Hello shiney shiney angels whom I love.

Kind of hard to explain this one. Basically, the story is about a small town, Corrina, based in all timeframes an genre, like an anthologies of shoirt stories all tied together, with characters running throughout.

If you wish for a character in your heart of hearts then shout out, give me a genre, and some weird specifics of your characters, obscurity and eccentricity are very helpful indeed. You can also ask for something within your chapter, and I shall try to accomodate. If you wish me only to use words from pages 175 through 345 in the dictionary, if it would amuse you, I shall do said thing.

For example, the adorable Celandine has asked for a character named Rose in a 1920s/30s film noir.

The story basically comes from my own small town, which is a strange hole. It used to be where all the prostitutes would work from, we had 5 nightclubs, and everyone hear tends to know each others lives. But of course, this story is very stretched from the initial inspiration.

Better give it a NC17 rating, I guess, but it shan't be so graphic, never fear.

All the characters are mine, or based on you guys with your concent. But the guys can bear remarkable resembelences to Gerard Butler because that would make Spuddy so very very happy. And personally, I think that should be the only consideration in any old story. That and it must pay out Chloe. I'm hoping Fire Eater shall do this thing

Chapter One I shall post shortly and it's slightly gothicy thrillerish, it has Chloe's character Liz in it, and it's based in the present.

Ahh yes sticking to the need to insult or pay me out. Always a good thing. Anyway bella I can't wait for this to be up, cause from what I already know of it it sounds awesome!!!

Make me a woman in the 1950's, named Evelyn. Sardonic and odd becauseshe lost her husband to the war and constantly thwarting Gerard Butler's attempts at wooing her.

Hey bella, you double posted this you dork. Can't wait for the beginning. I'm finally back from no man's land. AKA. Holiday homework.

:heartbeat: Pat

*wanders in* Hullo :D (Blame Celly for my presense, hehehe...)

I'd love to be in your story, pretty please? *bats eyes*

What info do you need? I mean, my character's Julianna (shocking, I know), but other than that I'd be glad to provide you with any random bits that might come in handy.

As for genre, hmmm... *ponders* (*is jealous of the fact that Pat already claimed the post-WW role* grr... *laughs*). Might I claim the 1930s in some form, and feel free to throw in some Swing Kids-ness (I wouldn't mind AT ALL ;)). Oh, and if a guy who displays an uncanny resemblance to Charlie Epps from Numb3rs (played by David Krumholtz, meh hehehe- he's in my avy btw).

Methinks she (Jules) should probably be rather cold toward him at first, in typical Julianna fashion, but then... well, honestly, who can resist a Charlie-Epps-ish man for long? :tsk:

Other than that... she should be a...journalist. Woo- I'm not very creative at the moment, but whatever; my math homework is staring at me evily...

Hope that works; ttfn!

Prologue

Note from June 12, 1990. Found under floor boards of 1 3 Ringbough Avenue, Corrina
Draguljulob,
This was not the bargain we made. I agreed to undergo this place, and this treatment, and you said she would be mine. I gave myself up for what you stole from me. Ah, but the bargain is made. I have paid and righteousness rains down upon me for a change. All your concern, all your coddling, whatever displays of affection you have paraded have made you weak. One day, the night shall steal over her, and she will feel me so very close upon her as I whisper shadows across her pale neck. That's it, wrap her up tight for me, the sweet little bundle, pull Wilhelmina's old worn red hat over her infantile features to shield her from the steel winter sun. Wouldn't want you to damage my purchase. Lucy is already mine.
Darqin.


Liz is late. She is trying to make me believe that she is actually sleeping in to try and convince me she actually sleeps. It isn't working. The rock beats against rubbish bins, trees, benches and the old band shell betrays her. She's stalling. I pull out a pen and start scribbling on the napkin temple I have constructed, rough notes for a scene I've been working on. I've been trying to write a musical about Corrina, but it's hard to synthesize music for it. Most people don't really get Corrina, that it has its own music. They don't notice that our hills look like people sleeping naked, a fact that keeps less ambitious men here into their 40s before they decide the place is choking them. They don't notice that everyone watches everyone else, and that if you're planning on buying anything you wouldn't want everyone in town knowing about, you need a road trip to the city. They notice the strange postcards and other tourist things we ridicule. They notice that it's a hole. We notice that too, but it's 'a hole with love in it', as we wrote on the sign one russet afternoon a couple of summers back. It's a place to look back upon with some fond ideals about it, but it's a place you have to leave. We burn and we freeze, and we leave. There is a smell of blackened leaf litter most of the year, the reminder of those who stayed, the bitterness of a place that is only a waiting room of one kind or another in the scheme of things.

We live as a whole, the community like a hydra, many poisonous tongues but one entity none the less. Each person knows everyone else in one way or another, each person treated with the vagueness of aquaintancy , addressed with the arms-length familiarity of someone who you're not sure whether you're supposed to remember. Nonetheless, it takes a solid effort to be alone.
Liz hates this. She's not a loner, she's a perfectionist. Though she'll fit into any crowd, and can make a soul mate of anyone, the messiness of relationships unnerves her. I am little to nothing like her. A loner by obligation. I am the tracky-daks of friends, which is probably why we get along. Having me as a friend is much the same as not having me as a friend, you don't have to fuss at all.

We have a multitude of cafés, which Liz sustains alone with her coffee addiction, but this one is my favourite now, Buster's. No one knows who Buster was, or why an endless stream of owners have kept the name despite the fact they don't know who Buster is. Liz and I have precisely nine hundred and eighty six stories about who he was. The best one involves a rogue crane, an angry ancestor of the possum in my roof, three Jack Russell crosses, a stoat and a drummer named Nate.

