[ BUY MY BOOKS! Witch-Girl Season One | The Bridge Across the Sky (Amazon) (Kobo) (Goodreads) ][ Stories: Witch-Girl (Read from the bottom of the list), The Canon ] [ Poetry: All Poetry; ( ♥ ) ( ⚔ ) ]
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[ red_a02 ] Shuzhen – The first episode was a lot of fun, cos it had an interesting cocktail of sexual tension and smooth fight choreography. This episode is like the awkward aftermath...
27 Aquarius 13 18:13
[ vermilion_2 ] YAPX – I understand that most of your stories are dialogue-based and heavy on retorts and counter-retorts. This one felt unnecessarily circular. It starts with a cool premise: a killer/villain/vigilante uses Lent to swear off something that should be second nature to him (I suppose), and then talks about a story. The link between the two (giving up killing & the story) isn’t a 100% fit. Maybe instead of “let me tell you a story”, it could be “hey, you see I even passed a guy up for death today!” or equivalent. Something to drag Lorelei into the banter and the premise. // That’s my only complaint. I’m not a big fan of dialogue-based stories, but I can make a exception for this.
14 Aquarius 13 08:03
[ 130204 ] YAPX – Good pace, good characters, great dialogue. The thing I like best is a combination of the three: how you build up their pseudo-relationship through all that back-and-forth exchange. Somehow, you craft a unique, strange relationship: from any one point in the story, both of them are manipulative, victimised and hypocrites - though not all at once. // On word choices, I felt you could change the word “janitor” (“cleaner” or “uncle” would’ve given a different, but more acute local flavour to it). Mostly because, it’s connotes an added level of difference through: class. Whether or not you intended it, by portraying the “janitor” and “student” you bring out the fact that he’s stuck there socially in all sense of the word. It made the part where he says he reads books during weekends completely out-of-context and weird. // Also, there’s too much “sliding” in and out of the room. Not sure if that’s intentional repetition, or just a lack of other words. // I thought that the girl’s own background is pretty compelling. Even after everything, I can’t tell if she’s speaking the truth. Because I’m all for unreliable narrators and characters, I can still find her well-thought out. But other readers might lose patience or wonder at her sudden change of heart at the final moment.
04 Aquarius 13 08:48
…more…
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shot – Layer 1 – The River ♠ 25 Ta♉rus 11, Woden’s Day ♣ |  |
171001
“Cry me a river,” she says.
The stone fountain is like any fountain one would find in any courtyard of any hotel with Victorian aspirations in this, or, perchance, in any, city. The fountain does not flow, this hour of night, and she pays no attention to it, standing upon its stone perimeter. She bends down, hands upon her knees, tilts her head to a side and looks down upon him, all wide-eyed.
He sits upon the tiled floor, the tiles large, too dark a colour to be called “orange”, but “brown” is a colour lacking in the kind of class one would find in any hotel with Victorian aspirations. It does not matter if the hotel is a year old or a hundred, what matters is that pillars Corinthian, in white unblemished, do not go – no no no – with tiles the colour brown. He sits, legs apart, leaning back upon his hands, fingers splayed, returning her gaze, all wide-eyed.
“The river, alas, must wait,” says he, “What colour is this floor?”
“Colour?!” she squeals, and straightens up, turns her body to the side while she keeps her gaze locked upon his, bends backwards, arms spread, finger splayed, a puppet, smiling.
“Indeed, milady, what colour be these tiles?” Still holding her eyes, he leans forwards, off his hands, and uses one to pat the floor, “Your hair was dark, and now it’s not. You call it pink, but, really, really, I wouldn’t; but that I have no other word for the colour of your hair, except that it goes very well with the colour of your eyes.”
“You lie,” she says, “My hair is pink, my eyes are dark, and you would be fain to say the same were it any colour at all,” she moves her hips slightly, slightly, causing her to sway, as if moving to a music only she could hear, the music of the spheres. “You lie,” she says, “You agree with me because that is what I wish to hear.”
“Everybody lies. Sometimes we just don’t know the truth. I read a story recently, of a man who dreamed that he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he could not be sure if he is a man who had dreamed that he was a butterfly, or a butterfly, even then dreaming that he is a man.”
“The truth is there! He is a man who had dreamt that he was a butterfly.”
“How do you know?”
“You said so! At the very beginning.”
And she winks at him, “If I were to fall, my sweet lying prince, would I fall into thy arms?”
He smiles, releases her eyes to drink in the rest of her; flushed face, neck, breasts, swaying slightly, slightly, a tree in a breeze that only she could feel. “Only if you,” he says, “who hold the stars in your eyes and my heart in your hands, can tell me what colour these tiles are.”
“Oh, bother,” she says, and lifts an arm up, tosses it over her head, loses her balance. She lands on her feet, sits down, hugs her knees with both arms, gazes at the floor.
“Well?” he asks, looking at her, unable not to.
“Not brown is it, this floor of yours? I think brown lacks a certain romance,” she jerks her head backwards, over her shoulder, indicating the backdrop of fountain, pillars, white billowy curtains through tall windows.
“Nor orange. Is ‘clay’ a colour? But, certainly, these tiles must have seen the passage of countless feet.”
“I think not. It is far too flat and far too well to be any older than I am.”
“You, mademoiselle, are hardly old at all. And what does ‘far too well’ mean?”
“It looks very much to be a well floor, in the pink of health! Well and truly paved. Unworn!”
He draws his legs in, feet flat upon the tiles in question, jerks himself forwards, pivots to a stand, leans towards her, almost a bow. “You, petit mademoiselle, you, are pink.”
“Ahh, at last, monsieur, you admit it! Mon petit prince!”
His eyebrows furrow, confused. She parts her legs, leans forwards and reaches out, clasps both hands behind his head, and pulls.
He topples into her.
The floor under her is hard, and she does not notice, though his weight upon her should, in any courtyard in any hotel with Victorian aspirations, cause her some discomfort, were he someone, anyone else. She laughs, and she licks his lips.
She holds him to her, her fingers in his hair, her voice in his ear.
“I don’t know if clay is a colour. But the tiles are terracotta, my love.”
“Ah,” he says.
“If you fall,” she says, “I will catch you.”
“I did not fall,” he says, “I was pulled.”
“Cry me a river,” she says.
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shop@noctalis
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What about who you want to be? I’ve heard you say you have no dreams.
It’s true. I don’t have dreams. How can I say it? I myself am a dream.
