything Valentine had ever seen. He could see events currently, at great distances, or events in the future at relatively short ones. The further the distance in space or time, the more physical energy his power took from him. She saw his skin going pale as he kept searching for the fox colony in the Forest. Then all at once his eyes returned to normal and he fell backwards. Valentine caught him just before he hit the floor, and propped his head up with her pillow, deciding against laying him in her lap. She waited for him to awaken, and tidied up the room, attempting nonchalance. He blinked his eyes open after a moment.
“Now that, was an experience.”
“Don’t die, Clock tower Man,” she said, handing him a cup of water.
“Do I detect a note of concern in your voice?”
“I just don’t want to have to haul your body out. You’re pretty heavy. I told you not to do it.”
“As I recall, you told me to do so, most emphatically.”
“What did you see?”
He sat up. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s a peculiar thing, it’s as if the entire colony simply vanished.”
“Do you think they could be in the Dark Forest?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell, love. I know you are under the impression my powers are boundless, and in many areas you are correct, but sight has limitations.”
She rolled her eyes. “So, you think Rom knows something about this?”
“Probably, but never you fear, regardless of what happens to a lot of rabid dogs, I plan on staying right here.”
He leaned towards her legs. “Actually right about here, little closer perhaps.”
In the distance, the Clock tower began to sound out the hour.
She hit the side of his head with her knee. “You’re never worried about anything, are you, Silas?”
He grinned. “Never. And you used my name, love.”
He stood up, dusting off his coat.
“I was only hoping you’d be struck by lightning.”
“Perhaps next time,” he said, taking her hand. He bowed like a practiced Western gentleman.
“Until then, Valentine, fair.”
“Be seeing you,” she said.

Silas left Valentine’s house. A few feet away, her brother stood, staring up into the Forest trees. Silas noticed him, paused for a moment and watched him. Romulus did not move. Silas shrugged and kept on walking.
“Tea,” he mumbled to himself. “The lady must have tea.”
It was cold, and the Clock tower was still resounding. So much to do. So much to do. He buttoned his coat and headed towards the West.

The final installment of introductory material for this series.
Plain text version here.

In Weatherdown, there are the Downs. It was originally one half of the city, now it is only one of four corners of the city, the far Western one. When it was the cities of Weather and Downs, Downs was the glittering hub of the valley. In recent years it has become filled with dilapidated shopping malls and low rent apartments, and in particular, there is a movie theatre. Old, with crumbling walls. A chain-link fence with a condemned sign keeps the average citizen away, and very strong boards- too strong for normal wood- block the doors from curious children and squatters. It’s left at that to all but the Birds an organization that is army, espionage and assassins, a key force for justice composed of only criminals. And this theatre is the home of the Hearts faction of the Birds- the Weatherdown Birds.
Below the theatre is a basement, where there is a training room, common room, communications room, and four miniature living areas. In the communications room, a groggy teenage girl with messy blonde pigtails stared at an array of monitors with bloodshot eyes. She was sitting cross-legged in a desk chair, absently twisting it from side to side. Data fled past her eyes on one screen, video feeds of important people and locations on the other. She stifled a yawn. A digital clock gleamed through a mess of wires. She pulled them back and saw that it read 3:47 AM. The girl stood and left the communications room, stretching her arms and yawning. She turned and looked at the deserted common room, then wandered down the hall. Her door was the first on the left. There was a twin-sized bed and a desk. There were no decorations on the wall, and the only sign of life was a clutter of strange metal pieces clustered on the floor and desk. The girl yanked her quilt (plain and black) from the bed and wrapped it around herself. She padded, barefoot, back to the communications room, and plopped herself into the chair.
She started twisting an ink-pen into her hair, when a voice echoed in her ear.
“On our way back, Wren. Stay awake.”
“‘Bout time, Sparrow.”
Sparrow’s voice practically frowned. “Field work takes time,” the feed of his voice cut off.
Wren blew a raspberry at the retreating audio, and burrowed further into her blankets. It was a little over half an hour when she was jolted fully awake by the clamor of feet in the common room. She pushed up out of the chair and wandered down the hall to greet them. The other three Birds looked exhausted. The other female, known as Rook, sat down heavily on the spartan sofa in the common room. She pulled her black hair from her face and smiled wearily at Wren. She was only a few years older than Wren, but had eyes- bright strange blue eyes- that looked like they had seen centuries. Falcon, an over-lanky young man somewhere in his early twenties, threw himself on the sofa opposite Rook without ceremony. Something about him frightened Wren.
And then there was Sparrow. He approached Wren and leaned heavily against the door-frame that led from the common room to the hallways, barring Wren’s way. She had to look up to see him properly, he was much taller than her.
“Communication had to be kept minimum, I’m sure you understand,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Something about Sparrow made Wren feel tiny and pliable. He was the King of the Hearts faction, and she knew why. He was older than all of them for one, late twenties, early thirties perhaps, but even more importantly, he was good at what he did. People had to listen to him. He commanded attention in his posture and his voice, and he exuded a sexuality which was both extremely unsettling and very desirable.
“Don’t ask them about it for now,” he instructed.
“‘Kay. Any particular reason?”
In lieu of actual answer he merely said, “Get some sleep.”