In the corner, as is usual for this time of the morning, there is the usual suspects building a shiny new trellis for the gossip grapevine. Every so often they glance and blush down the road in case the subject of their conversation catches them in the act. It's like some deranged Whack-A-Mole, each scandalously coming up for air, anticipating the consequences of such small talk, suppressing a childish squeal of guilty pleasure. They wield the power of hearsay with a morbid ruthless relish. Bent over their table, whispering, is the locksmith, John Wilder, husband to Viv, the waitress of Buster's, father to-
“PONY PONY!” The Wilder sisters pile on my legs, the two straddling both my legs with intense effort, Matty behind Manda.
“You'll break her legs. Girls, don't you have school. Or something?” Viv clears a half finished meal of scrambled eggs, “Anything...” she adds as a prayerful afterthought, and quickly stirs something hissing.
“HOOOLIDAYS!!” They bounce ferociously.
“God help me.” She offers me an excruciating empathetic woman to woman glance. “I'm sorry, Luce.”
“It's fine, it's fine, seriously. I hear they make some very elegant prosthetic legs these days, it'll probably be an improvement.” I interject, “You guys can crush my legs all day if you want to. But you know, I recall on the way home on our last day of school, when I ran into you, I seem to recall something about having to show your bo-oyfriends the new baby ducklings when they were hatched, and judging by the poddy in your Dad's jumper, I'm guessing that would be now.”
“Eew. They aren't our boyfriends!” Matty pipes up. “They're our boy... friends. Utterly different.”
“Oh indubitably.” I coo.
“Muuum, Lucy's using big words again.” Manda sulks, “C'mon, Matty-poo-face, come and show the boys our duckies.”
“You children are stretching societal mores with that vivacious euphemism.” I raise my eyebrows.
Viv snorts. “Lucy! When they find out what you say to them you're in big trouble.”
I stick my tongue out at the girls, “Way to get me busted, guys.”
“If you girls are going our, take your coat and wear your scarves and gloves.” Viv straightens, trying to use her limited hight to her advantage.
“Aww Muuum, but they're so dorky, other kids don't have to wear them. It's not even that cold. It's not even winter yet, really.” they chorus.
“Is that what you said at 4.30 this morning when I had to unstick your tongues from the stop sign?” Viv leans over them.
“We couldn't say anything Mum, we had our tongue stuck.” Manda looks befuddled.
“It had frosty stuff on it like ice-blocks you forget in the freezer.” Matty muses nostalgically, “And it tasted like Mum's handbag.”
Viv sighs, exasperated, “You've been chewing my handbag again? I thought that was the dog, Mathilda you're on big-”
“Race ya!” Matty tumbles off my lap with a giggle inducing thump.
Manda squirms from a quick hug from her mother then chases her sister.
“Liz not here? Don't suppose she's off with that new boy?” John Wilder scrutinises me.
“They're just friends.”
“That's not what you've been saying to her.”
“How did you hear- I just like to tease her. I bag her out about most of the guys having a crush on her.”
“Sure.” He tucks the Corrina Express into his apron then exits with a knowing glance to his shop.
“God, I hate gossip,” I say pointedly to the remaining breakfasting mob whispering, “People end up making a soap opera for their own entertainment out of nothing, and they throw it around at everyone then look so surprised and hurt when it happens to them.”
“Lost cause, sweetheart.” Viv winks, “Human nature and human decency are rarely the same thing. And that's taking that that lot are human, which is a bit of a leap for some.”
“Why can't people use the power of language for good, not evil?” I roll my eyes dramatically. “What a corrupted world we live in, eh?”
Viv looks up at the pegged orders and starts, a little flustered, “Do you mind if I hold off on your hot chocolate, Lucy, I lost track, I'm swamped.”
“No worries.” I nod, nestling further into my coat. The cold lingers in my flesh, poison in my blood and the bones of my extremities .I try to keep my fingers working, adding some temples to the napkin temple, which slowly turns into a pirate ship of its own accord.
“Got sick of watching you freeze.” Throbs the air about me. The strange man puts the potent hot chocolate before me. “Found the pot of it from out back. Are all those poison warnings supposed to be there?” He takes my worn red corduroy and pulls it over his eyes, a mysterious hero in an old movie.
“Of course. Not a real hot drink otherwise. Liz's coffee proudly defies every single Geneva convention.” I reach for the sugar.
He ensnares my hand, folding it around his own. Beneath the cap, I feel his fiery mouth search the length of my icy tender hand. He plays upon it masterfully, my hand relinquishing the sugar before I feel its absence.
“Think I'm too fat, eh?” I tease
“Think you're too sweet already. Know I already put sugar in it.”
“Well if you put sugar in it, who knows what else you might have sneaked in there. I was always told never to accept sweets from strangers. And you're not only a stranger, Dark Stranger, you're the strangest stranger I've come across.”
“I hardly think a beverage that can also be used as antifreeze and tiger tranquillizer could be spiked with anything that would make it more detrimental to a beautiful young lady with such a resilient, nay indestructible, digestive system such as yourself.”
“I'm pretty sure the tiger was sleepy already.” I glare at him. “And you call yourself a man, you who fear the mildest of toxic hot chocolates?”
“I intend to one day, before it chews through all the earthenware in the place.” He grins, lapping my play disapproval up, “But I don't think it's so good an antifreeze as Viv has been saying, your hands are inpenguinly icy.”
“Inpenguinly? Can I see your making up of words licence, young man?”
“Sure, but it doesn't have my name on it.”
“Oh fine... But you know, the iciness of my hand did not prevent you from kissing it, so clearly you are either using excessive hyperbole or you have some weird penguin hand fetish that you must keep hidden from the world at all costs.”
“A little from column A, a little from column B.”
“You know I will find your name.” I steal his glance until it grows up into a stare.
“Whose name, his?” Viv folds her tea towel flippantly, “Mordtechai Leviticus Darquinson.”
“AHA!” I point at him hand outstretched, laughing.
“Bit of a mouthful eh, Luce? Oh, well, I guess I shouldn't say that to you, Wilhelmina Liuchiannah Whetherby.”
“Double AHA!”, says the newly named Mordtechai. He grins then slumps over the table. “Oh no...”
“What's up?” I put my hand on his sleeve, not wanting to freezing his hand too. Then I realise. “Oh no...”
“What?” Viv watches us, cock eyed.
“Now we can never ever see each other again, because for this long month our entire relationship was driven by the quest of finding one another's names.” Mordtechai explains solemnly.
“The enigma is gone. Farewell, oh once attractive and anonymous Mordtechai.” I stare out through the window into the papery brown leaves vicariously flickering in the frostbitten breeze, framed by the name of the café in reverse. The wind lows like cattle across the corners of shops. The iron bloody taste of snow seeps under the crack beneath the door.
“Are you going to leave?” Mordtechai prompts.
“Do you know how cold it is out there? You leave!” I thwack him. “Besides, I'm waiting for a friend.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes. Several. A league. You see they decided I was just far too special, and that being monogamous would be a crime against men.”
“I see.”
“I'm late, get over it.” Liz finishes a drum solo on the counter and crashes opposite me.
“You would be the league of gentlemen vying for the affections of this fair maiden's heart?” Mordtechai shakes her hand, “Mortechai.”
“Elizabeth. But call me that and you will die.”
“Dually noted.” He swallows.
“We observe the pre-caffeinated Lizicus Hansonus in her natural environment...” I whisper to him.
“Disembowelment later. Coffee now.” Liz pouts dangerously.
“I'll go.” Mordtechai offers, and quicky brings back the coffee with a dorky trying-not-spill-but-trying-to-be-quick waiter's walk..
“So shall your life be spared temporarily, coffee boy.” Liz the benevolent offers. She takes a quick draught while he fortuitously brings the pot.
“I figured out what we are. We, people of Corrina, are Coroners.” The rim of the coffee cup glows as half moons reflected in Elizabeth's eyes.
“Morbid. Scare away little old ladies.” I wrestle with the napkin pirate ship, which is becoming a white whale.
“Good. Too many of them in this hole. Let them find their own. And kids, they can go. And Parents, pop music groupies, prisses, teachers, bouncers, guys into gAyFL-”
“Basically everyone but us.”
“Me of course. Not too sure about you.” Liz flips the long sugar packets around her fingers of her left hand, her drumsticks around her right, absent mindedly.
“Oh, I love you too, sweet-cheeks.” I coo. “So if we're Coroners, would that make the streets Coronary Arteries?”
She groans, “I disown you.”
“Upon the subject of your undying love and devotion, Mordtechai is very good friends with a certain drummer who's new to town...”
“Really? What a darling couple they do make.”
“Lizzy he wants you.”
“Desire is the root of all evil. It is my duty to help him understand this.”
Mordtechai says behind her with the discovered vast pot of coffee in his hand, “Undoubtedly so. Nevertheless, the heart listens not to reason's steadying hand.”
Liz starts, “You should really think about wearing a bell. And not saying things Lucy tells you to say.”
“What? I don't say things like that.” I protest.
“You shouldn't. Talking like that makes you really thirsty.” Mordtechai lifts the pot to his lips.
“Don't... even... think... about it.” Liz locks gazes with him, like stags in heat.
Mordtechai matches her glance, but his eyes betray his laughter, “Well, perhaps I will give the pot to you, perhaps I won't. That will all depend upon a little proposition I have for the two of you.”
“I'm sorry, we're not into bondage or threesomes or Nikki Webster music, so I doubt there'd be anything we could obligue you with.” Liz's peripheral vision upon the pot, watching for any flaws in his defences, “But out of interest what proposition might that be?”
“ Well, much as you malign my character, it is not my character that should be the motivation. My percussively inclined associate Jesse is rather drawn to you, this perhaps you deny, but you know, just as you do when interrogated upon your intentions with regards to said subject. Indicative of this affection is the invitation to join him and myself tonight for cheesy horror films, which is extended to your colleague and well-wisher Miss Luzy here. And you should know that the more I am talking like this, the more parched I become,” He lifts the coffee pot a little further
“Okay, okay, give me the pot” She rolls her eyes, “But we get a say in the movies, and I'm making the popcorn, because you'll probably screw it up.”
He releases the hostage coffee pot and pours her another cup, “How can you screw up popcorn?”
I gasp.
“You see? I bet you were going to trust popcorn duties to the infidel, Luce. Where ever would you be without me?” Liz chuckles.
He steals my pen, “So, can I get your addresses so we can pick you guys up at say, 6 o'clock?”
Liz grabs the pen back and throws it to me, “7, and look it up in the book. You can read, can't you?”
A strange smirk reminiscent of possession plays upon his lips, “7 sharp. And I'd rug up if I were you. It's going to be a three dog night.”

