Wickfield

A rekindling

2011-03-21T18:41:00.002-04:00

Remember that secret project I mentioned in my last post? Now I can finally tell you what it is! With a great deal of pride, I would like to announce

A modern reimagining of Benjamin Franklin's club, my dear friend Holly and I started it with an intent at promoting self improvement and discussion of intellectual topics. We hope you'll join us by following the blog and commenting, or if you're really interested, in posting as a contributor! Can't wait to see you there!

Blog button!

2011-03-15T21:49:00.003-04:00

This is just a really teensy update, but upon request from Miss Raquel, I made a blog button! I guess since Wickfield's been around for about a year, though, it's about time. ;P

And I know I've been absent lately, but only because I've been busy working on a secret project that will air March 21st. Stay tuned!

Neat!

2011-03-01T18:58:00.002-05:00

HEY! SOMEBODY (PBS) didn't tell me (PBS) that "South Riding" with Anna Maxwell Martin and David Morrissey will be airing at the end of the Masterpiece Classic schedule (PBS! Y u no tell me?)! It's set during the 1930s, and Maxwell plays a schoolteacher who butts heads with Morrissey's character. I had heard about it on Dickensblog a while back and thought it sounded interesting, so I can't wait to see it! I guess that this series and Upstairs, Downstairs gives me something to look forward to during the dismal days of PBS pledge drives, lol. :)

Just thought I'd share!

Pocahontas: Beautiful Love fanvideo

2011-02-23T13:55:00.003-05:00

So I just have to say I'm a sucker when it comes to Disney's Pocahontas. Of course we all know it's not historical in the least (lol, putting it mildly ;P) but I love it anyway for its major nostalgia factor and its epic feel. I found this great fanvideo on YouTube the other day and just had to share! I think the song and video go together beautifully. :)

(P.S. The song is evidently by a Christian band, The Afters. Turns out they have some great music in their own right!)

Artistic Influence Map

2011-02-22T07:53:00.002-05:00

This is another post that's really old - been in the works since, oh uh, SEPTEMBER? I was just copying a meme that I discovered on Deviant Art - it's a map of the artists and artistic elements that have joined together and inspired your own drawing style.

And here are some of my own drawings - see the resemblance?

My Influences:

Arthur Rackham - technically he could be included in the Art Nouveau category but Rackham's work is a bit different in that it's more detailed and darker. I love the quirkiness of his character design and his composition, and his silhouette style is to die for and something I'd love to copy!

Emily Nguyen - while some of her art is rather inappropriate, I still have to acknowledge Emily Nguyen's Disney fanart as a big part of my art style. Nguyen just draws the way she wants and doesn't mind if it looks a bit off, which is how I learned to experiment with drawings, plus her use of ballpoint pen has carried over into my own work. And one of my greatest artistic aspirations is to use color the way she does - she was the first artist I discovered that used Photoshop to color her drawings!

Iassen Ghiuselev - I discovered Ghiuselev in 2009 and he was the artist who inspired me to really work for accuracy in my drawings. I'm still a long way off, but by studying this illustrator's work I've been able to branch into drawing lifelike characters from my mind. I love Ghiuselev's unique compositions and use of limited palette, and his style of draping clothing is something I use a great deal.

Art Nouveau - ever since I received Milo Winter's "Aesop" when I was about seven, I've been in love with Art Nouveau - I didn't even know it had a name back then! Again, the use of line is my best friend and this style maximizes its effects while also keeping a simplicity in the design of the forms (like less shadowing, modeling, etc., which is certainly easier!). The way I drape clothes and design hair is very much inspired by this style.

Pocahontas/Disney - all of Disney is inspiring to me but especially their film Pocahontas. I love the way the film was designed, particularly the use of line (vertical line) and the bright, jewel-toned color palette. If you ever want to learn a few new, just watch a Disney film and pay attention to all the elements of the artwork!

Peter Pan - big giant influence here. I didn't really start drawing in earnest until I read this book and it really sparked my imagination. It was here that I started drawing more lifelike than round heads, when I first started designing my own clothing for figures, when I first started using colored pencils. Peter Pan provided me with drawing fodder for several years and it's because of this story that I'm where I am in my work today.

Anne Yvonne Gilbert - to someone who has no talent with painting and uses colored pencils to color their work, Anne Yvonne Gilbert is certainly an inspiration! Her intricate colored pencil drawings are astonishing, particularly for their use of very bright color and uniformity which is often hard to achieve in colored pencil. And she's another member of the stylized hair club, lol.

Troy Howell - I've seen Howell's work in Cricket magazine and other publications and I am always astonished by his mastery. What I like about Howell is the substantiality (new word yay!) of his characters - while he usually works with a very simple, and often a fantasy picture, his figures nonetheless seem lifelike and grounded. The winter illustration I posted in my map is one of my favorite drawings of all time.

Sandro Botticelli - I don't draw on Botticelli's work to a large extent, but many of his pieces, particularly the Birth of Venus, have again contributed to the simplicity in the faces of my characters, as well as their long, stylized flowing hair!

costumes - this is kind of an odd one but still, I love to draw my figures in stylish clothing based on the work I've seen in movies and TV. There's nothing like the right costume to make a drawing awesome, and since I can't really sew these pieces it's just as much fun to draw them! :P

Charles Dickens - again, because he's an author he can only inspire artwork so far, but through Dickens I learned to really pump up the characterization in my drawings - each picture shouldn't just be the same face with a different hairstyle, they should have different noses, eyes, clothing, moles, wrinkles, ears, flaws, etc. Drawing Dickens' characters really helped me in that aspect. :)

Tim Burton - I don't follow most of Burton's work but his films "The Nightmare Before Christmas" and "Corpse Bride" inspired my love for black-and-white and the use of hatching and line. The fanciful quality of his work is also an element I look for in my drawings.

Disney fic :)

2011-02-17T08:24:00.002-05:00

I'm doing some catch-up on several posts I had planned for late last year and never got a chance to publish. :P

At the end of last September I started work on a fanfic sequel for Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It (among many things) fell to the wayside in the following months but I've finally been working on it and it's about halfway done. I'm publishing it in installs on FF.net, so here's the link in case you want to check it out:

The Hunchback of Notre Dame: Devil's Masquerade

Leave a review if you get a chance to read it! ♥

Something beastly, for sure

2011-02-15T18:34:00.004-05:00

I've been in rather an indignant mood lately, and so I have a feeling this post is going to come off as a little ranty, lol. Well, I hope I don't have *too* many rant posts and so this will be a bit of a change, right? Let's go with that. ;)

Anyway, I was watching TV with my mom yesterday, and the trailer for the new teen movie Beastly came on. The movie is a retelling of the classic Beauty and the Beast story, only in a modern teen setting, and though I'm not a general fan of teen movies anyway (besides the fact that most of them are PG-13 which I won't watch :P), this one particularly grated on my nerves. It kind of goes along with my post yesterday in that I am so tired of girls being fed the idea that you can love someone into being a good person. It's not true - people can change sometimes, I guess, but it's not anyone else's responsibility to do that changing. It has to come from inside, and no one has to give up on a selfish or mean person, but the girl can come back later when the guy has done some serious soul searching.

And since when has the Beauty and the Beast story become the vehicle for this idea in the first place? If I remember correctly, the initial BatB style tales revolve around a prince who is either a) a perfect gentleman with good manners or, even better, b) one who has repulsed the advances of an enchantress, and who then has the misfortune of being trapped in a horrible body. THAT'S when the story works and is useful, when you should learn to love a KIND person despite outward appearance. So why has this disappeared to be replaced by some supposedly attractive bad boy persona?

I'm no huge fist-shaking feminist in the first place, but I still find it so ironic that in an age where girls and women should feel empowered and safe and confident in their thoughts, that the media is packaging potentially abusive relationships as something desirable and a way for women to continue that maligned traditional role of "fixing" someone else's life. I'm seeing the result with guys and girls my family knows right now - the guys expect they will get everything they want, and a lot of them actually *do,* because these are the little girls who grew up (like I did) with the modern, twisted, hateful-with-a-heart-of-gold Beast Prince. And if the guy DOESN'T get what he wants, well, then the girl pays some way or another, through either emotional mistreatment or worse (look up the statistics on date violence in the U.S. and you'll see what I mean).

Yep, pretty ranty...XD. But it's just because I'm very earnest about this. Girls need to be told that they should expect the best - even if it's, as the original story says - it comes in an unexpected package. But the idea that you should invest your time in fixing someone with a beastly attitude - no matter what the cause - is wrong. Roar.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2011-02-14T07:30:00.002-05:00

Hello Valentine's Day. Yes, you're talking to a girl who is almost 19-and-a-half who has never dated or had a boyfriend. And to be honest, I'm perfectly happy with that.

Of course it's not that I'd never want to have a relationship - it's not that at all. But I'm just seeing how so many people my age (and much younger!) are settling for a romance that's less than what they're worth, a false romance full of unnecessary drama or lies and unfaithfulness - and I find it a waste of time. Why would you rather have a relationship at any cost than live out your time being a productive "single lady"?

Now I plan on finding me a man one of these days - and he doesn't have to be perfect, because I'm not perfect, but loyalty and honesty are basic prerequisites that are evidently not easy to come by. But I'm not pushing it, because I know that when I'm at that point things will work out like they're supposed to. :)

So *in deep husky Barry White voice,* here's to all you single ladies this Valentine's Day, who are willing to give yourself the time to find the right guy. Trust me, he's out there - you just haven't met him yet. ;)

fic + poem: Creakle's Song

2011-02-07T19:06:00.000-05:00

This is OLD! OLD OLD! I wrote this back in the middle of August and just never got a chance to post it. But anyway, it's the relatively latest addition to my David Copperfield-centered Fanfic 100 list. I hope you like it!