It was five in the morning, when Wren heard someone padding across the floor of her room.
In the dark she could make out a figure, just barely.
“You awake?” Rook’s voice sounded over-loud. The walls were sheeted in iron, and it gave a strange effect to speech.
“Yeah. Always takes me a while. What’re you up for?”
“Can’t shake the adrenaline yet. And anyway, I thought you’d be better company than Falcon.”
“And Sparrow?”
“He went to bed, I guess. I can’t really picture him sleeping though.”
Wren had trouble with the mental image. Rook sat down on the edge of her bed.
“How was it?” Wren asked into the dark.
Something tinkled.
“Check it out,” Rook said, pressing something into Wren’s hand. She flicked a nearby switch and a dull light in the floor panels glowed. Wren held the object up. It caught the light and cast rainbows on the wall.
‘Real diamonds?” Rook’s eyes glittered bright as the necklace Wren was holding up to the light.
“See that cut? Only real diamonds sparkle that much.”
Rook reached out, somewhat nervous, as if afraid the younger girl would not return it.
“Sparrow said I could keep it,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her pride . She loved things that sparkled and glittered and cost way too much. She had been gleaning things from the scenes of missions lately, which in any other branch of government funded activity could have been a crime, but in Wren’s mind, was probably almost a given in the Birds. After all, they were all former criminals, it was part of the job.
“So this is from the woman?” Wren looked at it distastefully. Even criminals have some virtues.
“She’s dead,” Rook said simply. “Not like she needs it.”
She clasped the necklace around her neck. It sparkled.
“Get some sleep kiddo,” Rook said, standing. She wandered off, closing the door. Wren rolled over, eyes to the wall. Soon she was breathing slowly, and pictures of data feeds and glittering objects danced behind her eyes.

In the hallway, Rook met Falcon.
“Hey,” he said simply. In spite of being rather spindly, he stood very straight under his dark wool coat.
“Hey,” Rook replied.
“I’m gonna go up,” he informed her. “If you wanna come with.”
Rook followed him to the elevator in the common room and up into the abandoned movie theatre. They walked, in silence, up the maintenance staircase to the roof. Falcon opened the door and Rook kicked it closed. She leaned heavily against it and looked out over the Downs. While Falcon plunked himself over by a ventilation shaft. He felt around his jacket, and when his search proved useless, looked at her. “You gotta light?”
Rook felt in her jacket pocket, and then tossed him the lighter.
“The necklace,” he said, a cigarette between his teeth, “it’s nice.” He flicked the lighter, then tossed it back at her, smoke streaming out of his nostrils.
“Some people make this look good,” he said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. He exhaled more smoke.
“You hold it wrong,” Rook told him. Then she grinned. “That was a perfect opportunity for a crude joke.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” he smiled. “What a job we’ve got. Ruins your sense of humor.”
Rook nodded. “It’s a nice night though.”
The grey sky by night was lit an eerie peach color from the streetlights. Down below, a siren echoed and some dogs barked in response. Falcon pulled a hand through his dark hair and took another drag on the cigarette. He was average looking, Rook thought, the sort of guy who would have played basketball in high school and enjoyed cook-outs in the summer, but there was something about him, coiled up like a spring, ready to leap into action at any moment. She saw it on occasion, when he had to fight, there was something dark, inhuman about him- about all of them. A lack of mercy or compassion that regular people had. She ran a finger across the diamond necklace and looked at him.
“There’s blood on your shirt,” she said softly.
He shrugged.