Hmm, I believe I have found Darquin's lover... hmm....

I can't help being a dork. I prefer teh term antidufusly challenged. Good, then call me, you neglectful wench. You still have to go to the big sing and the poto ball with me!

The glorious glorious Julianna. What a magnificent creature you are you are you are.
Hmmm, entrigued. Okay, Celly's 20s, you're 30s, Spudkin's 50s. I am a big fan of silly 20s and 30s music, like 'automobubbling' and 'i've never seen a straight banana'. OMG did you ever see the mrs bradley mysteries?

I think I can manage that one.

You know how I adore this, and Lizzy! And the coffee!! And the drumming on random things was just fantabulous!!! Im intrigued by Jess I must say!

Fantabulous, dearling. I'm flattered *laughs* and thank you very much for allowing my character to be a participant in your plotline.

Your wording reminds me of V for Vendetta and have me longing for further alliteration and altering my phraseology in attempts to extend the tone of such diction...*laughs* Your vocabulary astounds me Han- makes me feel a little cross-eyed, but I like it very much :)

Heh, I don't believe I've even heard of those songs before, but I do love swing music, and that lost generation stuck between the wars (Ah, The Sun Also Rises...)- intriguing.

I should be writing a PoliSci paper, and so, I'm off. Can hardly wait for more of this though. Ttfn!

