Hello! I’m Chester Tanyeo, I’ve written four books, and this is my blog. [ Follow me on Facebook, Twitter, DeviantArt and Kiva. ]
[ My Books! ] [ Stories: Short stories, The Canon, Witch-Girl (Read from the bottom of the list) ] [ Poetry: All Poetry; ( ♥ ) ( ⚔ ) ]
[ 141122 ] nocturne – Thank you.
22 Scorpio 14 21:24
[ 141122 ] Sheena – This might be my favourite piece.
22 Scorpio 14 11:17
[ 140723 ] nocturne – I sort of think that's the whole point of titles. Impressively cumbersome, like a princess gown.
23 Cancer 14 16:57
[ 140723 ] Sheena, Acolyte of Maximum Huatness – Darn it, I just realized my title is a little cumbersome.
23 Cancer 14 04:25
Witch-Girl / Tempest Eyes (24/23) – The Revelation of Stacey, the Witch-Girl
“All things eat or get eaten,” she says, “it is the nature of things.”
Things get done.
Ramiel tells Izzy what Alice had said; to be kind to her, when her time comes. Izzy listens. Izzy nods. Izzy does not ask, and he does not tell, about Lilith, about Alice, about anything at all. It is done, and, perhaps, best forgotten.
Izzy intends to stay in town. They make plans for dinner, next week, promising to talk about something besides the killing of old gods. They laugh.
It’s all very normal, and he slides into normality with great and comforting ease.
Then Ramiel and Stacey are sitting at the kitchen table.
She scoops another spoonful of stew into her mouth. She swallows, she smiles, and she says, “This is delicious.”
“Thanks,” Ramiel says, with the air of one preoccupied. With his spoon, he pushes the cubes – potato, carrot – around in his bowl. “Do you think it needs more pepper?”
“No. It tastes great.”
“Perhaps the cubes are too big. The recipe actually calls for oddly shaped vegetables. But cubes are better, I think.”
“It’s a more sensible shape.”
They continue eating; she with enthusiasm, he with thoughtful consideration.
“What’s this dish called?” she asks.
“Stew Surprise,” he says, absently, his eyes on his bowl.
“What meat is this?”
“Huh? Perhaps chilli, instead of pepper. Cumin?”
“What?” he looks up. She stares at her spoon, frozen midway between the bowl and her mouth. It has a cube of meat in it; unidentified, unnamed, meat.
She says, tentatively, as if afraid to voice the question: “What did you do with Bunbuns Too through Five?”
She looks up, her mouth open. “You didn’t?”
“I might have.”
Her spoon drops from limp fingers into the bowl with a plop. “How could you?”
“Jesus died for your sins; Bunbun died for your dinner.”
“That’s not funny!” she wails. “You’re a monster! They trusted you!”
“Rabbits trust everybody. Nobody was going to take care of them, so it stands to reason to put them to some final –”
“I would have, if I had known! You’re no better than a troll!” she looks down at the bowl, horrified, “I am no better than a troll!”
“So you would have taken care of them?”
She looks up, incredulous eyes wide. “Yes! I said that! Of course, I would! And now it’s too late!”
“They’re in the back, near the washing machine.”
He looks at her; it’s rather charming, the way her face reflects her thoughts as they go from accusatory to – ah, there it is – revelation.
“You tricked me!”
“Yes, I did. But what do you think about cumin?”
Happy Easter, everyone.
Rabbits return from the dead, do they not? Oh, but they must!
447 words / 1697
“I want to hear raucous music, to see faces, to brush against bodies, to drink fiery Benedictine. Beautiful women and handsome men arouse fierce desires in me. I want to dance. I want drugs. I want to know perverse people, to be intimate with them. I never look at naive faces. I want to bite into life, and to be torn by it.”
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