At 11 in the morning, Sparrow flung open the door to Wren’s room. She blinked at him, startled, then buried her head in the pillow.
“No!” she groaned.
“You’ve already slept too late, doll, up.”
Doll, who called people doll? Still, Wren sat up and shrugged off the blankets. She wandered into the communications room.
“It’s a relief you don’t sleep naked, cuts out the middleman- all that pesky business of dressing.”
Wren looked down at her sleepwear.
“Yeah well-” then she yawned out the rest of her reply. “So you’ve got a mission? Two in a row?”
Sparrow nodded.
“Where are Rook and Falcon?” Wren asked.
“Sleeping.”
So it was a Sparrow-alone mission. Those were few and frightening.
“Um, will it be long?”
“No idea.”
“Is it dangerous?” she blinked up at him.
“I’m a genius, I’m not in any danger.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “So communication at zero?”
“Yeah, I don’t do the phone dating thing.”
Sparrow picked up his coat, which had been hanging on the back of the console’s chair.
“I just need you to put the tracker up on me. If I fall off the radar, I need you to contact Canary.”
Wren’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist.
“Be careful, Sparrow.” Immediately after doing this she felt stupid.
But he looked genuinely taken aback. Then a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He tossed something at her, and she instinctively reached out to catch it. Unclasping her hand she stared at a small black zip drive.
“I don’t want you getting all catty, thinking that Rook is the only girl who gets presents. There’s a virus in there, so don’t use it on the main computer, okay?”
She nodded. “Thanks.” She tried to suppress a grin.
He patted her shoulder. “Get your kicks, kiddo. Once you turn on the feed you can go back to sleep, okay?” 
He headed towards the elevator in the common room, and she watched his wool coat disappear.
Upstairs, in the theatre, leaning against a forever closed concession stand, was Rook. She eyed him.
“Tell me, King of Hearts, do you enjoy trading your self-respect for information?”
Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “Do you enjoy getting stoned after every mission?”
She clenched her teeth.
“Use eye drops next time,” Sparrow continued. “Do not forget who is in charge, Diamonds. You’re not as special as you think you are.”
“When are you coming back?” she hissed.
“When I’m done trading my self-respect for information.” He moved towards the exit, waving his hand over his head. “You guys have the day to yourselves.”
Then he was gone.
Rook raises her hand to the com phone in her ear, and was connected to the communications room.
“Mmhmm?” Wren yawned.
“You know the popcorn makers still work up here? I bet I can dig up some old film to watch.”
“Why not?” Wren replied. “I’ve got a virus to hack, but it can wait.”
Soon the girls were sitting side-by-side with a bucket of steaming popcorn in the plush seats which Rook had made her her personal goal to keep in order. “It’s not bad, really,” Wren said brightly of the black and white reel flashing before them.
“No,” Rook said, passing a finger across her necklace and silently watching the diamonds glitter in the sepia glow. “I suppose not.”
She grabbed a handful of popcorn.
“It could definitely be worse.”

What is this.. the third week of school being back in session? I'm already feeling exhausted by it all. I like school just fine, but I often catch myself radiating to the comfort of being a loner. It's all very easy to sit alone in the Eagle's Nest between classes, typing away, like I'm actually some sort of studious person, or wander aimlessly with a Cozy Cocoa in one hand and iPod in the other.
It's not that I'm actually like, a loner, or emo or anything, it's just comfortable there.
Which is not to say I don't interact with people, because I do, with some frequency. I've got friends I meet outside of the Eagle's Nest, and in math, and in communications, and nearly bowl over going to and from classes.
And I love Biola. I like falling into a nice routine of sitting by the fountain and grabbing breakfast and going to chapel and heading to class and scribbling math homework. It works. I function. But everyday, I cannot wait for it to end and for me to find myself at home, breathing a sigh of relief that I made it through another day, thank God for his lovingkindness, I'm still alive. Whew.
I think this is how people function, on a day to day basis, looking ever forward to when this stage will be over and another will begin, so on and so on, until we're ready to die.
But I'm not philosopher.

That being said, enough philosophizing.
I'm fine.
What isn't fine, is pet peeve #352, when people believe they know more about a movie than they actually do thanks to some very flawed deductive reasoning and/or hearsay.

I could wax at length about the Batman rumors STILL flying, but instead I'll mention what is happening now, which is even magazines are reporting that Coraline a lovely stop motion film based on Neil Gaiman's rather terrifying children's book, is a Tim Burton movie. This is where I, as a rabidly passionate Gaiman fan and at least somewhat unhealthy Burton fan *facepalms*
Burton did nothing with this movie. It's questionable if he's even seen it. (I assume he has, but I'm not Helena, so I cannot possibly say). People tend to automatically associate stop motion with him because he produced, wrote, and directed Corpse Bride and because they are under the impression he made The Nightmare Before Christmas. don't get me wrong, he was very involved in Nightmare; but only as the man who came up with the concept, and executive producer. He did not direct it. Henry Selick, the man who also directed James and the Giant Peach, the stop-motion bits in Life Aquatic and now Coraline did.
Let me say it clearly:
Burton directed Corpse Bride.
Henry Selick directed every other stop-motion film you think Burton directed.