Hee. ^_^ <---- *look of complete happiness due to the amazing writing of Thranggar Shimmy the Magnificent*

I absolutely love this idea of this story, my friend, it's brilliant, different genres but the same town with people that are all interconnected and in a circle of life...and when they die, their bodies become the grass, and the antelopes eat the grass...and...oops, wrong story, lol. :shine:

Your way with words is always stupendous, your dialogue is spectacular, the names are fantastic, your style - fabulous. I love the banter between everyone, especially Lucy, Mordetchai (sp? lol), and Liz. Hehe, the whole "oh no, we can't be friends anymore" thing made me laugh and grin. So very you and I love it. Oh, and the whole Coroner idea? Awesome! I didn't even think of that, love the literary devicetasticness of it all. And I saw that the cafe was owned by Buster...hmmm...interesting... :lalala:

I love it and you and your writing and I can't wait to see what you do next! :hug:

Why thankyou, I'm hoping to see V for Vendetta, it premieres in my town on Friday because my town is a hole and we never get good movies on time if at all. I find weird words, hense my vocab. You seem to have a pretty impresive one yourself.

Swing's so awesome. And gypsy jazz. Django Reinhart is so oldschool but so so very awesome.

I shall have a chapter concerning your charatcter shortly, I am much intrigued by her and your luminous self.

Why thankyou my adorable and much beloved Zeffy, my likewisely musical obsessed friend. I deserve not your elequently said praise. I have a strange thing with spelling Mordtechai's name, it is DT as in veldt, because I wanted that softened sound. I'm a weird one for names. I've been doing an english story where the names of the three characters are Vivivan (snow hunter extraordinare), Woolluff (a werewolf prince who was turned into a bat who has the head and neck of a gosling because the reversing spell didn;t work so good) and Sydiyrrkin (the man who makes people quiver).

Buster is coming baby doll, next chapter.

But for now, a gothic tale of woe.

Be warned children, slightly dark and steamy.
*********************************************************************
Famine and Fire

Dear Draguljulob,
Our escapades are well, this place may not be so bountiful with our prey as the city, but what is lacked for in quantity is made up for a thousand times in quality. It is well our kind has moved here. And at noon, when we show our true selves, the flesh we craved is scattered like lambs from their mothers, so we can take our time and savour it, unlike the hustle and bustle of the big smoke.
I have taken on two young boys, rambunctious creatures, into our kin. They are ever eager to learn, to taste. Women especially melt at their favours though they are little more than infants. Goodness knows how many they shall catch when they have come to full ripeness. You should come and meet them shortly, they would be much excited by your company, old man. You are perhaps a little stringy and old for their tastes but nevertheless, I suppose it is better than forcing them to eat their vegetables...
Our gratitude for asking us,
Hope the chill is not getting to you these winter days,
Darquin

His name is Jesse, “So, Lizzy, you right walking all this way?” The near noon light breaks the leaves's oppression far above and burns tender the soft fine tan kid-leather of his arm. She watches, smiling at the way it made the fine pale hairs glow against the sinew. She hungers for him, this primal flesh-to-flesh necessity. She is more comfortable with carnality, if only the suggestion of it. It isn't love. Love is too airy, too abstract, too much of a euphemism.
She eases back on her defences, “Sure, if you can keep up with me. You know you could just order wood like everyone else.”
“Too much like hard work.” He smiles, a broad, white smile beaming unnerving confidence.
“And making me heave around this chainsaw?”
“Fun. And less work.”
“Sadist.”
“We all have our little hobbies.” His feet don't break the sticks they cross, making her self-conscious of the crackle of the twigs beneath her roughed up sneakers. They reach a clearing, and such abundance of warmth, the glory of it, makes her chest ache with the ecstasy of it. A tree, thick as the width of a small car, it's messily twist snapped base bisects the patch, a ruined battleship. The pungent oily haze of it's last breath hangs yet in the air, bitter, greasy smoke against their tongues.
Liz chokes a laugh in disbelief, “You have got to be kidding me.” She casts the chainsaw down as cavalierly as she dares.
He put his axe down by the tree, “Nope.”
“You drag me out here for a movie night many hours earlier to make me carry half the bloody Amazon so you can have a fire tonight?”
“I didn't know anyone else I could call, Mordtechai was busy and everyone else was out.”
“And how did you even get my number anyway?”
“There aren't that many Liz Andrewses in the phone book as you'd think.” he takes her hand gently, cautious of what each could do to the other, “I'm sorry. I just, it's kind of stupid but I don't really like going out here alone with a chainsaw, I always think something is going to happen, I'll be stuck out here alone, with no one who'd find me.”
Her glance flickers, her fingers twisting, entwining in and out of his, “Oh but I'd find you.”
“You would?” He ventures closer, tensing a little, breath more considered, restrained.
“Of course. Otherwise Mordtechai would cry, and if he'd cry, Luce'd cry and then I'd feel all bad about them crying, and you can see how that wouldn't work for me.” She pulls away enough to tease him.
“Well then, Miss Andrews, what does work for you?” The words are hot against her throat, yet chills it, sending needles against her skin.
She turns him, kissing him impetuously, if only to have him on her own terms. They share the murky eucalyptus in their lungs, embedded with it, roots dispersing violently in their veins. She nibbles at the salt of his sun baked flesh. He pants, a raw growl against the tree bark, the workings of him hard against her. He lifts her, pulling her legs about his hips, pressing her slowly, deeply against the tree. She sighs softly. His caresses are harder, darker, hungrier. He buries kisses coarsely into her shoulder, neck, his teeth grazing her winter bleached skin.
She lets out a cry, her hands clawing him back, “Hey, stud, careful, I'm fragile.”
He holds her hands back behind her, “You are, at that.”
“Anyone would think you were trying to eat me.”
He laughs, a dry, desperate beating of air. “Very tempting. Perhaps I will.” He explores her throat ravenously, his mouth a storm, a pack of merciless wolfs, “You know you taste like passion fruit. Sweet and delicate and exotic. The sun's vivacious fire stolen, hoarded in smooth resistant dark defences. Such potency, such vehemence in one so young, so venerable. Your flesh yields to me like a rose snap frozen by a premature frost, it's base infected by ice's glittering cruelty which flees under the hollow winter tepidness, leaving the petals to melt at the thought of touch, at a stray word.”
She bites her lip hard. The leathery iron taste of blood corrupts her tongue and she gasps silently, the breath in stages rasping at her lungs. “Jesse, what's gotten into you?”
He kisses her lips to console, then so hard her jaw and cheeks are bruised and flushed vinaceous. Her heart throbs in such quick succession against his chest it blurs to a sustained note. The song of it urges him on, and entrances her. They are slaves to it.
The clean precise enamel slides into her skin, as if through cream. He groans.
She yelps, throws him back, “Ow! God, don't bite me, that hurts.”
His eyes fix on hers, dark and all encompassing. Drowning her. Swallowing her up. She is the faintest glint in them, and fading. The noon sun sears hard against her, though him. His elongated canine teeth glint. The horizon blued mountains echo their hue, menacing. She turns to the side and backs away along the tree, slowly. Her feet find rock. Slowly, gingerly, each step a tenth of her usual, and taken by slow degrees. Her heel hits something. She slips back, falling squarely on her tail bone caught against a quartz the size of her arm, and likewise fashioned with an elbow. Her head snaps back against something like a sharp broken root. The pain to new to sob from, her eyes blur. Her mind shuts off. One last still tears at her retina. The somethings. A shine bone. And a long human spine. Newly licked clean.
She blanks out.

