![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
"...the eye is often blinded or confused by shifting sands and the distortions of heat..."
Dear multiple linear regressions, stop it. Just, stop it. WHY WON'T YOU LET ME LOVE YOU?!?
Dear self, good job thinking it's a smart idea to use your school ID as a bookmark for your library book, and then leaving both of them in another state. Seriously. Excellent idea.
Dear relevant data sets on food insecurity, WHERE ARE YOU??
In cheerier news, the Calormen fic -- known forthwith as "and sometimes you hear the silence speak", courtesy of that Edmond Jabes quote -- is off at the beta. This fic has kind of eaten my brain, so I am a little excited. We can has teasers!
Susan’s favorite act, she would tell Edmund later, is the storytellers. These are two women: one is a hunched and grizzled crone with opalescent cataracts and gold bangles on her arms, and the other is a young woman with kohl-lined eyes. They sit on cushions on the floor, and the old woman waits patiently as the girl prepares a jeweled water pipe.
Susan turns to the chancellor beside her and asks, “Are they grandmother and granddaughter?”
“No,” Edmund hears him reply. “They are more like sunrise and sunset.”
The crone begins to speak in a voice as cracked as history as the girl inhales deeply from the pipe’s hose. The heavy smoke pours from her lips and curls into images from the story: men, women, and spirits who love, despair; cities that rise and fall; gods who curse and gods who redeem. The smoky figures float towards the table and twine around them all.
+
The horse he rides is one from the Calormene stables, a dumb beast that raises no protest when Edmund kicks his heels into its sides: faster, farther. Tashbaan recedes behind him and he slows down only when he can no longer hear the city. There is something majestic in the silence, and honesty in such desolation. He urges his horse to the top of a dune and is still, surrounded on all sides by endless things.
+
The Street of the Enchanters is as noisy and crowded as the rest of the market. At first you would not notice anything out of the ordinary, but then you see a man with the eyes of a cat, a dancing slave-girl whose feet never touch the ground, and a woman whose wings peek out from under her cloak when a strong breeze blows. There is a strange taste to the air that reminds Edmund of the hookah smoke from the first day.
+
The smell of confectionary sugar is familiar and Edmund takes an involuntary step backward. In a rush he remembers being wrapped in furs and her soft body beside him, the sleigh rushing through the winter landscape. The stamp of reindeer hooves on packed snow, and the cold biting at his face where the wind lashes, where her fingers touch.
The Witch holds out the box of Turkish Delight. “Won’t you have just one?”
Write six-word-long Merlin fic here BUT IT MUST ALL BE IN CAPSLOCK. I assume everyone already knows about the Merlin kink meme? How about![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
face_of_bradley?
Alright, back to dead white men and their Very Deep Thoughts on society.
Dear self, good job thinking it's a smart idea to use your school ID as a bookmark for your library book, and then leaving both of them in another state. Seriously. Excellent idea.
Dear relevant data sets on food insecurity, WHERE ARE YOU??
In cheerier news, the Calormen fic -- known forthwith as "and sometimes you hear the silence speak", courtesy of that Edmond Jabes quote -- is off at the beta. This fic has kind of eaten my brain, so I am a little excited. We can has teasers!
Susan’s favorite act, she would tell Edmund later, is the storytellers. These are two women: one is a hunched and grizzled crone with opalescent cataracts and gold bangles on her arms, and the other is a young woman with kohl-lined eyes. They sit on cushions on the floor, and the old woman waits patiently as the girl prepares a jeweled water pipe.
Susan turns to the chancellor beside her and asks, “Are they grandmother and granddaughter?”
“No,” Edmund hears him reply. “They are more like sunrise and sunset.”
The crone begins to speak in a voice as cracked as history as the girl inhales deeply from the pipe’s hose. The heavy smoke pours from her lips and curls into images from the story: men, women, and spirits who love, despair; cities that rise and fall; gods who curse and gods who redeem. The smoky figures float towards the table and twine around them all.
+
The horse he rides is one from the Calormene stables, a dumb beast that raises no protest when Edmund kicks his heels into its sides: faster, farther. Tashbaan recedes behind him and he slows down only when he can no longer hear the city. There is something majestic in the silence, and honesty in such desolation. He urges his horse to the top of a dune and is still, surrounded on all sides by endless things.
+
The Street of the Enchanters is as noisy and crowded as the rest of the market. At first you would not notice anything out of the ordinary, but then you see a man with the eyes of a cat, a dancing slave-girl whose feet never touch the ground, and a woman whose wings peek out from under her cloak when a strong breeze blows. There is a strange taste to the air that reminds Edmund of the hookah smoke from the first day.
+
The smell of confectionary sugar is familiar and Edmund takes an involuntary step backward. In a rush he remembers being wrapped in furs and her soft body beside him, the sleigh rushing through the winter landscape. The stamp of reindeer hooves on packed snow, and the cold biting at his face where the wind lashes, where her fingers touch.
The Witch holds out the box of Turkish Delight. “Won’t you have just one?”
Write six-word-long Merlin fic here BUT IT MUST ALL BE IN CAPSLOCK. I assume everyone already knows about the Merlin kink meme? How about
face_of_bradley?Alright, back to dead white men and their Very Deep Thoughts on society.
Re: *randomly cuts in*
kip/hanaaaaaaa