The misinformation wouldn't bother me so much, except that I have followed the production of this film with some interest, being a fan of the book, and I hate to see the real director get snubbed since a stop-motion film is by no means an easy thing to accomplish.

That is all.

In other news, I'm working on two new stories, with regards to my brother, who has something against my Chester stories. A new Birds story and a new story involving Silas, another Clocktown character.
If you don't know what these are, that's fine. You should go to my deviantart and correct this.
In this same vein of conversation, I think I've finally gotten Karis into reading, and yes, I do feel very accomplished over this. Just as I feel accomplished everytime I finish a really good book. Or even a really poor book. Finishing books is an achievement. I should reward myself with that 12 movie Studio Ghibli set over at sundevil... *wanders off*

Other pet peeves:

(Just in case my Eastern/Southern buddies don't know, Costco is a lot like Sam's)

I was sent on a mission.
A mission to obtain toilet paper from the far back corner of the store before my mother reached the checkout.

This is the following report:

With amazing speed, a girl decked in all aqua raced through the store, grabbing a cart, and twisting it around before passersby even knew what happened!
as she spun into the aisle, the Cerulean Speedster dashed past boxes of chow mein and stacks of kitty litter, racing against time, ripping up cement in her wake.
Accosted at every turn by the menace of Sample Tables, the Azure Ace narrowly avoided certain doom at the hands of Delicious Treats.
Picking a back alleyway behind the freezers, the Indigo Wonder skirted past wide-eyed children, leaving them clinging to their mothers in fear as she approached her goal. Slamming the goods into her Magical Cart, the Sapphire Star was pursued by Shoppers into the middle of the store, checking the time, and faint from exhaustion our hero flung herself into the children's clothing aisles, avoiding Grumpy Asian Ladies and Sticky Children as she nearly barreled head-on into her archnemesis, the Indecisive Customer, browsing a nearby discount clothing rack. Playing it cool, the Blue Blur immediately assumed her civilian identity, and escaped with her precious treasure.

Who is this super fast Aqua Avenger?
Are her powers used for good or ill?
TUNE IN NEXT TIME, TORRANCE!




I'm surprised they didn't kick me out. Don't judge me. I've got twelve hour days on Wednesdays. I have to live it up on Tuesday.

In other news, season one of Justice League is terribly overpriced. It costs more than the three seasons I already own! I should sue.

On an unrelated note, I've got my own Amazon.com account now. Anything public domain is FREE on the Kindle. I can finally read Sherlock Holmes!


As a final parting note to the kiddies:


Gotham is Kinky.

In my continuing search for the Evenstar, I have even cleaned off my Bookshelf. (Because you know, necklaces always get lost there, clearly.)
If you were dying to know, it is capitalized. My Narnia set is on the Bookshelf, it had darn well better be capitalized.
A lot of my books were caked in dust- this is unfortunate.
Mo (from Inkheart) would stab me if he looked upon it.

Things I have discovered in cleaning my Bookshelf:

1. I still don't have a copy of The Return of the King. I've never read my own copies of Lord of the Rings anyway, when I read them I got copies from the library. Mine are the original cover art versions:

that Tolkien drew for them, but I only found the first and second with this art. I've tried to keep an eye out for the last, but with no luck. It was a fluke to get the two I have from a little hole in the wall in Cleveland.

2. My copy of "Tigger Gets Unbounced" (part of the House at Pooh Corner, which I have each chapter in separate book, and one of my favorite possessions) is missing two whole pages. TWO WHOLE PAGES! Do you know how much strange and oddly charming rambling happens in two pages of a Winnie-the-Pooh story? More than some Americans can attempt in their entire life. I'm very sad about this, but I'm not getting rid of the book, because those are true treasures from my childhood, along with my Velveteen Rabbit books.

3. I've never read any of the Roald Dahl books I have. (Except The Twits). I think this is a travesty. I have read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory but not my own copy of it. I've got a ton of Roald Dahl's childrens books, and for whatever reason, I've simply not read them. I should correct this.

4. Ever since I was 9, I've had a mysterious children's book called Abel's Island by William Steig. It's got a mouse on the cover in Victorian clothing. I've looked at it many times since I was a kid, stared at it, smelled it. And never once have I even entertained the idea of reading it. Not once. Yet, it's been a mainstay of my Shelf so long, I couldn't possibly just get rid of it. I think everyone probably has a book like this.