Eep!! :eek:

This is not good... :unsure:

Craziness...greatness. Wonderful chapter hun :) Very intriguing... and what now? Hmmm...

Sorry, don't really have time to say more- I'm so dang behind on reading. Just wanted to let you know that I'm reading, and greatly interested in where this is all going and how it will tie together... :)

Tchao!

(ps. Ah! V for Vendetta has left us; and I wanted so badly to see it again too. Alas... still, it's a strange and interesting film; I highly recomend it. Especially for you *laughs*)

Awww, you do deserve it! And I apply the same sentence to this chapter, love it love it love it. ^_^ Oooh, Mordtechai, got it, that's an awesome different spelling. Your english story sounds exciting too, maybe if you so wished you could show it to me when you finish it *nudges* lol.

And yay Buster *is unable to hold back a squeak of joy* :blush:

And the chapter: I like the letters at the beginning, hmmm, Mordtechai has an interesting friend...is he like the leader of the vampires or something? :huh:

Eeep! :eeeek: lol, similar response to Jewelz there...I was actually afraid that something bad was going to happen with the chainsaw, but you tricksy author you, it was something else, with not so tiny gnashing teeth. *laughs* She should know not to go into the forest with strange yet attractive men that make no noise when they walk on the twigs, gosh, that was sending off "Danger Will Robinson Lizzie! Danger!" signals in my head back then. Oh oh, I looooved the comparison between his sun baked skin and her winter bleached skin (though vamps are pale...hmmm). The AP English nerd in me giggled with glee when I saw that.

Dang the boy can speak sonnets...if you added a few more "v" words, he might have a bit more in common with Elrond, lol. But alas, those vamps are known to be good with words. Darn them. <_<
Oh oh oh! And was the fact that she bit her lip and bled...when he kissed her he must have tasted it...did that make him bite her? Or perhaps she wore "Eu de Blood Absynthe" lol.

The end, holy cow...a shin and a spine? Eeep eep not good not good...she needs to get out of there! :eeek:

Eeeeevil cliffhanger, but I love this. :hug: Keep it up Shimster. ^_^

Aww man not agian. What's with guys and wanting to sink there teeth into the characters you make of me? Though I have to say at least they're always mighty sexy. But now Lizzy's been betten by a vamp and has passed out in the middle of the scrub. So he better take care of her and get her home or esle I'll have to beat him *shakes fist angrily*

Anyway that said, it's so beautifully written! The imagery is just perfect, I can just see us up behind your house and you know exactly how it looks and everything! It was perfect and despite the actual action, made me home-sick *sigh*

Well I can't wait for more bella, this is just beautifully chilling!

Chloe xxx

Hey beautiful,

Somewhat sinsister, no? Don't worry, I'mpresently writing a charcter who shall hold your hand.

Buster is here, buster is come, be proud.

All shall be revealed in good time regarding the connections between the characters.

Chainsaws are somewhat portentous, but nothing beats good vampires, says I.

I like my men fiendish, tenor and atriculate. Characters that is, but hey, if a fiendish atriulate tenor should fall desperately in love with me, I would not object.

You know the bloodmobile's in town, so people can give blood, and I've been going aroudn pointing out to be people it's the vampire conversion bus, because it says on the side "Don't ignore the need for blood."

Cause they're just so darn sweet. **Jesse flinches at fist waving**

Aww, **digs hole somewhere in melbourne so you can have a cooma of your own** That was what I was going for, out the back.

Well, you'll haveto wait for Liz and Jesse, because there are a few other eras that have been waiting.

Just to help out, here is a current list of characters people have bagsed in this story

Draguljulob: the guy the letters are directed at. Shrouded in mystery.

Elizabeth: Chloe's character in present day, genre changes but currently gothic.
Jesse: Vampirical other

Lucy: Mine, same era, same genre.
Mordtechai: Also vampirical other

Rose: 1920s, Celly inspired.
Buster: same era, a detective

Julianna: 1930s journo, Jewels inspired
Berlioz: same era, a genius with a murky past.

Evelyn Amelia: 1950s woman inspired by Spudkin's synopsis. I've kind of given her a Miss Havisham, DH Laurence woman kind of slant at the mo, but that will probably change somewhat also as she is wooed by...
daQin: immagrint who bears striking resembelence to Gerard Butler for some reason.

and randomly.
Anita: 3050s, woman who can make everything purple spontaneously combust
Elsbeth: her evil conjoined twin
James: wooer of Anita.

