Reasons Why Alex Seems So Pissed Today:

1. The water dispenser leaked, and hot water dripped onto the counter and behind the cabinet doors, soaking the newspaper and warping the wood veneers. So I had to move the pots, dishes and casseroles piece by piece into the dining room, throw out the wet newspaper, clean the cabinets, reline them with fresh newspaper, and move everything back into the kitchen again. Fun.

2. worth of textbooks stolen. Can't you bloody Newtowners get any more creative?

3. Snubbed twice in two days. On ICQ today, nonetheless. WTH.

4.  I can feel a sore throat coming, a culmination of reckless screaming, chocolate and late nights. It wasn't my fault.

5. My grandmother is dying and I don't give a damn.

5. "God will provide." God will fucking not provide.

6. Telemarketing at 2030h. She had better pay me.

... Don't think I will be blogging for awhile.

Eating my third box of Pocky today...

Damn. I'm going to get fat. Either that, or a massive sore throat.

I had something coherent to say, but two hours of karaoke and screaming along to J-rock songs sort of killed it.

What does ecology have to do with it anyway?

Shiawase!... SHIAWASE!

Damn it, I have to stop whining to you guys.

(lalala~)

Gave up on 'Birds of Prey' around page 200, because it reminds me of this sexed-up PotC script-reject. Started on Salamander by Thomas Wharton. It's quite promising, so far. Tsu, you might want to try it.

It's about books, and the search for an infinite book, a story with no beginning and no end. It's also about clockwork and obsession and staircases and beds that go travelling around castles on railway tracks in the dead of the night. Now, aren't you interested?

The rain can't make up it's mind again, whether it wants to go or to stay.

And now it's pouring. Fantastic.

Two words: Funky weather.

Went to the library. Got a book on mythologies of the worlds, 'Salamander' (nonsense fiction), Wilbur Smith's 'Birds of Prey' (yay!), and some poptrash easy reading called 'Days'. Bought FiRST, which I might not buy ever again, since they raised the price to .50. XP

Doing writing, on and off. Posted a FF8 drabble on lj and wrote a Jared POV last night (which I might have to trash, though, due to it being self-contradictory and there being nowhere in the storyline yet to stick it in).

In a round-about way, I promised someone a sweater for Christmas. Damn.

Today's psuedo-wittisims (from Jared, nonetheless):There's a reason why they're called trappings. The less you have, the less you need to pack, the less you need to leave behind.

I'm so scared. I don't recognise her anymore.

So, here I am at my uncle's place for the weekend. The parents have left for Malaysia and dumped me and my brother on our poor relatives.

There's an old lady in the living room. She's taken off her glasses; she hasn't worn them for a long time. Her eyes are half-shut and the dark circles go round an inch wide. She had eyes that were brown rimmed cornflower blue, that she gave to her daughter (but a darker blue, mind) but not her daughter after her. They're almost grey now.

If you put your hand on her thigh, you can only feel bone through the satin bedclothes, and her skin, hanging loosely in folds. She doesn't talk much, and when she does, her voice breaks on every other word. It's low and hoarse and painful to listen to, like dragging branches on the asphalt.

Her daughter sits at her feet, rearranging cushions and pill boxes, talking in detached tones about Parkinson's and the sickness of old age. And the old lady stares into the blank television screen, with half-closed eyes, and twitching legs, and murmurs in her broken-glass voice, she's ready, she's ready, she's ready to go.

Went to Holland Village to meet Rachel this afternoon, and visit the tailor with her. Then she came over, and she cooked scrambled eggs and we fixed a 'Continental breakfast'. We just sat down and talked and talked.

It's nice not to have to force yourself to be cheerful, or constantly have to be the one to lead the conversation, racking your brain for witty remarks. That's the good thing about putting two talkative people together - you never run out of things to say. XD

Mm. Probably skipping classes tomorrow. Chinese teacher is away on workshop, and English bores me anyway. I'll get the Humanities notes from someone another day.

Been spaz-ing the whole day. Got some weird calls on my handphone. Silence for a few seconds on the other end, then got cut off. Silly buggers. 93467884 - I'll go to Singtel if they call again.

Coloured 'Mistress of the Hunt' in colour pencils, but it didn't scan well. Put up some old works up on DA (Death from Sandman) instead.