Title: Creakle's Song
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Traddles, David, Mr. Creakle and Mr. Tungay (sort of)
Prompt: 026. Teammates.
Word Count: 629
Rating: G
Summary: At Salem House, Traddles shares an original poem with David Copperfield. "But we never will tell how we beat him with glee - /We're close with our secrets, dear Tungay and me! "
Author's Notes: This story includes a poem within a fic. ;) I got the idea for the first lines while I was watching a movie, and scratched them down, and added to it for a poem by Traddles. I decided to use the prompt "Teammates" to stand for both Tungay and Creakle (in the poem) and Traddles and David (in the fic). Enjoy!

During the days at Salem House, I actually spoke with Tommy Traddles very little, preferring, naturally, to spend my time in Steerforth's magnificent presence. I was thus very surprised when, during a week in which Steerforth was home visiting his mother, Tommy approached me hesitantly, with a piece of notepaper in his hand.

"Copperfield," he said, clearing his throat.

"Well?" I said, rather loftily.

"You read a great lot of books, don't you?" Traddles finally asked me. "You know if something sounds good, and if it don't, don't you?"

"I suppose I do, as well as anyone else." I actually thought I knew a great deal, but opted for modesty. "Why do you ask?"

Tommy looked relieved by my response (for indeed, he was usually treated as a sort of general scapegoat among the boys), and his face assumed a mischievous air as he handed me the paper. "Read this!" he creid merrily, "And tell me if it's good. I wrote it, and I though it was funny, at least. But Lord!" he added as a frightened afterthought, "don't tell!"

Mystified, I opened the ink-drenched slip, and this is what I read:

CREAKLE'S SONG
What I like best on a rainy day
When the thunder rolls and the sky is grey
Is to box a boy on each of his ears
And watch the stream of his salty tears.

It's easy to do, the way it goes
Is you hoist him up, and you tweak his nose
And you make your cane go snicker snack
And break his spine with a pleasant thwack.

Now sometimes a father will ask why his son
Comes home for the week but he won't play or run
He wonders aloud why his jacket is torn
Or the seat of his pants is especially worn,

But we never will tell how we beat him with glee -
We're close with our secrets, dear Tungay and me!
And even the boys soon begin to grow clever
And thrash one another in inclement weather!

(Though sometimes we must set them extra-long sums
Or else they'll monopolize all of our fun.)

With my legs I'll prance, and Tungay will shout
And between us we'll have our merriment out.
The sweetest of sugar is the saltiest brine
That bursts from a boy when he's hit for his crimes!

So if you would send your boys off to our school,
Remind them that nothing could be quite so cruel
As cheating the teachers their particular pleasure.
Receiving your thrashing in silence? A treasure!

After chuckling silently to myself a few times, with rather a bleak amusement at the words, far too true, before me, I looked at Tommy Traddles, who was chewing his thumbnail, in amazement.

"Tommy!" I cried, returning his poem, "I didn't now you could write rhyming poems. I knew you could draw" - I thought of the skeletons - "but not write!"

"It was good, then?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good!" he cried, and immediately began cramming his poem into the smallest ball possible with his inky fingers.

"Why, what are you doing to it? It was good!"

"Oh, Copperfield," Traddles said, seriously, as he sat down on the side of our bed, and yanked of his left shoe, "I have to hide it now. LORD. Can you imagine if Creakle found it!"

He shoved the tiny crumple of paper into the toe of his shoe, and replaced it on his foot. Even in the dim lamplight, I could see he had shivered as violently as I had! If we weren't to take precautions, we both knew we might as well be the boy in the rhyme.

Nevertheless, we smiled at each other over our satirical secret, and scampered off in opposite directions, with a spirit of camaraderie.

Thanks to Alexis Bledel....

2011-01-21T12:01:00.005-05:00

I now have bangs!

Well....sort of. I actually intended to cut my hair for the New Year, as a sort of change - I'll be 20 this year, and this spring I'll be graduating with my AA, but when I mentioned to my mother that I'd like the new style she reminded me that my hair is naturally wavy - and then I realized that um, yeah, most of the people I was looking at were Asians who have naturally straight hair and wouldn't have to do the amount of styling I would. So what's a poor naturally-wavy-haired gal to do?

Go shopping! I had originally seen Ken Paves' clip-in bangs on QVC, and after reading the mostly positive reviews and doing some price comparisons I finally purchased the medium brown (also called "R6" or "Dark Chocolate" on other sites) from this terrific Ebay seller:
http://myworld.ebay.com/hair-pieces-for-you/

Whereas the bangs can sell for up to $44 plus shipping, I got mine for $16.75 and free shipping!! Sweet! This seller has all the colors, I believe, split into two auctions (one listing all the darks and one listing the blondes).

Okay, so the concept for the bangs is really interesting. They are made of synthetic hair (you can curl, straighten, wash, and even cut, but not dye these) attached to three metal "pressure sensitive" clips that look like small combs. That sounds harder than it actually is. They come out of the package looking like this:

The way you apply them is by sliding the clips into your hair and snapping them shut. Now, whereas actually clipping them in is not difficult, positioning them can be. I tried several different ways - I parted my hair in the middle, but the topmost clip showed terribly. I tried brushing my hair back, and that did a bit better. But I personally think it looks best when I part my hair to the side - for some reason it seems like the clip is easier to hide and you can brush your hair over top of the piece.

Now, part of the reason I find it a bit difficult to arrange properly is because the color is slightly off. I ordered the piece in, as I said, "Medium Brown," but the color actually has more red than I would have liked (they already have Medium Red Brown so I wish this were a cooler tone). I may try the "Dark Brown" but I'm afraid it's a bit too dark. :/ Anyway, if you plan on ordering these assume that the color will have some reds and see if it'll work for you.

I also found the bangs needed a trim - they do NOT look like the picture with Jessica Simpson!! Since I was going for the Alexis Bledel look, I printed off a few reference pictures and went at them with some scissors. They are pretty forgiving and they look nicer now that they aren't so - voluminous. I may also hit it with the straightening iron (I'm a bit cocky since I mess with doll hair all the time ;) ) to tone them down a bit more.

You really have to practice with these - unlike the promo videos show, you can't just clip them in and go. However, with a bit of trial and error and some modification (and the right color!!!!) they look pretty nice. I think I found out that I like myself better without bangs, but it's nice to have a change once in a while. I give these a B.

(And I would do a before and after pic but I can't post pics online, so sorry! :P)

Sewing for AG - Mini Boden Jersey Peacoat replica!

2011-01-19T15:36:00.005-05:00

Well, as promised, here's some info on my latest sewing project! Well, maybe my most lately-finished sewing project - I actually started working on it around the beginning of last October, about a month after I got my birthday doll Agnes. I figured she needed a coat for winter, and when I found this beautiful Mini Boden coat, I set out to recreate it. Why I wanted so intensely to make it perfect and do it myself I have no idea, but I went and ordered Simplicity 3551 (I used View C as a base), ordered some fabric, and got to work.

This thing took FOREVER!!! Doing the bodice and collar of the outer shell wasn't too difficult - I copied those directly from the pattern. I also took the sleeves from another coat in the Simplicity pack (I think it was View A) and added those on, and then set out to make the skirt. I basically used the pattern piece, but I added about three inches so I could make the gathers in front and shortened it a great deal. The epaulets, pockets, and cuff plackets I designed myself. :)

Well.....now I had the outer shell. And now I had to make a lining from scratch. I never made a lining before this and that thing gave me so much grief I don't know if I ever will again! :P I started out by following the same process as the outer shell (but without the gathers) in my lining fabric, and then fudged the front parts. However, when I tried to insert the lining the skirt was too short and caused the outer shell to pucker. :( So I had to redo the bottom. At this point I took a long break - all of November, because of NaNo, and most of December, but finally I redid the lining and got it in the coat. (I fudged a bit a fabric glued the cuffs but SHHH don't tell lol).

I used Emerald Green sweatshirt fleece (a perfect match!) and polka-dot cotton from Fabric.com, and I got the perfect buttons in a variety pack from Joann's. These are my first buttonholes and I'm thrilled with how they turned out! Agnes looks beautiful in green I think. ;) I think it's a very good replica! After I finished it all I could see were mistakes, but now I'm coming to love it and it's actually one of my favorite things in her wardrobe.

Life is an echo.

2011-01-18T14:05:00.003-05:00

Sooo....
We haven't had a good non-FicSwap post in a while, have we now? (BTW, on the subject of the swap, two new stories are now up on the Master List and only three are left to go!) I've recently been obsessed with the site WeHeartIt, and though the site itself tends to have a lot of inappropriate images on it, with a guarded eye I've managed to favorite over 1000 photos since December! My page (which is far cleaner than the main site I assure you, though some say unsafe they were mistakenly tagged that :) ) is here, and today I thought I'd post a few quotes I found there which I really liked. Plus the images themselves are very pretty! ;)

In the next bit I also hope to post about my latest sewing success, a book review for Jonathan Norrell and Mr. Strange, and about an amusing fashion accessory I bought last week. Stay tuned! :P

FicSwap Story Master List

2011-01-09T16:12:00.006-05:00

Haha, next time I plan a FicSwap perhaps the holiday season is not the most logical time - several of us, including ME, were delayed in our stories! Fortunately, eight of the stories are finished, and two are on their way, so if you haven't received your story yet check below for updates! Colleen is still MIA and I'm about at the point of calling in a backup writer - if you'd like to fill the spot please e-mail me! Until then, have fun reading the finished stories - they are all so wonderful!