Crime and a Cuppa Joe
c.1925

Dear Draguljulob
SO I helped you out when the kettle had swallowed you up, now you cab return the favour. I didn't do it because I'm headin' for saint hood, kiddo.
Buster

So she walks to my desk in a haze of fresh air, and Dirk Douglas downstairs must still be salivating after the opportunity to frisk her, 'for precaution's sake, Buz. I'm hypnotised and were I not outta my skull for her I'd hear that little voice that tells me it's always the sweet-little-nothin' dames that get you to do things that cause insomnia. But, glutton as I am for the ladies, and my mouth full of her tender, sugar violet scent, I just let this portentous tiger club right on in, sweet and naive as the lamb Dirk had for dinner last night. Cool as you like, poised like a moggy with a lineage of cream and diamond collars. A real Sheba. But her clothes are ripped and patched, sown back on in haste, and though there's remnants of silk and lace, there's not much to tell. But from the dignity I know ain't no flour loving quiff, she still has her pride and she's starvin' on it. So she looks at me, as she's standing there, and I wonder at the almighty need that's keeping this bird from hightailin' outta the joint, while she just stares, still as you like.
I pull myself together, “Doll, I'm not mercenary, muscle, or torpedo. Whatever grievance you got, I won't have anyone as a daisy stand on your behalf. And I want cash, no any... favours. It's business, and I keep it business, else i end up like the drugstore cowboys down on Rivenna, or worse, like the gentlemen I try and catch out, if you follow.”
“I... beg your pardon?” Her voice is rich, sweet, hanging and settling on my chest like an elephant made of honey.
“Laying down some ground rules. Last, you hide nothing, and I mean nothing, from me. If I'm going to interlace my personage in questionable affairs, I need to know exactly how and why.” I slip my worn leather trench coat about by wasted figre. The weight of it near capsizes me. Too many thorny predicaments these days, not nearly enough java to keep this old corpse running. “I need to reacquaint myself with my associate Joe before I can adequately assist.”
“Joe?”
“Coffee, honey, coffee. Let's ankle to Diablo, there's privacy there. More and more villains hold with his contraption s that can spy on a man given so much hidden space as a thimble. Diablo. In Diablo, we'll have a bit of privacy.” I pull my black hat down over my forhead, it obstructs my sight enough to feel hidden, protected. I offer her my arm, the after thought of trying to be a gentleman. “Shall we?”
“I'd rather not-”
“Be seen with me?”
“No that's not what I mean, I mean, I hardly even know you and-” her imago of purpose falters.
“Don't sweat it, toots, I got a way.” I catch her hand and rest it on my arm, holding it there, “Wouldn't want you to trip, the stairs are what you'd call temperamental.” I take her by my maze of books, each dog-eared and annotated in my cryptic, meandering hand. She studies me, new fauna to her eyes, the books and me, we'll never quiet add up to her. What am I to her but a man with dark sway and dark means for darker times? I take the fire stoker. It's iron, curled, black with sooty wear. She shrinks, her skin diaphanous, quivering like the last leaf in winter clinging hopelessly to some deciduous giant, dread sinking her fragile form. Oh God, were she to happen across one of half of my other clients she'd be eaten alive.
“Kid, I'm not going to whack you, the door gets sticky is all.” I dig through the papers on the floor to the trapdoor and pry it open with no small effort. She moves to help me, but I scowl her back. “I'm fine.”
She risks a small confidence in recompense for her wariness, “My name is-”
“Not here.” I hiss. Down the spiral staircase, the tongue of the mouth of this seedy underworld she was never born to know about, and she grows increasingly chummy with my arm when she finds I wasn't joking about the stairs. Through the bowels of the town to the alcohol-wasted liver, Diablo, place of the the damned and the damned secret. I take the usual, and get some Cacao Gutfire for the lady, on account of the cold.
“You should know that stuff's toxic, but a sip of it will have warm winter long, guaranteed.” I try and smile reassuringly.
She downs the mug with the bravado of a drinking swan.
I'm impressed, “You aren't human are you?”
“You're not very polite, are you?” She retorts, the fire of the beverage taking effect, “Rose Secoya.”
“I see. This is supposed to mean something to me.”
“My family used to be the most noble aristocracy in the country, Mister Buster. But we... happened upon ill circumstance.”
Ah, now, misfortune is my business. Her mother croaked while popping out little sis, father drank like a drowning fish. They fall into disrepute, poverty.
“I don't have much, but I'll do whatever it takes to get you your money, Sir, I swear to you.”
“Elucidate upon the assignment, Miss Rose, then I say yay or nay.”
“It's about my sister, Ella. She's dead.” She says the words clearly, dictating with the utmost decisin. I know if I so much as take her hand, she'll fall into a tidal wave of God-knows-what emotions. “I went to the police, but they wouldn't do anything because she was a-”
I cock my head. Ella... Ella... the name rings bells it shouldn't, “I need everything, Miss Rose.”
“She had... relations with men... who recompensed her for her affections.” She said carefully.
I raise my eyebrows slowly.
“She was a prostitute. She ran away from home, she didn't know anything else she could do. We weren't exactly raised for the workforce.” She stares me down, defiant on her sister's behalf, daring me to judge her.
“Strange. A Secoya, and the cops don't take the bait. I don't suppose there was something particularly strange about your sisters demise, something that you... couldn't understand?”
“They won' believe me...”
“Well, sweetheart, I'll give it a shot.”
She takes a long shallow breath, like she's going to black out, but she closes her eyes and whispers, “Mister Buster, before she died, the bones of her arm melted.”

Dowry Box
c. 1950

Dear Draguljulob
“...Forget, forget, forget me not
Amnesia sleeps on waker's tongue
Where once the mind behld sorrow's blot
What was, is not, is now undone...”
XX

The last of my name, the part indicative of my husband's right of me, is a stranger to me. Though for many years I practised my signature with his mark following my own initial names, Evelyn Amelia, my hand will not make the runes, nor will my eye interpret them as anything more than a child's scribble.