About yesterday - classmates annoying me badly. It's my blog, and you can look away if it doesn't please you. Not going to apologise for saying what's on my mind.

Smile at me for as long as you can, Sharon, you bitch. I'm going to POUR EPOXY GLUE DOWN YOUR GODDAMN THROAT AND SOLDER YOUR LIPS SHUT IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP AND MIND YOUR OWN BLOODY BUSINESS.

*kicks*

And what the hell are you looking at?

Playing Avalon. So, I finished my accolades and I'm now enrolled in a hunter/gatherer course in the City School. And goddamn it, if I don't find my way to Greenwood Forest soon, I'm going to butcher something (or blugeon it to death with my cudgel. mwahaha.) Just my luck to be born in Thakria. City of Miracles, my foot. What I need to find Cassiandora Square and that's part of Mercinae. Arrgh.

Other than wasting time with this new RPG, there's really nothing else to do. Except let my Nano wordcount backlog pile up. And bitch about extra lessons. But you already knew that.

I logged on with the intention of churning out a thousand-odd words for Nano, but instead, I ended up answering a 100-question e-mail.

Whyyyyy...

The White Stripes are addictive, damn it. I have "Truth Doesn't Make a Noise" and the Elephant album on loop. Yay, um, oldschool rock or something.

Extra classes for the next two weeks. -.- Must be getting off soon.

I had a long, passionate rant, I always do, right there, hovering on my fingertips. Then I clicked on 'Add a new entry', and it fell away. Like it always does.

My results weren't spectacular, but compared to the rest of the level, it was above average. So I'm... glad? I don't know. I'm hiding the report slip until January.

DeviantArt is dead. *kicks* It's been 'under maintainence' since last night. Does that mean I have to upload everything on mirrorsoul.net again?

Meeting up with Bern, Sentinel, and the 'kazoku' later at three at Takashimaya.

I'll take the time to plug my playlist, for the time being:

Think I'll go make layouts to kill some time.

I had Halloween fic somewhere on my computer, I swear. Trillian must have eaten it. (I blame Trillian for all of my recent computer woes - it keeps blocking my contacts and eating message windows for no apparent reason.)

Right. More Vincent and Jared, then. This was written a few days back.

They're straight, kids. Honest.

---

"Here you go."

"Thank you." Vincent accepted the cup from Jared.

"Couldn't find any marshmallows, though," Jared said.

"I don't have any," Vincent said. Out of courtesy, he took a sip. It was hot and sweet, the sugar just as thick as the cocoa. He swallowed. Jared seemed to be enjoying his own drink, forgetting that not everyone shared his tremendous sweet tooth.

"Hot chocolate shouldn't be drunk any other why," Jared declared. Then, he winked, as if he knew exactly what Vincent was thinking.

Vincent had to laugh.

"Jared?"

"Hmm?" Jared raised an eyebrow at Vincent over the rim of his mug.

Vincent took another careful sip. "I was thinking... it getting colder this year and all, perhaps, it would be better if you moved in -"

"Aww, Vince." Jared lowered his coffee. "Not again."

"You know this place like your own home, you said. Moreover, I sincerely doubt that apartment of yours has proper heating."

"Now, don't you start that up again. We've discussed this before on numerous occasions."

"And every time you say..."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because." Jared set down his mug on the coffee table. "It's a matter of principal."

"You'll freeze," Vincent said, flatly.

Jared looked unaffected. "I get by."

Vincent sighed. "Jared..."

I know what you're going say. But this arrangement has been working fine for so long. Right now, I'm your guest, so you're obliged to keep the pantry stocked, and ever so often, I come over to play housekeeper and bully you into eating. We both know that if I were to become your housemate, then you'd take that for granted and neglect yourself. You and your artistic temperament. You'd probably starve. "I know. And you know that I know. But no one says anything and pride is satisfied all around."

In silence, they both contemplated their drinks.

"Such is the power of the unspoken agreement," Vincent murmured.

"Hey now," Jared said, softly. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

Half-way through 'Lewis Carroll: A Biography". Skimmed through the other two (borrowed chiefly for the colour pictures).