Lydia wrote "A Million Tiny Pieces" for Lindsey
Lindsey is writing for Holly (but is delayed by illness)*
Holly wrote "A Day with Myrna Bird" for Felicity Faith
Felicity Faith wrote "Evalade" for Colleen
Colleen is writing for Sangu but has not responded to emails*
Sangu is writing for Ez (but is delayed because her computer crashed)*
Ez wrote "Rabbithearted Girl" for Nina
Nina wrote "Above All Else" for Marian
Marian wrote "Firebird" for Susan
Susan wrote "Viteaocchio" for Bets
Bets wrote "Drifting Away" for Lydia

Thanks to all of you for participating! I didn't know I had such talented followers!! ♥

FicSwap Story: Part 2

2011-01-08T18:11:00.008-05:00

I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. I hope you enjoy it Marian! And for all of you waiting for stories, I hope to track down the authors and see where they are. A few people have had technical difficulties that delayed them, while I haven't heard from others at all.

***
Her name was Emily, Emily Stone. She told me so the following morning, upon conducting more formal introductions. "Now please have utmost faith in me, Mr. Anderson," Miss Stone implored me. "I know that your tendency is to doubt my capabilities but I urge you to trust me, as I have been a balloonist for many years and have won awards besides. I may not win this one however because of your presence as I am unused to conveying a passenger but of course this is no matter. I hope you don't mind if I explain to you what we are doing as we are doing so? And I hope you have eaten something as the first jaunt in a balloon can be unsettling if you are not familiar with it?"

I told her I trusted her sincerely, and that I had not eaten anything, upon which she purchased a hot sandwich and handed it to me as though I were a child. "Now then, Mr. Anderson, I suppose you are medically fit to enter a hot-air balloon? Your illness, if you don't mind my inquiries, permits such travel?"

I explained to her my circumstances, concluding in the assurance that Dr. Morris had deemed my illness of a kind which would not interfere with aeronautics, which seemed to make her easier in spirits. "Well then. I may be a bit abrupt with you at times because there is a great deal to govern in racing a balloon."

I started to say something then paused. "What is it?" Miss Stone pressed.

"I could perhaps help you with the sandbags," I said, my face reddening.

"I don't think I understand you."

"I - I read a great deal about ballooning since I was a child and I know that sandbags, when dropped, enable a balloon to climb in altitude and so I could untie them if that would aid you," I explained sheepishly. Miss Stone smiled.

"Very well then. You can manage the sandbags. Now come along, we should check over the progress of the balloon - it should be inflated by now." Miss Stone led the way down the stairs and out through the dining hall, and on the way I found Mr. Grumbe propped haphazardly against a wall in the dining hall, with a glass of water and a bandage on one hand. I don't think he recognized me for he looked ready to faint from drunkenness at any moment. I regarded him mildly and passed on along behind Miss Stone.

She was dressed in a plain white shirtwaist and a sand-colored skirt which she held up from the dampness of the grounds. The balloon handler had just finished filling the "Globe" with hydrogen and it loomed like a true planet above our heads - the only thing that kept it from springing to the heavens, as it evidently intended to do, was the presence of several thick ropes anchoring it to the ground. I felt I was in the midst of a galaxy, with myriad colorful planets hovering about us, some painted with geometric shapes, others partitioned into colorful stripes, still others drawn over with paintings or, in the case of "The Globe," a representation of an old-fashioned map.

"I must check our instruments," Miss Stone remarked. "I have the altimeter," gesturing to a brass contraption, which looked to me like a compass, that hung round her neck, "as well as the compass...now the map." She put her finger to her chin and frowned, then looked into the basket where she found it folded in a box shoved meekly out of the way. "Very well.." Then she inspected the condition of the balloon itself, examining the balloon, the basket, and the various cords used to release air from the balloon (whereas the sandbags, I knew, were released to make the balloon more buoyant, the rip cord and valve rope were used to empty the balloon and thus lower it). Finding everything to her satisfaction, she stood there and waited for something, and so I stood there too. It was at this point that I realized how uneducated I was in the subject of balloon *races* - though I was of course familiar with the balloons, they being a favorite theme of my studies, the rules of a race were quite new to me, and Mr. Grumbe had been no help in my enlightenment. "That man," Miss Stone indicated a gentleman in blue, who appeared to be an official, "is checking everything although I am a much more rigorous judge than he. Ah well. That man," she added, speaking of one man with a formidable mustache and a straw hat knotted beneath his chin, "is called Roberts and is a sort of rival of mine. I expected to beat him but as I mentioned before your presence is likely to make me unable to do so." I felt I ought to be offended by this statement, but Miss Stone said it so casually, without any evident regret, that I simply took her word for it and stared at Roberts the way she was doing.

I believe that up until this point I had labored under the belief that all the balloonists were to take up passengers but I was growing aware that this was not the case - and learning of Grumbe's roguery, I at last realized that he had only enlisted a passanger in order to make a bit of extra money, even if it required forfeiting the race. All the people arriving in carriage and horseback and filtering from the hotel were gentleman aeronauts and people in the audience, and Miss Stone, I was sensible now, was doing me a great favor. My heart warmed at this realization, and I looked down at her small yet resolute frame with a sense of gratitude I felt she could not possibly comprehend.

"Hush," Miss Stone said suddenly, jarring me from my reverie, though I had not spoken aloud. In fact at this command I actually asked her "What is happening?"

"That is the president of the Modern Aeronautics Society who is presiding over this event." He was a white-bearded man in a top hat who was reading a speech and though I paid a great deal of attention to it at the time I am afraid I remember too little to faithfully repeat it here; suffice it to say that he urged the aeronauts to recall their duty and their right as European men to triumph over birds and inhabit the skies as no other race had done. At the conclusion of this speech, the aeronauts began one by one to pry open the doors of their balloon baskets and step inside. As for Miss Stone she pushed me into the corner along with the tacklebox which held the map, and then stepped lightly inside behind me with another critical glance at her altimeter.

There was a gunshot, cheering from the crowd, and a snap of ropes as the attendants of "Dante's Globe" severed the last ties the balloon held to earth. Immediately the basket began to quiver, as though we were standing in a boat on water, and we lighted a few inches, then several feet, then what I could only describe as an astonishing distance from the ground, and we were off, flying above all else - all people, all events, all places, all troubles - that was left below.

****

"If you find yourself ill at ease, Mr. Anderson, or in possession of any sense of vertigo, I urge you to keep you eyes fixated on the basket floor."

I looked suspiciously at Miss Stone; to my knowledge, I had betrayed no evidence of my wavering resolve, though I had grown a bit faint. I therefore dropped my eyes to the floor, and clasped onto the edge of the balloon basket as a gust of wind propelled us several feet higher into the atmosphere.

It was at this time that I caught sight of Miss Stone's rival, the mustachioed gentleman, as he sailed past in his own scarlet balloon. He met Miss Stone's eye, tipped his hat with a smirk, and went by, carried on in a stream of wind which made his balloon seeme to saunter at its ease.

"Fie, he's passed us," she muttered under her breath. "Don't just stand there gawking, Anderson!" she added sharply. "The sandbags! Perhaps we can catch a better stream."

With a gulp, I nodded, and hurried to work at the strong knot that held the sandbag to the basket. As I fumbled with this task, I glanced down and could see the mass of men and women following the race in hot pursuit, on horseback and in carriages, and my heart skipped a beat in excitement. At last, the sandbag dropped, and I imagined a quick prayer hoping it would hit no one below!

Miss Stone was frowning at the compass. "We are off course," she stated as she snapped it shut. "And we are losing."

"Another sandbag?" I proposed, feeling dreadfully ignorant. The aeronaut stared at me until I fidgeted, but then I realized she was really paying me no attention at all - she was only looking at me as the gears of her brain worked. "No. The three you released should be enough." I had only done one and so decided to sneak back as she consulted her map. "This is not the course I had hoped to take - but if we were to turn back - aha, yes!" She hopped over the tacklebox as she spoke, like a very schoolgirl, and grasped hold of a metal rod in the middle of the balloon. The whole contraption swung and rotated, and suddenly it was pitched upward as though it had been shot from a cannon. I nearly lost my footing and was stunned to find all the other balloons seeming to drop and yet travel faster than we. "Miss Stone," I cried, "they are passing us! What are you - "

"Do not doubt me," she retorted, though I was really only stupified. "We shall go up, because according to my map, the wind patterns at a higher altitude here are much stronger - " and as though she had summoned it, suddenly our balloon rocketed forward as quickly as it had dashed up.

I suppose you played the game of marbles, when you were young? As a sickly child it had been a favorite game of mine. This scene I now recalled vividly to mind, as we darted past the trail of colorful spheres hovering below us. I felt the air rush through my hair and flutter along my tie and through my sleeves. Miss Stone was entirely unkempt but was triumphant, her face flushed with a sense of victory. "You see, Mr. Anderson," she said, as she checked the altimeter once more, "at this rate we shall pass them all - I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before. Hallo!" she cried, and waved rather wickedly down at an astonished aeronaut peering up from a striped balloon below.

"I think he's saying something," I observed to Miss Stone. But my words were drowned by a dull rumbling that surrounded us. And then, all of a sudden, I remembered reading of the dangers of thunderstorms to aeronauts.

"A thunderstorm," I gasped. A mist seemed to fill the air, and with another ominous rumbling, and a sheet of rain erupted and drenched both passenger and pilot.

Perhaps it was ridiculous, because at that moment my greatest fear was not that we would crash to our deaths, but that I would catch a chill and, subsequently, double pneumonia.

Miss Stone, on the other hand, was enmeshed among the cords and ropes laced across the balloon's interior. She pulled the valve rope to let out some air.

"It's done nothing - we haven't dropped!" I cried. It was a bruised mass of clouds that surrounded us now - we could see neither above nor below us, and in front of us the rain marred any visibility.

"Hush," ordered Miss Stone. The balloon swerved and seemed to tilt upon its side from the wind. There was a flicker in the distance, as though someone had lit and snuffed a light. "Sit down, Mr. Anderson."

I think she said this merely to silence me, but as I felt more and more nauseated, I did so willingly, drawing my knees up under my chin. "What shall we do?"