It's not that I don't love him.

Remembering to forget is self defeating. Yet to purposely put from one's mind, one must recall what it was, so, though your will plays no part in the recollection, yet the past endures. I now admit to my naivety as a bride. A war bride ; the irony of the term does not escape me. It is said “All's fair in love and war”, so perhaps as a war bride, and the epitome of each, I should be the fairest of them all. Snow White. My premature bitterness and regret are too acute for me to have any fairytale delusions any more.

It occurs to me now that, while there was no contract per say, our families, Teddy's and mine, always intended us to be wed. They had even bought us this cold waxen mansion, in the ditch vaguely resembling civilization within a hundred mile radius of the doomed gold mine both legacies were invested in. It was my duty to produce three male heirs, three attractive, if not oozing intellect, sons, the first named for Teddy, the second after Father, the third, for some subsequent doting relative or after some recently deceased poet in vogue at the time. I was to have a chef, a nursemaid, and a servant for those odd undesirable kinds of jobs a wife needed worry over if she has such means. I would at all costs avoid contact with the lower classes, hiring some Oxford scholar or other to tutor the boys. I would be a lady of society.

Then of course, the war. Teddy was somehow seduced with visions of blazing battalion glory, and, spearheaded by his lichened grandfather's and fanatical father's diatribes of duty and patriotism, he conscripted, officer class. This revelation he omitted in his usual conversations with me, an infatuated young lady newly sixteen, nine years his junior. His mother organised some frilled, stilted ceremony. The priest was vile, and the guests were pompous, but I never noticed.

Teddy's eyes. They made me as yielding as a picture book lamb.

The call came that night.

Do not doubt that I love him, but it was not his leaving that crushed me. What I remember in most vivid detail was folding the lily diaphanous shift, unused. Shakespeare wrote of Juliet waiting for her husband that she was sold, but not yet enjoyed. That was the feeling. Not worry, not anger, but this feeling of being left in an icebox for later. The feeling of being readied for a man who is to be the focal point of your whole existence, for the rest of your life and yet left, lost, abandoned absent mindedly. It was inadequacy. Guilt. Like a well without a bottom to it, I fall, and yet the falling endures.

It's not that I do not love him. I have waited. I have waited when the telegrams came, too afraid to give my condolences to the women who received them lest loss was something contagious. I waited when husbands were carried home, limbs misplaced or out of joint. I waited, worst of all, when all the others returned, laughing, throwing upon their shoulders babies they'd left in swollen bellies.

Still I wait. And it is not bitterness in me, but fermented hope. Hating his absence but wholly adoring him. I know when I see those eyes, Teddy's eyes, my doubts will flicker and die like a snuffed candle. And they will.

But I am waiting.

“I brought you firewood.” The rough-shaven immigrant smooths his hair with his fingers spread.
“You are indeed obliging, Mr daQin, my gratitude.” The wretch unnerves me.
“I don't like you alone in this house.” Each word translated sound by sound in his infantile foreigner's brain.
“I don't believe that is entirely proper of you to say, Mr daQin,” I stand, smoothing my dress with my semi-cupped hands, “But you have done me a kind service, so good day to you, Sir.”
He shrugs, fidgetting, “It does not take a genius to gather firewood.
Clearly, I think, biting my tongue, “Is there something else i can assist you with?”
He hesistates, but my glance wards him off, “No. No, Ma'am. I'll be back tomorrow to help you with the pumpkins.”

Just thought I'd drop by to read this lovely chapter before running off to the east coast for a week :-) And I'm glad I did (naturally).

Mmm... sound wonderful *laughs* Interesting name you've given him though; fun times.

Still loving it hun. I'm a bit jumbled in how to piece it together, but I'm sure that will work itself out eventually; till then I shall be content to enjoy your writing style and intriguing plot.

On another note: daQin reaminds me of Westley. I feel as if he should be saying "As you wish" and so forth *sniggers* Oh my dear sweet Westley! Hehehe...

I shall miss this story while I'm gone, but I'll be back in a week, so no worries.

Till then lovelies :bye:

This. is. gold. G-O-L-D. Love you muchly. ;*

:heartbeat: Pat

I am a bad bad reader for not replying to this sooner, especially since it featured the greatly written portrayal of myself, which I love! Aww hehe, you make me a good dame, kid. Buster's awesome too, you've captured the two of them poifectly. I am much amused, though Rose doesn't seem too impressed with him, hehehe. That's so crazy with the melted arm...what has her family gotten into? Brilliant chapter there Shim.

And gosh, I loved Evey's chapter, so poetic, very beautiful. It's sad that she doesn't feel right with her upcoming marriage, I hope everything goes alright. But hmmm...this daQin is verrrry interesting...I agree with Jewelz, he's like Westley. "As you wish." :tehee: Methinks she will not see the last of him...and Teddy should be concerned about handsome farm boys being around his fiance. :tsk:

Lovely chapters, my friend, I can't wait to see the connections unfold!

Hey bella, just realised I hadn't posted a reply to this. And seeing as I alrady told you my comments (and I'm lazy) I won't bother to repost them here but you know I love it!

Chloe xxx

Just especially the very person I've been wanting to see. Here is a verbose chapter for you establishing the relationship between Berlioz and the character of your good sefl. I've kind of made you both intellectual and a little strange so I hope you approve. If you want me to change anything I shall.

And you are a flattering spunkrat. F-L-A-T-T-E-R-I-N-G-space-S-P-U-N-K-R-A-T. Love you more!

I love you angel. And I shall be catching up on what happened to Liz and Jesse shortly.

***********************************************************

Chinese Whispers
c. 1937

Dear Dragoljulob
I'll get it, I promise.
Don't hurt her. She has nothing to do with any of this.
Berlioz

Probably you're wondering why I am staying with him, now. I know I'm not safe. I know what he did. I have no delusions. It's just...