Lewis Carroll was commonly percieved as a 'pedophile' (something even the annotated Penguin Classics 'Alice' makes less-than-subtle allusions to) by snide literary types. In fact, he was a just a sad, repressed man. To quote:

"Beneath the bubbles and the froth lived yet another forced, however, a brooding guilt, and Lewis Carroll's letters and diaries which have become avaliable in recent years enable us to see deeper into this troubled well than ever before. He was a good practicing Christian, but he nonetheless saw himself as a repeated sinner. Stern Victorian that he was, he could never give voice or employ pen and ink to record the nature of his sins, but the painful appeals to God for forgiveness that he confided to his diary reveal a man in spiritual pain for trangressions that surely go beyond ordinary failings like idleness or indolence. Lewis Carroll's strong and virile imaginations must also have bred sexual fantasies. His dreams probably reached out beyond what he considered acceptable terrain and ventured into dangerous precincts. A severe disciplinarian, he never transgressed propriety or violated innocence. He was a master at regulating his life, and superhuman, in today's terms, in controlling his impluses during waking hours. But the nights brought troubled thoughts for which he himself as a miscreant."
(Lewis Carroll: A Biography by Morion N. Cohen)

(Yes, I typed that whole chunk out of the book. Stop looking at me funny.)

Poor Charles.

Marking day today, and tomorrow as well. Went to the library today, got 'Looking Glass Letters', 'Lewis Carroll and Alice' and 'Lewis Carroll: A Biography' along with some light novels.

Am really in no mood today to converse, and for that matter, write. No thanks to the wonderful, considerate news that I recieved this morning.

It's not time yet. It can't be.

Everything outside has gone terribly... red. Sunset, I suppose.

In other words, I finished both Stardust and A Clockwork Orange, both being rather thin books. Very confusing, the latter was. Dystopian futures are well and good, but they've never been my cup of tea.

A quick calculation: 50 000 / 30 = 1667 words a day approximately.

o.O

I need to step up the pace, verily.

Had an excellent day at Holland Village today with Tsubaki. Window-shopping, Devonshire Cream Tea at Fosters and then over to her place to pick up copies of Stardust and A Clockwork Orange. *grin* Thanks, Tsu!

More fic, as promised.

---

Jared found the cocoa along with the flour and the electric mixer right where he had left it the last time.

"Baking things," Vincent had explained once, pointing to the cabinets in succession. "Canned food. Dried goods. Tea service."

"What a very... well-stocked kitchen you have," Jared observed, weakly.

"It would be very empty otherwise."

Which was true. Vincent's apartment was larger than average. This was made all the more achingly obvious by the fact that he lived alone. The guestrooms. The study. The locked doors. For all the draperies and grand upholstering, wood and brass and oils, that carefully crafted Old England charm, the whole house felt strangely unlived in. Like a hotel, a classy bed-and-breakfast. Jared had pointed this out more than once, but Vincent always dismissed it.

"A guy could get lost in a house like this."

Vincent had raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

And that had been the end of it.

He busied himself, finding a saucepan for the milk. Putting it on the stove, he went to find the coffee.

There were worse places, Jared supposed. He could picture it, a sprawling family estate. Vincent, running his hands along the banisters, taking flight after flight of stairs that led to nowhere and back. Wandering along the corridors, stopping to gaze at a portrait, or an artifact, then shuffling on, in and out of empty rooms.

And here, an unrolled futon and a single yellowed paper lamp.

And here, Persian rugs from end to end, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, a woven box.

And here, shelves of Oriental dolls, porcelain dressed in brocade and human hair,
dancers frozen in mid-step.

And here, a table set for three, veiled in a fine layer of dust.

And here-

Stop now, Jared chided himself. Too familiar.

Reaching into the cupboard for the 3-in-1 mix, he noticed the tin for the first time. Unfamiliar Chinese characters decorated it. Curious, he took it down as well. He pried the lid off and looked inside.

A scraping of tea leaves, barely enough to cover the base of the tin. Withered, shriveled up things. He sniffed at them. "Vince, you're mistaken. You do have-" Then he paused, as the smell hit him.

Burnt, much? 'God, Vincent, what do you horde?'

He cleared his throat.

The stuff was probably undrinkable anyway. Carefully, he put the lid back on, making sure to replace it exactly as he found, tucked away in the back.