Miss Stone bit her lip in impatience. "I suppose all aeronauts must encounter a storm at some time, but dear heavens I wish my first storm weren't today!" She drew a lank wet curl out of her eyes. "I am sure the balloon will cool and drop lower, but I am certain we have lost the race."

As glad as I was to hear the balloon would not crash (for in my books a storm was portrayed as quite catastrophic, though they were from twenty years past), as I saw Miss Stone standing there in disappointment I felt so sorry for her I had to bite tongue. "I am terribly sorry for being the cause of your loss, Miss Stone," I called over the wind. "I repay your kindness with intrusion and misfortune."

"Do not be a martyr, Mr. Anderson," was her reply.

I don't know why this response surprised me, as it was usual to Miss Stone, but it did. "I've lost races before! Just enjoy the adventure, be glad you are here, sir. Just appreciate the moment!"

I looked around at the soaked balloon, the glowering thunderclouds, and the lightning crackling about us, and I realized that this balloon ride with Emily Stone was a true adventure, and that in my regret and weakness I had nearly wasted it. And I didn't wish to waste it.

Slowly, I made my way to my feet. "H - how do you tell if the balloon is cooling?"

Miss Stone showed me the face of the altimeter. "This is how. We are dropping."
The descent was much slower than the ascent, I judged. The arrow on the altimeter crept by degrees to the left, and as it did so, the sky lightened and the rain left off. As the sky cleared, I searched for the other balloon, and yet, strain my eyes as I might, I could discern no dots in the sky.

"We are very far behind." Miss Stone voiced the thoughts I was too apprehensive to say.

"I suspect we are close to the finish line," I suggested. "In fact, I believe I see it in the distance!"

Miss Stone walked over to the edge of the basket and shaded her eyes with her hands. "I think you are right." So we stood there, and looked at the small banner strung horizontally in the distance, and at the little triangular colored flags draped around it.

I cleared my throat, for my voice sounded rough and strange in the dead silence. "Thank you very much for taking me along, Miss Stone," I said, hoarsely. She looked up at me without any vestige of emotion on her face as I continued. "I - it was the best thing I could have done." I looked back out at the banner, and then she said slowly, "You are welcome, Mr. Anderson. I am glad you shared this race with me -" she paused, and I supposed she was about to say something more, but all she managed to choke out was an astonished "Oh dear! Oh dear!!" I turned to look at her and found she had turned around, so I now followed her gaze. Behind us, sprinkling the sky like stars, were a myriad of balloons.

We had not fallen behind - we had been propelled in front of all the others!

"Mr. Anderson!" Miss Stone cried in amazement. "Release the sandbags - no, never mind, I'll take the valve cord - never mind - oh, just be patient!!" she ordered as a way of soothing her own spirits. I darted out of the way as she rushed to let out some of the air in our balloon, and we began to descend. The finish line's banner grew bigger and broader and instead of indistinct masses of people I began to pick out faces, including that of the society president. "Dante's Globe" drifted away over the finish line, and we settled on the green lawn.

After this point, I simply remember the swirling of the people around us, and a shining smile upon Miss Stone's face that brought a weak smile to my own face.

***

And here I sit, writing the memoir of this most memorable event of my life. I find it strange that as I grow weaker, and know that the end approaches, I cannot help but be reminded of that balloon race. It was the greatest ambition of my life - a foolish, frivolous one, I know - and yet I seem to feel that that balloon race taught me that all the misconceptions, the troubles, the weaknesses, that I had dealt with in my life were all a great adventure, leading up to some wonderful finish line. And I feel that the end is not so frightening, perhaps. Perhaps I have been waiting for it all along.

FicSwap Story: Part 1

2011-01-01T19:12:00.003-05:00

Well, here's my entry for my own FicSwap!

"Above All Else" by Nina for Marian
Prompt Description: "A 19th century story. Main character is a guy (or a lady) who flies a hot air balloon. Can be sci-fi, historical fiction, fantasy, and/or fairytale."

Today I'll post the first part, and tomorrow I'll post the second half, since I got a little carried away and it's rather lengthy! Please remember to post the links to your stories here if you haven't already!

When I was a young lad, I spent a great deal of time looking at the birds, the little sparrows and the great monstrous rooks, that strolled about on the lawn outside my family’s home. Indeed, I often stared out the long narrow windows in the library for hours on end, just to watch them fly among the surrounding eaves; my viewpoint afforded me close observation of the creatures and at that range they seemed almost otherworldly, like strange little machines with their own god-given gift of flight.

I suppose their dexterity – of a kind which no humans possessed – rather bewitched me especially. I was a sickly child. Unable to romp about the grounds with other boys, unable to ride or play sports, I generally contented myself with the wealth of books in my family’s possession, as the physician informed us that reading was a harmless and healthy activity. “If the boy cannot develop his strength in his body he must develop it in his mind, which should be doubly strong compared to his peers, to make up for his shortcomings,” he informed my parents one day when I was about ten years old. I remember it clearly, as I lay sprawled, boylike, across the mass of pillows, cushions, and blankets that had been arranged for my comfort. Even then a feeble and irritating cough erupted from time to time, and I plucked at the fringe of the blanket idly, though I could feel the stare of the physician’s eyes upon me, in that way all children have of suspecting adults of great transgression. I found that this man, however, was quite benign. “Strength of mind makes up for a great deal, I think,” he concluded, and patted my head; then he poured something into a spoon, and gave it to me to take, upon which activity I found it was nasty, although it did help my cough for the rest of the day.

And so, from that point on, I was granted free domain in the library (except for a few volumes on the topmost shelf which were forbidden me at my age, and which I looked for many years with some great curiosity). I had a little window seat in that room which had been set up rather like my own bed, but being alone in that room without any servants, just a bell to ring for assistance if necessary, I decided to toss some of the cushions on the ground so I had more room to move about in the window seat. This was when I first began to be attracted by the capers of the birds.

It was a lonesome existence, to be sure, but it was not really tiresome – I actually quite enjoyed myself in this occupation, although I did have times in which the longing to be out and active and doing something came so fierce I had to bite at my knuckle to preserve my manhood and avoid giving way to sentiment. (I don’t know about others, but as for myself, I felt that it was extremely important for me to be as masculine as possible in as many arenas as I could be, to make up for my weaknesses in health and other areas.) It was on one such brooding occasion that I really quite lost control of my impulse and began to look for something bad to do. I don't know why I associated it with something bad but at any rate, I did. And it was at this point that my idle and roving eye fell upon the row of folios that were forbidden me, and I squinted in an effort to discern the titles embossed upon the sides of the leather spines. "Aeronautics," read one, and I felt at first a tinge of guilt in reading it as though it were a dirty word (and to my knowledge it might as well have been - I didn't know what it meant). The next said "Man and Ether," which was equally unexplanatory. But when I read the title of the third book, I began to realize that these books had not been set up on that shelf to preserve my innocence, but, on the contrary, to preserve my self respect. For these were the books about sports and athletics, the world in which I could take no part.

I frowned for a moment. Why should I try to read those tales - what benefit would the knowledge of my inadequacies bring me? And yet, I thought then, I read of princes, and philosophers, and girls, without regretting I would be none of those things, and so why should reading about sportsmen be any different?

I hoisted myself out of the aperture in the window and plodded over to the ladder at the far side of the room. I was feeling a bit healthful today and so I applied my shoulder to the side of that ladder and put all my weight into that point, and in this way moved it slowly along the breadth of the cases. Finally I shoved it underneath the shelf of the banned books and, tentatively, ascended to that area. I plucked out three volumes - "Aeronautics," "Man and Ether," and "Scientific Attempts at Human Flying" - and positioning them under my arm, I retreated with them into my window shelf.

I will admit (even though it *is* unmanly in me) that I felt the sting of regret as I began to read the books, but yet at the same time I was also mesmerized by the contents therein. Certainly there was an air of athleticism about the pages, but it was equally tempered with the rationality of science. The first chapter of "Scientific Attempts" was filled with black and white drawings (turned to a dull brown from so many years of disuse) of the strangest and most ethereal contraptions designed by da Vinci, with whom I was familiar from my other books. I thought they didn't look very stable, though, and imagined plummeting out of them to an uncertain though certainly grisly extinction on earth. Others spoke of the strange gases found in the belly of the earth, and how those gases were different than the oxygen we breathed, and could float on top of them - the authors pondered (and I pondered too) whether this science could not be harnessed for human use? And the "Aeronautics" book (which I had saved for the last) told of great balloons that Frenchmen had constructed and put up in air - and, in the French style, those remaining on the ground fell into hysterics at the site, imagining the great sphere to be a kind of devouring beast.

And on the theme, it might be said that these knowledge turned me into some ravenous fiend for in that one day, I consumed the hundreds of pages in those three books, and pored over the illustrations for weeks afterward, constructing a great deal of airy daydreams associated with the magical science of man's flight therein. Of course I knew such a thought was nonsense - me in my condition, I knew I would not be able to obtain a physician's release to participate - but I dreamed them anyway.

Little did I know, then, what those daydreams would bring to me later on.

****

Twelve years had passed since that time.