I have an intricate name, Julianna, and an intricate body, I am physically adequate for the roles of women of my time, but I was never really one for believing love songs. I was never coy nor openly seductive. It just felt kind of fake to me. All these women gilding themselves and hoping the gilt wouldn't chip off before they were bought and paid for. All these men falling for an illusion and then marrying someone they'd never know how to talk to. It's not that I'm not a romantic, it's just, I think it should come naturally, I think if you're thinking about how romantic something is, you distance yourself from it, you're not living it your analysing it.

I met Berlioz in a library a year ago. I was researching the effects and mythology of liquor for a piece for "the Corrina Call", a well-meaning paper though it mostly reads like molasses runs, slow and sticky. For the sake of tourism we tend not to write so much about the darker sides of the town, but I had been wearing my shirt with a couple of buttons undone all week, so I thought Buddy Weiz, the editor, might just let this baby slip if I write it with some kind of reassuring tone.

So then all the comfortable leather seats in the library were taken by elderly men looking up 'the Rape of the Sabine Women' in art books because they were too ashamed to go down the road to Diablo's to "see woman 'in flagrante delicto'"', and they had all the books on any kind of debauchery I needed. But there was this guy who had his messy dark curls hanging over his face which he had to blow sporadically off from his face so he could see the page of 'Alcohol: ills, boons and myths'. I cleared my throat slightly. He looked up. He glanced inquisitively at me and then the book and then back. I nodded. He stuck his finger in his spot on the page and opened his arms. I sat on his lap. He put the book before both of us and we spent until closing time immersed in the volume. There was never anything sexual about it, I needed to book and a seat, as did he. We co-existed. We just fit with one another. And suddenly I realises how hollow my body had been before it had his body, how hungry my mind, how shallow my heart. And I smiled, and he kissed that smile, but only so I could feel his smile was the same. We married the next day. The day after that I scrutinised his signature on our marriage certificate and found his name was Berlioz Icarus, the same Berlioz who was the Renaissance man and genius of the nation, the national treasure.

Then I said to him, "Berlioz?"
And he said to me, "Julianna?"
"I never wanted to marry a genius. I suppose you'll always be caught up in your work and you'll expect me to do everything in the house and quit my job, be at your beck and call."
"No. Gosh no. I just need-" he chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, "I need you to think with me, to be with me. That is all. If its any consolation I never wanted to marry a genius either."
"Who would you marry then? A floozy?"
"An illiterate woman. Words are a terrible thing. You know without words we wouldn't be able to organise ourselves into wars, into bureaucratic slaughter. Without words there would be no racism, no sexism, no bigotry, no despotism."
"But there would be no poetry, no stories, no love as we know it. You are an addict of words, just as I."
"Exactly, an addict. I wanted an illiterate woman that I could worship for her wisdom."
"And you would see her as a genius. And you would worship her for what she was, not who see was, and then it wouldn't matter who she was, she might as well have been anyone. Replaceable relationships never work out."
"And she'd never be able to out-manoeuvre me in an argument either."
"Do you regret me?"
"Do I regret my hands, my arms, my heart, my brain itself? You are necessary. Perhaps you are a mistake to the procedure of learning that would have been my union to the illiterate woman, but you are by far a mistake I would make constantly and repeatedly for the rest of existence itself. You are my own and I am your own. It is just how it is. Would you regret me?"
"I think I probably will. But that is the future, and the future is an illusion, it is merely the extrapolated weaving of many present moments thrown together. So, as I am, at this present, without regret, surely in the conglomeration of many present moments, I shall regret you even less."
"Judging by your articulations, you must indeed have a voluminous vocabulary... You know, a friend of mine, Alfred Mosher Butts, he's an architect, he's just sent me a prototype of a game he's been working on. He calls it 'Scrabble'. I think you'd like it."

********************************************************************

*bursts into hysterical laughter*

I shall be back after taking my cousin to her swimming lessons to respond in length to this *sniggers*

Ttfn!
~~~~

Right then, I am back :D

First of all:

Absolutely. Fantastic. Dialogue. They're so straightforward with each other; I love it. The "do you regret me?" thing is so matter-of-fact, yet so honest... heavy (like his letter at the begining). And their answers were great :) I mean, really "you are necessary"- it's nerdy, but it's effing sexy if you ask me. No wonder she jumped his bones they got married so soon *cheeky grin*

Her mini-lecture on "the future" made me think of Gwendolen's on "metaphysical speculations" in The Importance of Being Earnest- amusing. Only this was a bit more sweet and less humourous...

And the vocabulary bit! Ah hahahaha, oh Hannah- you are great.

Right then, I do believe that covers it all (or at least all that I have time for now; I'm late for dinner). Greatly anticipating your next installment. Until then- tchao!

Sorry it took me so long, Shimmy, I finally caught up with this, and it's seriously so brilliant! I love the letters beforehand to death, you're so good at conveying hidden feeling and meaning in the short letters, you don't really have to go into them and draw them out to get your point across.

And the way Jules met Berlioz? So great! She found him at a library...and then sat on him. :lmao: I mean, shared the seat...sat in his lap. It's sweet, I mean, you don't make it awkward at all (though it logically should have been since they didn't know each other), it just reads so naturally. And I loved her explanation about lovey dovey stuff at the beginning, that is so Jewelz. ^_^ And he kissed her smile! That's about the sweetest phrase I've read in a long time. *le sigh* You're so awesome at this, Shimmy, it just floors me every single time I read something new from you, I'm not kidding. :hug: Berlioz Icarus is a fantastic name, I totally adore the Icarus legend with the wings and the wax (does that come into play as an irony later? hmmm *ponders*). And I dearly loved their conversation after, so amusing and so natural and so sweet (I neglect to use the word "cute" because Jewelz despises it so, haha). I'm glad they're happy together, and wow, such a dynamic couple, I can't wait to see what you do with them.

:shine: You have me ever so eager to see what happens next as always, m'dear! *gives you many cookies as a bribe to post sooner* hehe.

OMG OMG WRITE MORE PLEASE!

Gimme more! Presumably something that doesn't relate to that Britney Spears song!