Skye: This is a completely different story from 'Alice'. So no Stephan. (Yet. Until I draw some Stephan art.) ^-^

Tsu: Don't tell, okay? XD

I'm trying to introduce new characters. The earlier 'Aileen' bit is done in Vincent's POV. The character introduced here is Jared, who I'm actually beginning to like, strangely.

---

Jared was admiring the framed photos on the mantelpiece. Five o'clock shadows. An empty intersection. Skeleton branches. A half-frozen pond. "You know what? These are really good, Vince." He looked over his shoulder to look at his friend. "Vince?"

Vincent was on the sofa, loosely cradling a throw-cushion, running his hands over the vine-work embroidery. He didn't reply.

Jared sighed. "Of course, everyone's told you the same thing before." He walked over to the two-seater. Vincent made no protest. Taking that as a sign, Jared moved the cushions out of the way and sat down beside him.

There was a moment's terse silence.

"Well?" Jared said at last. "Out with it. What's bothering you?"

Vincent traced a slow circle. "Nothing."

"It's not /nothing/," Jared said, mimicking his heavy tone. "You know I'm not going to simply take that for an answer."

"I know."

"Well?"

Vincent looked up. "Ever stood outside and listened to the wind?" Jared nodded slowly, but Vincent wasn't seeing him. "Ever felt like it was trying to tell you something?"

"Sometimes."

"Listen."

"I don't hear-"

"Shssh."

Jared sat still. Outside, the wind was moaning. Through the closed windows, it came faintly, an breathless, languishing wail that stretched until it was beyond human ears and died away.

"It sounds like-" - Mother crying

"You heard it?"

"-someone in pain." Jared offered, lamely.

"Oh." Vincent's eyes were downcast.

"Maybe you're thinking too much."

"Perhaps."

"I'll go make you something hot to drink. No, you don't have to come. I know the way around this house as well as I do mine."

"I'm sorry." Vincent smiled wanly. "I'm a terrible host."

"Don't worry about it. Tea or cocoa?"

"I ran out of tea leaves."

"Never much of a tea-person were you?" Jared grinned. "Like coffee better myself."

"There's instant coffee in the cupboard above the sink."

"Last I checked."

'Of course Jared knew,' he thought. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'll be right back, okay?"

---

It just occured to me, how much slash potential Jared and Vincent have. o.O Oh well.

Working on a Jared POV right now. ^^ Will post tomorrow.

Father came back from Europe with six boxs of Turkish Delight! OMG!!!!!!11 XD

And he bought all the other stuff I told him to, like Turkish apple tea (two boxes) and funky jewellery (three turqoise-inlaid silver braclets, one onyx-inlaid, two amber-inlaid). And tomorrow, we are going out to celebrate his birthday! Whee~!

Gave up playing Alice. I hate rolling marbles.

Working on story. Have an outline for the next one thousand words or so. Wish me good luck.

I'm stiff from not writing for months. Working on an original story. Might develop it for NaNoWriMo, which starts pretty soon. Note to self: Go register ASAP.

I have this strange habit of giving my female character with names that start with an 'A'. Auriel, Alice, Aileen. I like ordinary, if rather uncommon, names for my boys as well - Christopher, Andrew, Vincent, Damian. I just realised. How very odd.

Anyway, on to the snippet.

---

October reminds him of Aileen. Everywhere he turns, he sees her.

Her trepid footsteps, and sparse, fluttering gestures. Like leaf-bare branches, trembling. So quiet, she was. Aileen in the playground, waiting for him, a plucked wildflower in her hands, twirling it, clockwise, anticlockwise, swing creaking softly as she rocked back and forth. Shadow changing with those of the stone statues, casting long, sad shapes on the ground.

Where the frost touches his bare skin, he feels her fingers trailing, mockingly familiar patterns. Feels the cold wind like her breath stirring on his face, brushing across his cheeks, along the dip of his collarbone, up his spine.

A maple leaf brushes against him it falls. Papery, like her lips. Dry and fleeting butterfly-kisses. The space between one wingbeat and the next. Woodsmoke, like the tea she always drank. He tasted it, ashen-bitter, in her mouth. It lingered for hours, not unpleasantly.

In the square, he stops in front of a lone pidgeon. The air here smells musty, like old books and trunks and moist weather, like her hair.

The bird regards him with empty black eyes for a moment, before turning away and taking flight.

Aegis
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