It was the third Tuesday in the month – the time appointed for my usual monthly examination – and I lay feverishly in my chambers as was my custom for so many passing years. I was languidly surveying the local newspaper, which had been left for my amusement though I took no real interest in it at all – secluded as I was, I had little need and desire to know what went on outside my family’s estate yards. Yet as I idly turned the pages, my view fell upon a square of print, and a little engraving, in the top left corner on the right page. What drew my attention was that little accompanying sketch – a dwarfish representation of a hot-air balloon, that contraption which had fascinated me since my boyhood. I quickly read the ad, and as I did so, I felt my face flush not from fever but from excitement – I could scarce believe what I saw, and what I saw was that there was to be a ballooning tournament in the next month (which was April). From the scant article it seemed it was not quite an official event but some of the most renowned balloonists were to take part. Then there was an address provided for inquiries. It was such a strange thought to me – to imagine myself in the company of a master aeronaut, soaring miles above the common ground, where only birds were permitted, in the exhilarating atmosphere of competition –

And suddenly I was seized with a fit of violent coughs which racked my body to and fro and reduced my breathing to an asthmatic wheeze. But, more than that, it grounded my thoughts. The sky is no place for an invalid, I reminded myself, as I slowly lay aside the paper. The atmosphere’s thinness, the uncertainly, even the simple excitement of the occasion would be far too much for my fragile health.

I was busy composing myself and setting my person to rights as Dr. Morris stepped into the room. He was the same man I had known as a child and yet different – gone was the plain brown hair, indeed, gone was most of the hair, what remaining being snow white – and he now wore a pair of very thick spectacles. Normal enough changes, especially since I myself had grown a few feet, gotten into trousers, and finished my education since those early days.

“Well, how are we to-day, my boy?” he inquired pleasantly as he set his shining black bag down upon a nearby stool, and adjusted his spectacles.

“I am feeling much the same, Dr. Morris, “ I returned. “My cough is still with me – of course – and I am feeling very tired. Very tired,” I admitted.

“You have been supporting yourself with the walking stick we provided?”

“Y-yes, sir. Not always. But…often.”

“I see. And how are your headaches?” Of course the doctor was merely doing his duty, but I chafed at the listing of my infirmities, as though they were soldiers in an opposing army. Dr. Morris made a few addendums upon a little tablet he had with him, then conducted me through the usual battery of tests and examinations. One such test involved drawing blood from my arm with a wicked syringe, which Dr. Morris pocketed. “I take the blood sample to better judge what ailment you may be suffering from, Master Anderson,” he said. “Your symptoms are common to a host of diseases, and this way my diagnosis will be more accurate. I shall return with the results tomorrow. In the meantime,” he continued, “please use the walking stick, and rest yourself well. Rest cures much more than my arts can, to be certain.”

I thanked him, and he left, pressing the door carefully shut behind him, and though I was grateful to him I wondered why my restful life had not, by now, made me strong as Samson.

I suppose when one is an invalid, one grows to be a keen listener. I was, at least. This is why I was able to discern an unusual calamity in the hallway outside my chambers the following morning. I heard the soft patterning of the maids’ shoes echoing throughout the hallway as they scuttled along that corridor; I heard low voices, including that of what I thought to be my father or, alternately, Dr. Morris. Stirred by such strange behavior, I laid aside “Aeronautics
(which I had been reading) and, drawing my robe more tightly around me, I clutched my walking stick and crept over to the door.

“Mildred,” I demanded of the little maid who happened to be on the opposing side, “What is going on in this house? Why so much disturbance?”

Mildred took a single look at me, and burst into tears. Of course this was not at all consoling – I of course wrote it off as the excitement of the female race – and yet it was greatly unsettling. I turned to shuffle back to my chair and, almost instantly, Dr. Morris, my mother, and my father appeared, spectre-like, in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” I cried, involuntarily, for their expressions were so alarming they frightened me cold. “What is the matter?”

Dr. Morris led me, firmly but kindly, to my seat, and sat down beside me. “Tell me what is wrong, Dr. Morris,” I implored him, catching hold of his coat sleeve. “What is the matter?”

The doctor cleared his throat and took my hand. “Master Anderson,” he said, slowly, and yet, even as my face paled and grew cold, I know what was wrong. He had examined the blood test.

“How long do I have, sir?” I asked him, after a struggle.

I heard my mother utter a short cry. “Three months,” Dr. Morris answered plainly. And that was all. There was nothing more for him to say.

I sat there, silent, for some moments, thanking about things. “Will it be painful?” I asked.

“Oh, no. No.”

I nodded. “And it is quite certain?”

A pause. “Yes.”

At this response, I pulled the newspaper of the day before out from under my pile of books. “In that case,” I responded, endeavoring to stop my voice shaking, “I should wish to fly in a hot air balloon. I should wish to race in one.” Strangely, at that moment, I could not think of my illness, or of my life’s end – I could think only of the rooks upon the lawn. And then I heard my father’s voice say, “So you shall.”

****

Upon inquiring at the address, I received a letter from a gentleman named Grumbe, who agreed to be my pilot in the balloon race, for a moderate sum (at least, he said it was moderate – it seemed a bit excessive to me though I didn’t m ind), and gave me the date of the race as well as instructions to meet him in Caspar’s Field the day before, so we could introduce ourselves, register, and become familiar with the rules of conduct. I replied earnestly and so, the following week, I packed my bags, including a range of vials and pills prescribed by Dr. Morris, and traveled to Caspar’s Field.

Mr. Grumbe met me at the nearest train stop, and I was surprised to find he was a man of about thirty or thirty-five years old, with a quantity of thatch colored hair protruding from beneath a flat cap, and a face so scarred over with pockmarks it appeared he’d been trampled by a person in cleats. He had a casual careless manner about him which was a bit unnerving, though I supposed I was rather sensitive since this was my first adventure.

Caspar’s Field was a vast plain in the countryside, within walking distance from the nearest hotel. It was large and flat, so much that it appeared as if it had been sawed in half to make room for the blue sky, but this landscape was not a fraction as impressive to my eyes as the sight of all the skeletons of the balloons, flattened out upon the ground as though they’d fought a battle and lost. They were much bigger than I had imagined and I excitedly asked Mr. Grumbe which was ours.

“Mine,” he answered, “Is “The Star,” called so much on account of the stars on it. It’s that one,” and he pointed to a maroon swathe upon the ground. I looked at it with a great feeling of excitement, but I found my eyes drawn everywhere around me – here, by the sight of one growing and heaving as it was filled with hydrogen – here, where one or two bobbed monstrously in the sky – here, as gentlemen lashed ropes and cords which looked very important though I didn’t know their purposes. I also saw that, though the sky was growing darker as dusk fell upon us, more people were coming – I supposed to register, as Mr. Grumbe and I had done. I was surprised to find, among the crowd of stout, benign gentleman in tall hats and flapping dove-colored coats, a young lady. At first I imagined her to be the wife or daughter of one of these balloonists. She was dressed in a plum-colored suit with a hat of the same color attached to her curls. Though she was attired in all the usual feminine ways, she had a distinctly firm or impatient way about her which was surprising on a girl. Even more astonishing was that, as I stood staring at her, I realized she was no relative or companion, but was an aeronaut herself. Evidently the registrar was as astonished as I, for, as I understood it, he would not let her pass through the gate onto the yards.

“Have I made a blunder, sir?” the young lady demanded of him. “On the flier, I saw no mention of ‘exclusive of ladies’ or ‘gentleman only’ – indeed, it was not even implied that ladies are disallowed, for it says ‘all able-bodied persons may participate.” She sighed, and even managed a smile, though I couldn’t help wondering if there was some feminine cunning in it. “I am able, sir, and I hope,” she said, “I could be considered a person.”

“This is no place for a lady like yourself, Miss – Miss Stone,” he replied, as he caught her name on her pocketbook. “A young lady out on the fields?”

“Perhaps if some gentleman were to encourage you?” Miss Stone suggested thinly. She turned her head and spied me. “You sir!” she called. “What is your name?”

“Anderson,” I returned.

“Have you a flier?”

“I – I do,” said I, caught a bit off my guard without the company of Mr. Grumbe, who had got into an argument with the man handling his balloon and left me. I produced my copy of the flier and handed it to the registrar. The gentleman, frowning, took the paper and read it over but the young lady was right. “I suppose you may enter, Miss Stone, but if you break your neck or anything happens I hope you know your pretty looks’ll be disfigured.”

“This is why a young lady must be extremely confident in her abilities in order to be a balloonist,” she responded with an accomplished smile, as he unhooked the barrier rope and let her pass. I offered her my arm and led her through, for I feared she might get lost upon the great grounds (I had already gotten lost myself a few times).

“I thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said, strongly disengaging herself from my arm as she did so, “although I find it to be patronizing and misplaced. I can judge from your expression that you find me droll and comical, but although I may be wearing skirts instead of trousers, I assure you I am as determined an aeronaut as you yourself are.”

I must admit, her childish words rankled in my breast – was offering my help to her so insulting as that? “Madam,” I said to her, gently but directly, “what impetus do you possess that would induce you to fly up in a hot air balloon? Surely, with your upbringing you must be far more comfortable at home in your rooms, or reading or some other such feminine pastime.”

She stood there quietly for a moment – ashamed, I thought, of her late behavior. But just as I was about to say something that would temper my tone, she looked up to about the level of my necktie, and thoughtfully returned, “And judging, sir, by your walking stick – unusual for someone of your age but, judging by the scratches clearly worn – and from that low cough you endeavor to stifle in your handkerchief – and by the unwholesome pallor of your complexion – and by the odor of camphor lingering about your person (indicating another late illness), I should think you also would be more at home among your books and…other such pastimes.”

I did not know what to say to her. Fortunately, I needed to say nothing, for as she stalked off in one direction, Mr. Grumbe, clearly rankled, approached from the other, with the suggestion that we turn in for the night as we were to have an early day tomorrow. I was more than glad to comply.

****

I woke up in the night after a feverish fit of coughing, which, as always, recalled me from my lofty dreams to the reality of my illness. How strange it was to me that, at the last, it was my illness which enabled me to make the adventure I had dreamt of since I was ten years old!

I sat up on my bed (as I was too awake to go back to sleep) and was surprised to find that Mr. Grumbe was not in his own bed – and indeed, had never been there at all after I had retired early. But then, it was only 3 o’clock in the morning and, as he’d been talking with some aeronautic companions last night, I suspected he was still among them. I could see, from my window, the balloons still inflated on the fairgrounds and so, wrapping my greatcoat around me, I crept out into the cool night air.