5. I love my Bookshelf. The shelf itself. It's awesome. Everyone loves the shelf. It's a model from Ikea, and ever since I got it, I've had tons of people ask me where it came from and how much it cost and a few even went out and bought one themselves. It's a great shelf.


this is not my shelf, because I could never waste that much space and not put any books on it, but mine looks like that, only with black boards. All of my furniture is black with silver ornaments, except my bed, which is a silvery/gold and very hard to explain in terms of color. Like the gold Crayola crayon, but also with silver.

In other news:



My new candle smells like pine-scented soap. Also I'm seeing Underworld tonight. Whoot.

~kar

I've decided, since I have gained weight exponentially in the last year, to start consciously trying to eat fruit whenever I want to stuff myself with say, Milky Way candy bars.

So far this experiment is showing that we need more oranges around the house.

In other news, I'm still desperately seeking the Evenstar Necklace I bought at FAO Schwartz on Fifth Avenue. I'm very distressed. That was the second most expensive item of jewelry that I owned, and definitely in the top five prettiest (and also the nerdiest, aside from the One Ring that I got from LOTR Risk, but I swear I don't wear it that often). Wait, I was going somewhere with this line of thought.........
Oh yes, well, because of this seeking of ness, I've torn apart my room (in sections), and determined I keep a lot of useless crap. For example, I still have every note anyone wrote me in high school in a purple hatbox, which I just put under my bed to disappear into the lair of the Beast Who Only Comes Out When I Place My Foot On The Floor At Three In the Morning In Order To Get Up And Go To The Bathroom.
The good news is, in consigning objects to the lair of BWOCOWILMFOTFATITMIOTGUAGTTB, I've categorized my stuffed animals (two categories, cute and not as cute), and exterminated all of the dust bunny mutants festering in the lair of BWOCOWILMFOTFATITMIOTGUAGTTB. Most importantly, I've finally cleared the Other Shelf so that it can hold some of the books that my Bookshelf has been overworked in carrying.

Is it weird that I actually get a kick out of moving books around?I think it has something to do with the fact that now I've got books flanking me on two different walls in my room. I'm a firm believer in the idea that there is "nothing like the rustle of pages to keep nightmares at bay." In fact, I find it hard to be worried when books are around. Even if I'm not reading them, there is something very comforting in books. I hope to have a house so filled with books someday, that if anyone were to break in to try and say, steal the 10' TV I got for Christmas when I was 10, that they would simply trip over a stack of books, get up, and trip again. (In fact, I think I'll reserve a set of encyclopedias- or better yet, a set of Harry Potter books- for this purpose).

I was in Riverside over the weekend, and just about the only good thing about the area is a little hole in the wall (and apparently nameless) bookstore in downtown Riverside. This is one of the few magical places left in the world. It's a lowlit room, and when you walk inside you can just smell the work of a thousand authors. It's wonderful. There are so many books there, by people I'll never hear of or read, books much older than me, books that ran the gamut of hands before arriving in this tiny store run by one old lady. Everything about the place is wonderful. Not to mention the wares themselves. I love buying books. I love adding books to my Bookshelf, I love telling people about books. I love staring at books so hard you stop reading and just start looking at the letters. I love the feel of the pages and the slightly musty smell of old books, and the inky smell of new books, I love tapping book covers against my lips, I love reading books. I love sitting in a place surrounded by books and thinking that, despite whatever happens, whoever dies, or how many BWOCOWILMFOTFATITMIOTGUAGTTB lurk, that there will always be books. Not always in mere paper, but they will always BE. And that is an encouraging thought.

But yes, I also love finding books that I didn't think I needed until I found them. For example, at this bookstore, I found a picture book called Little Daylight which is a faerie tale by George MacDonald, underrated author of great gloriousness. I also found an extremely cheap Discworld book, and a copy of the Once and Future King printed in the 60s. Most importantly I found a FIRST EDITION copy of The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis. Granted, it's only a first American edition, but my heart is nonetheless thrilled at the find. Sure, I have a battered old copy of my own, but this one is not for reading, it's for saying, I have a first edition copy of The Last Battle, which is more than I can say for any of you. In fact, if I die right now, then that shall be my epitaph.

Karly Noelle Abreu
1990-Present
Though tragically taken by malevolent, orange-seeking ants,
she owned a first edition copy of The Last Battle, which you, dear reader, cannot attest to yourself.
Memento Mori


But I don't plan on dying anytime soon. God wouldn't possibly let that happen, in full knowledge of the fact that I haven't found my Evenstar yet.