The darkness had dulled the vibrant colors of the balloons into a palette of grey tones, and so finding “The Star,” as I wished to do, proved difficult at first. It was only the paleness of the stars on the balloon, illuminated by the real moon, which enabled me to find it at all.

As I approached it I saw that its basket was now at its side, dragged there, I imagined, by a worker earlier in the evening. All of a sudden, the childlike urge to climb into it and pretend I was already flying came over me, and so I peeped inside of it. Imagine my surprise, then, to find someone else already inside! Imagine my surprise to find it was Mr. Grumbe, sprawled out, senseless and at the most cruel and unnatural angles, not asleep, and yet so heavy and senseless I was afraid. And then I saw, seeping from somewhere I could not discern, a dark trail of blood, which trickled insistently down through the rattan basket.

I stumbled backwards, for there lay my companion, dead or very close to it, within his own basket – and my own senses quite left me. All I could think to do was rush back to the hotel in the hope of finding some aid.

“Help!” I cried as I neared it, thinking perhaps some workers might be up, even at this late hour. “Help, help! There is an emergency, someone has been killed!”

I was fumbling with the hotel door when a light came on at the third story, and a window came up, and Miss Stone emerged, dressed in her nightclothes. “What are you talking about, sir?” she called down, frowning through the darkness.

“Mr. Grumbe,” I gasped, “he’s hurt, or I fear – dead!”

She looked at me once, and then her head disappered into the house. By this point a few groggy gentleman where tottering out in their nightcaps, with exclamations and oaths. “Grumbe’s dead? Dead, certainly not! Where is he?”

This last came from Miss Stone, who appeared in a Japanese dressing gown at my side. “Take me to him, Mr. Anderson, if you please.”

I took her only because I took the others (I didn’t wish to excite her feminine emotions) and the procession of balloonists and passengers trampled through the damp grass over to the site of “The Star.”

Miss Stone peered in first. She paused, then stated, flatly, “That man is not dead.”

The rest of the crowd was in such an uproar they did not hear her, and so I returned, “Miss, you are quite mistaken, he hasn’t moved since I left and he his losing a great deal of blood – “

“Don’t you smell the alcohol?” she inquired.

I did not. She nodded, “That’s right, you’ve been taking cough medicine and wouldn’t notice. Gentleman,” she exclaimed, “Mr. Grumbe has simply drunk himself into a stupor!”

“But he is wounded – “ I protested.

“ – Is there a medic present?” Miss Stone pursued. “I believe this gentleman will have a pulse.”

A red-whiskered man with a pocketwatch elbowed his way through the crowd and climbed into the basket. Before he took Grumbe’s pulse, he plucked something which glinted in the moonlight from the floor and tossed it out.

It was the remains of a broken gin bottle and, the medic said, Mr. Grumbe had cut his hand. He had pulse, said the medic, but he would be quite incapacitated for several hours.

Happy as I was, indeed, thrilled, to find that Mr. Grumbe was still in possession of his life, I couldn’t help but find the medic’s pronunciation to be bad news. “But sir,” I asked quickly, “he will be able to fly tomorrow? To fly in the race?”

“Oh my dear sir,” the medic replied, “of course he cannot. A drunken man – or at least, a man with a very bad hangover, flying a balloon? In the sky? With a gentleman passenger who knows no way of operating the balloon? It is quite impossible!”

I stood there, with my mouth open, in disbelief. No one noticed me except for Miss Stone, who furrowed her eyebrows until her pretty face looked quite fierce. “Mr. Anderson, why are you so very disappointed?” she asked as the other gentlemen began tromping back to the hotel. “There shall be other races, you know, why next June in the neighboring county – “

“That shall be too late!” I cried, without knowing quite what I said. Miss Stone stared at me for a moment longer, and then said, “You are ill.”

I replied that I wasn’t, I was upset, but not sick, and she corrected me. “No, what I mean is, you are ill in that you will not be able to participate in any race but this one. Am I correct in my assumption?”

Her words were cool enough but I noticed that there was a grain of compassion even her businesslike diction. “You are correct, Miss,” I said plainly.

She wrapped her arms around herself as protection against the chill night air. “Mr. Anderson, I am only a woman aeronaut,” she began, “but I am a good one. I have my own balloon, “Dante’s Globe,” and if you should like to participate tomorrow I should be glad to take you up. Grumbe is no great aeronaut at any rate as he is far too careless and he would have lost anyway,” she added, almost more to herself than to me. “If you would like to please tell me and we can go inside.”

I looked at the little bit of a woman and didn’t care that she was a female because she was stronger still than I, no matter how much I deluded myself, and so I said yes and was happy, and we went inside out of the bad humors of the night.

To be continued....

Post your FicSwap stories here!

2010-12-25T20:05:00.002-05:00

I hope those of you who are celebrating Christmas has had a wonderful day! In other news, today's the beginning of our FicSwap postings! Please leave a link to your stories in the comments, along with the prompt you chose and the name of the person the story is for, like this:

"Story Title" by "Your Name" for "Your Partner's Name"
"Prompt Description"
(link)

I'd go ahead and post mine but...oh noes, I haven't finished it yet! It turned out to be longer than I'd anticipated, lol. But don't worry - I'll have it posted by the January 1st due date. :) I can't wait to read all the stories, so get to posting!

Currently reading....

2010-12-22T15:02:00.003-05:00

My favorite books are those thick enough to use in self-defense if necessary. This one fits the bill and is pretty interesting besides. :) Yay for winter break books!

1 year today

2010-12-17T12:01:00.002-05:00

Guess what? I have had my blog for one full year today. It's hard to believe I've managed to keep it up (more or less) for all that time - that's definitely unusual for me! :P A lot has changed in the past 12 months, I think, and actually it's largely thanks to my blog. For instance:

- You've helped me out with questions and problems I've had
- I've read much more and got a long way in the Wishbone Reading Project
- My writing has improved - whenever I have a school paper, for instance, I just wonder "how would I write a blog article on this?"
- Speaking of writing, I've been able to share lots of new creativity and stories, and I participated for the first time in NaNoWriMo with all of you cheering me on!
- I've taken up sewing in earnest, inspired by the lovely work of all my followers
- I started an Etsy business and used the blog as networking :P
- And most importantly, I've met and gotten to know all kinds of wonderful new people!

I hope you've had as much fun reading my 206 posts as I've had writing them. :) Here's to another year at Wickfield!

FicSwap reminders

2010-12-10T06:59:00.002-05:00

Hi everyone! I was just checking in to see how everyone's doing on penning their FicSwap assignment! It's hard to believe that the deadline is so close since I started this project back in October, but we start posting our stories on December 25th. :)

As for me, I have an entire idea for my story (and I'm blending both the prompts I received), but I haven't written very much of it. :/ Fortunately though, once I get off school on the 17th I'll have lots of free time to work on it. Have you finished your story? Have you even started, lol? Got any ideas on what you want to do with it (don't tell them though, or you might reveal your prompt)? Let's talk about it!

Best cover ever

2010-12-08T07:58:00.003-05:00

Another music video post, but this one was too hilarious I couldn't *not* post it. The Sing-Off is an awesome show!

Gaily they ring, while people sing...

2010-12-05T12:23:00.000-05:00

Even though my family doesn't celebrate Christmas, I still love the music of the season! My absolute favorite Christmas carol is "The Carol of the Bells" - it's my favorite to hear every year, and I tried to get my sister to play it but to no avail. Here's a video version with the lyrics (though I like it without lyrics too ♥):

Yay! What's your favorite Christmas carol?

Clay AG food by Etsy seller Pippaloo

2010-12-04T17:35:00.005-05:00

Recently, I just purchased my first handmade item for AG! All the other handmade items in my collection are ones I've made myself (or received in board swaps), but I decided to go to AGFMB board member Numberonekitty at her Etsy shop Pippaloo to make me some food items for my Josefina (especially since I just recently got most of her birthday dishes). This is the listing of the things she made for me, and they were based on the images in my album here.

They arrived just before Thanksgiving and they were just as darling - even more so - in person! I finally got a chance to snap a few pics and thought I'd share them here. (The silver tray and black box don't belong with Josefina's birthday dishes, but in I'm missing the pitcher and flower vase so I added them for the photos).

Don't they fit in perfectly? ♥ Numberonekitty/Teresa/Pippaloo was great to work with and I don't hesitate to recommend her shop if you are looking for terrific AG food sets.

Thoughts on the 2011 Masterpiece Classic lineup

2010-12-03T07:36:00.003-05:00

Well after a long time of waiting - it seemed like a long time, at least! - we finally have the list of classic drama for this season of PBS' Masterpiece. And here they are:

- My Boy Jack, January 2, 2011 (repeat)
- Downtown Abbey, January 9-30, 2011 -
- The Unseen Alastair Cooke, February 6, 2011 (repeat)
- Any Human Heart, February 13-27, 2011
- The 39 Steps, March 27, 2011 (repeat)
- Upstairs Downstairs, April 10-24, 2011

To be completely honest, I'm not really that excited for any of these. The BBC's certainly holding it's word in that not a one of these is a "bonnet drama..." but then again, half are repeats of shows from other years:

My Boy Jack has been shown several years in a row now - probably because it has Dan Radcliffe in it and I think maybe he's a little bit popular (lol), but I don't see why we need it over and over since most viewers have probably seen it by now (even I've seen parts of it).

The Unseen Alastair Cooke is a documentary which doesn't really seem to fit in with the Classic label - especially since we only get a few months of Classic now, and as a repeat I guess it isn't really "unseen" anymore, lol. Maybe I'll watch that one.

My family watched The 39 Steps last time around and though we enjoyed it, I don't really see how it was included in Masterpiece Theatre as it was nothing at all like the book upon which it was based. That doesn't seem to make much sense to me and I believe it was only mildly received so I'm surprised they picked it to repeat.

Also, two of the series (Downtown Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs) are really similar to each other as both are unrelated but based on the same book - kind of like having two versions of Robin Hood in the same season. I had wanted to see both of these separately but once I found out how similar they are I'm not so sure. :/ Has anyone watched these? Which would ya'll recommend?

And what's with the new thing of including a recent novel based on the past? They did it last year with Small Island, which was a 2004 novel, and they are doing it this year with Any Human Heart from 2002. I'll admit, Any Human Heart actually sounds like the most interesting offering this year, and I do see how they are trying to stress that modern stories can be classics too but I would have preferred it to be in the Contemporary lineup so we had more room for more period dramas. Oh well, I'll guess we'll see. :/

So what are your thoughts on all the new series? Let me know! Also, do you have any other period dramas in mind that my family could supplement for PBS' rather weak offering?

Paper House excerpts

2010-12-02T08:10:00.006-05:00

Well I didn’t come away from 30 days and 50,077 words without generating some lovely bits of prose, and today I want to share some of my favorites with you, to account for my absence in the past month. :) Enjoy!

When Jonas was seven years old, his parents began to realize that he was of the character that lent itself to a bright future. It was not that this character of Jonas’ was particularly virtuous, or clever, or hardworking, but rather it was the kind of character that could easily be replaced with a new and better one. So as soon as possible Jonas became enrolled in numerous enriching activities (the more the better, you know) and for the past seven years Jonas’ personality was stripped away by degrees, until the sweet dullness of age seven had evolved into the brusque, competitive, self-serving, and (according to his siblings) utterly obnoxious spirit of the current era. It was a result of this rearing that Jonas, at age 14, was not exactly the general favorite of his siblings, and when he flung open the door each evening at 5:43, expecting a hero’s welcome, he was lucky to receive a glance from any of his less promising brothers and sisters.

------------------

As luck would have it, it began to rain – the warmish, uncomfortable kind that feels like sweat when it seeps down your collar – halfway along the journey. After a few unsuccessful attempts at brushing the prickly drops from his neck, and relieving the brim of his helmet of the condensation that dripped onto his nose, Arthur peeled off his jacket as a last attempt at something close to comfort.Arthur hadn’t exactly been relishing the ride even in dry conditions; as soon as the motorcycle began to wobble down the street hebegan to get a bit of sea sickness, and Arthur soon realized, this quivering was due to the fact that Mr. Tewe liked to keep it going slow enough to brake with his own right foot.As if this weren’t unsatisfactory enough, Mr. Tewe seemed drawn to every crack and pothole in the street as though they were a new kind of metal-attracting force.

------------------

Mr. Magnus had slowly been wading his way, as though the air were some knod of thick swamp, over to where the boy and the secretary stood. A perfectly respectable man, was Mr. Abelard Magnus; perfectly respectable. He stood at about six-and-a-half feet. His girth matched his height. How many laborers mus have toiled, for weeks, simply to make the expanse of fabric that was his vest? I would think very many, but trust in Mr. Abelard Magnus to pay them their due. Or what he thought was their due. Mr. Magnus , now, looked at Arthur through his venerable eyes, which, though they tended to disappear in the shadows occasioned by the flesh around them, were nevertheless very astute and august. “You are Arthur Audley, eh?”

Arthur was saddened to find that the voice of such a majestic man was reduced to an asthmatic wheeze, as though there weren’t enough air in the room to satisfy his great frame’s requirements, and so he simply nodded his reply, perhaps in an attempt to conserve as much oxygen as possible.

------------------

“I don’t believe we’ve met formally. And since we won’t be conversing much, we might as well have the formalities over at this point. My name is Simon, as you’ve observed. Rupert has called you Arthur. Well then, we know one another.” With this, he gave such a strange smile – there was nothing strange in it except the fact that Si didn’t seem made to smile – and extended his hand towards Arthur.

Arthur reached to take it, and immediately drew his own back at the sight of Simon’s fingers. All around the tips, underneath the nails, nearly to the first knuckle of each finger, the skin had been discolored to a dirty purplish grey, as though the boy had acquired a kind of disease that was spreading inward to his core.

Arthur stared and gaped at it; even in one not disposed to do this, it would have been hard to avoid such a reaction. Si noted it – ah yes, noted it sharply and clearly, but wordlessly – and then he smiled once more. “The result of hard work. Gluing. Perhaps, soon, you will be able to make it to my ranks.”

And he stretched forth and clasped Arthur’s hand, and shook it firmly, as though between the two of them, with God and Rupert as their witness, they had sealed some kind of permanent pact, from which there was no going back.

------------------

You were staring,” Richard reminded her helpfully.

“I wasn’t staring at anything. I was staring out of the window. You don’t have to look at anything to look out at something.”

This was a piece of shockingly new information to Richard. Well, he admitted to himself, if you were in a cardboard box, in outer space, and looked out of the cardboard box, you would be looking out of it, but you couldn’t be looking at anything, so he supposed it was possible. He considered the ramifications of this discovery, turned it over in his mind, and couldn’t figure out anything to make of it, so he set it aside in a dusty corner of his brain, where also stood the dates for his upcoming algebra test. And the memory that he had any algebra test at all, for that matter….

------------------

Arthur shook his head rather solemnly. "No Mr. Tewe, I wouldn't think any less of you. I can hardly write normal things - I certainly couldn't write anything creative, like poetry. Why would you be ashamed of that?" Then something rather unsavory came to his mind. "It's not...like..dirty poetry, is it?"

"Do you mean having to do with humus and the other filth of the earth?" Mr. Tewe asked, blankly.

"I meant, like, about women," Arthur replied, because he didn't really know what humus was.

"I write about women, but only in rhapsodizing about their spiritual natures...so I don't think that's a bad thing. But then again I don't write much about the fairer sex, generally I write about the ephemerality of life." And Mr. Tewe nodded his head in a very grave manner.

------------------

"And you didn't expect it...you say you gave your mother the money? Is your family quite poor?"

"I wouldn't say so, middling, I'd say, but we could be better on account of father's consumption, which is veruh raviging don't you know." He leant in close to Si's ear. "He takes a lot of soup. I dunno why. Soup has healing properties you know."

Things I learned during NaNoWriMo

2010-12-01T07:54:00.006-05:00

OH I'M BACK.

And I missed you guys! Well, since I haven't had a post in a month (and was too lazy even to post the awesome write up Gina did, which will come this week)I think it's certainly time for a refresher. Sooo....

THINGS I LEARNED DURING NANOWRIMO

- Do not put off until tomorrow that which we can do today. Otherwise this leads to you cramming a word count of thousands of words in in an hour on Sunday night, or over 3000 words on the final day of Nanowrimo when you have a cold.

- If you should put it off....use Write or Die by Dr. Wicked. This is an awesome program and it has informed me that I can write about 1800 words in a half hour if pushed by a screen that turns red. It definitely helped me throughout Nanowrimo.

- Description is your friend. When you are writing, descriptive scenes really help to add word count, but not only that, they help you set a mood. For instance, you *could* describe someone as having "close set eyes," but why not say "his small dark eyes sparkled in his head, as though they were a pair of stones" - it sounds much better and it adds length if word count is your goal!

- 50,000 words is a bit disappointing if there's no novel at the end of it. Which is actually the case with me. Because I essentially can't shut up when I start writing, I ended up hitting the goal at only 1/3 of my story's completion. Oh well, more to work on...

- When writing NaNo, you are going to sound like crap. Which is not my favorite thing in the world, particularly when I spend a half hour on the computer writing stuff that sounds like crap, but oh well - I might not have written it otherwise. (Which is why I would have liked to have a novel at the end of it. ;) ) Eventually, though, I became used to it, and for all the rubbish I also had some really lovely bits of story in there.

- BUT when you keep writing, you write things you wouldn't have expected. A lot of my character's traits and habits - like Mr. Tewe's repeating of himself, and calling the protagonist "young Audley," or Arthur's perenially untied shoelaces, or Jonas' affinity for boots that make his walk sound more formidable - simply arose as ways to up my word count, and it helped.

- I prefer to edit as I write. I didn't do it in Nanowrimo but it just proved to me that I'm more comfortable and feel more accomplished when working slowly.

Will I do Nanowrimo again next year? I'm not sure. But it was certainly an experience, it was fun to win, and it got about a third of my novel on paper - over 150 pages of double-spaced virtual paper, to be exact. ;) Keep checking back as I think I'll post a few excerpts from my story on the blog!

And I also found out...I'm glad to be back on Wickfield!

Hiatus ♥

2010-11-01T06:20:00.049-04:00

Well, I'm off to write my first novel - hopefully!! In order to devote proper time to both schoolwork and novel-writing, I'll be taking a break from the blog. Ideally, I'll be able to pop back in from time to time with a few posts - and Holly and Christy are working on guest posts! - but for now, the only sign of me is this little update widget below!

Hopefully I'll look a little less bean-shaped as I work. XD See you all soon!

Miscellany

2010-10-28T07:36:00.002-04:00

Okay everyone, first of all, a FicSwap announcement - the prompts for all participants have been mailed out to the given e-mails. :) Be sure to check your spam and junk folders!! Inexplicably, a lot of my e-mails have been headed there lately and you don't want to miss your assignment. :)

Secondly, as you all know, NaNo is approaching which means I'll likely be taking a hiatus from the blog (unless of course, Genius Strikes, and I finish my novel sooner). However, I was wondering if any of you would like to contribute a guest post during this month? I'm not sure if it's common practice to ask for guest posts on a non-themed blog, but I'm having a few friends post and would like to give the option to my other readers. Just send me your idea at wickfield[at]ymail[dot]com, and we'll talk it over!

Last day for FicSwap signups!

2010-10-25T06:43:00.003-04:00

Hello readers! This is just a quick post to let everyone know that today is the last day to sign up for the FicSwap 2010 event - we already have 10 wonderful writers on board and some amazingly creative prompts ranging from steampunk to fairytale to historical fiction, so if you've been on the fence and want to join, now's the time to do it! Leave a comment to this post if you are interested in participating. :)

Match-ups start tomorrow, yay!

I have a question - why cosplay?

2010-10-24T14:09:00.003-04:00

Okay, so I never thought I'd be considering sewing costumes. First of all, I never thought I'd actually be sewing things at all - but it's been really fun making AG clothing, and Atlanta's recent "Historical Costume" blog event was really inspiring. I kind of want to make some costumes for myself to wear?

But being a rather practical person, I'm finding it hard to justify spending the time and money to make a costume I'll be quite shy about and will probably only wear once. And it's not like I'm going to be attending cosplay events or historical reenactments.

But then I see everyone in their amazing creations, and I have my own growing list of outfits I'd like to replicate...what's a girl to do?

So I want you to convince me why I should get into making historical/fantasy costumes. Why do you do it? How do you like to "play" in your costumes? When do you wear them? What are some of your favorites? I'd love to hear your answers to any and all of these questions, and whatever else you can think of. I need some enabling here! :)

The Art of the Hunchback of Notre Dame - Part 2

2010-10-24T14:04:00.003-04:00

I know I pr0mised the second installation (joke art!!) of The Art of THOND the other day, but our computer is out-of-order right now and I'm working from a finicky work computer and an ancient 1999 laptop. Needless to say, it's not the easiest situation.

So first of all, sorry for the delay, and secondly, I'll take the easy route and send you over to my Flickr page to view the rest of the art acans:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/wickfield/sets/72157625143811460/

I hope you enjoy them! (And for what it's worth, "Quasi does pennants" is my particular favorite. ;P)

The Art of The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Part 1

2010-10-19T15:34:00.003-04:00

You may recall the excerpt I posted a few weeks ago from my developing fanfiction sequel to Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The movie is not at all like the book on which it was based, and it has a few flaws (like trying to add humor into a dark film, with awkward results), but I enjoyed it for its own sake. I decided to gather a bit of trivia to help me with my fanfic, and recalled the Disney artbook released around the time of the movie.

Thanks to the help of the d_princesses LJ comm, I realized I could actually borrow "The Art of THOND" from my library's loan system. It's a giant book, with a few interesting factoids (like that Esmeralda was designed to reflect ethnic, world standards of beauty, and that she was characterized like sassy 40s adventure heroines, or that Phoebus is supposed to have a broken nose, etc.) and I decided to take pics of a few of my favorite images. Today I'll show you the actual concept artwork, and tomorrow I'll show you some of the gag sketches included in the back of the book as a nice surprise. :P (You can click all these to view the full-size.)

The next three are my favorite. I wish I could color images like these! (I must say, though, the first one reminds me of my own drawing of Quasimodo which I did before I ever saw this...)

Watch where you've got those hands, there, Quasi...

You can tell why I liked these next two - beautiful pencil drawings in black and white!

P.S. I updated the Dickensian Fanfiction Master List with a few more stories. :) Go check it out!

Announcing FicSwap 2010!

2010-10-14T08:48:00.010-04:00

Many of us here on the blogosphere blog because we...well, because we like to write, to share information and to weave stories about our own lives. Right? :)

Well, now it's time to weave stories about something completely different, about the inhabitants of a land of fiction in your own original stories. This fall and winter, Wickfield will be hosting FICSWAP 2010, a chance for fiction writers to stretch their imaginations and write stories for an assigned partner, a sort of "Secret Santa" for original fiction. If you love to write, participation will be easy - simply write a tale based on a historical period, fairytale or other myth (fandoms we are all quite familiar with, lol!) based on the prompt from your secret partner. After working through November and December, we will reveal our stories in the week leading up to the new year. :)

Sound fun? Then join in! It doesn't matter how "good" a writer you believe you are - it just matters that you are giving and willing to have fun!

--------------------------

FicSwap 2010: Official Rules and Regulations
How To Sign Up:

If you'd like to participate, please leave a comment to this post with the following information.

Pen-name (What we should call you by):
E-mail address (so we can contact you with your prompt :D):
Are you willing to be a backup writer (in case someone can't complete their story):
What you will write:
What you will not write:
Story Request 1:
Story Request 2 (please note, you will not RECEIVE or WRITE two stories - this is just a backup prompt in case your partner can't complete request #1):

SWAP TIMELINE:
Requests/sign-ups end: October 25, 2010

Prompts handed out by: November 1st, 2010

Stories due: December 25th 2010 - January 1, 2011.

NOTE: I realize that some of you may be busy in November for NaNoWriMo (as will I); this is why I'm providing two full months for working on the story. Please do not sign up if you feel you cannot accomplish both NaNo and your FicSwap assignment by the due dates. :)

Rules for participation (based upon "The Phenomenon Ficathon" at FF.net):
1. Your request can be for anything clean that you can imagine - you can provide a list of criteria or prompts, a line of dialogue, a brief plot summary, etc, as well as the story you wish it modeled on (fairytale, myth, general historical period, etc.). It should also include what you would not like (i.e. no swordfights, no witches, etc.).
Hint - Please try to keep your requests brief -- the more specific you are, the less fun it will be for your writer. You can have a specific fairytale, myth, or historical period in mind when requesting your story, but no fandoms like Disney or X-Men or anything like that. :P

Here's an example prompt: I'd like my story to be based on Romeo and Juliet, but set during the Victorian period at a masquerade.

ALL STORIES MUST BE RATED PG OR LESS.

2. If you feel the request given to you is not workable for some reason, please contact me ASAP so I can rearrange something.

3. If you need to ask a question for the person you're writing for, go through me so that exchanges can remain anonymous until the deadline.

4. The fic must equal at least 750 words, however beyond that the sky is the limit in what you want to write. There are no maximum word limits.

5. If you can't finish your story by the due date, please let me know when it will be finished.

6. If you can't finish your story at all, please let me know as soon as possible so that she can ask someone else to step in. Please use this only as a last resort.
7. All stories should remain confidential and not be posted or shared before the conclusion of the FicSwap (that includes on your own blog/website/FF.net account).

8. You will only need to write -- and will only receive -- one requested story.

9. On the due date the master list of who wrote for whom (as well as what requests, etc.) will be posted. At this time, you may link your story in the comments of that post, and I will add it to the list. Your actual story must be posted on another site, not in the comments section, of course. :)

10. Any questions or suggestions? Leave a comment to this thread. :)

Sound like fun? Great! Then snag one of these banners for your site and link back to this post:

Can't wait to see who will participate!

P.S. I had intially planned for the prompts to be secret, but that actually isn't necessary since the main point it to not know who is writing your story, not who is involved in the swap.

Opinion meme

2010-10-12T08:53:00.004-04:00

So I found this really fun meme on LJ today, and sense the people who have voted in my poll would like to see memes...well, here we go. :)

Ask me any question you've always wanted to know about me or my life or my opinions on something and I will answer it.

Ask away! However, I'd prefer no super hot-button topics as that generally just leads to argument. :P

It's that time again....

2010-10-10T14:29:00.002-04:00

Well dear followers, since my posts are coming rather sparsely due to schoolwork following me around like Pac-Man, I thought I'd take the opportunity to ask again what you would like to see on the blog. :) I have lots of ideas but I want to devote my time to the ones people would like to see most, so please be sure to vote in the poll on the sidebar! If you have any suggestions, let me know, and remember, you can vote for multiple categories.

Thank you! ^_^

WRP Review #15: Northanger Abbey

2010-10-06T18:45:00.004-04:00

Provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she had never any objection to books at all.
- Northanger Abbey

I believe that teen/college-age girls (such as myself) who are at all literary-inclined are expected to love Jane Austen by merit of her works being similar to romantic comedies. And while I admit that I DO tend to like a good JA miniseries (Emma, anyone?), her books have left me rather cold. The Wishbone Reading Project featured Northanger Abbey as required reading (along with P&P, which I had already read), and so a few weeks ago a bit the bullet and ordered it from the library. Did it change my Austen opinion? We shall see....

Now for those of you who aren't familiar with the background, Northanger Abbey was one of JA's earliest (if not THE earliest) novels, but was published posthumously. Like all her stories, it features a unique Regency heroine, a likable gentleman suitor, and lots of biting social satire. This one is set apart from the others, though, in that it also mocks the Gothic novels popular at the time. I kind of see where Jane Austen was coming from, on that one - imagine if you tried living your life like it was Notre Dame of Paris or The Phantom of the Opera! That would be just plain silly.

The story's plot revolves around young Catherine Morland, a rather awkward, daydreaming young girl who jumps at the chance to join her socialite friends the Allens at the conspicuous town of Bath. According to the novel, Bath was evidently, at the time, a hotspot for people to see and be seen. Most of the action there revolves around shopping and attending parties. While at Bath, Catherine meets two interesting sets of families - the Thorpes and the Tilneys. Catherine instantly befriends the entertaining, like-minded Isabella Thorpe (and attracts the attention of her elder brother John), and soon befriends Eleanor Tilney - and becomes attached to her brother, Henry Tilney. However, things do not go over quite smoothly at Bath. Friendships are broken off and relationships are tried, and when Catherine accepts an invitation to the Tilneys' home at Northanger Abbey, her enthusiasm for Gothic novels gets her into a great deal of social trouble.

Okay, so what did I think? I risk sounding like a seventh grader here, but I must admit...I found it BOR-ING. Nothing happens! I suppose that's my fault for expecting an active plot, which is not what JA is about - she's more about social commentary, wit, and irony, and she did deliver on those fronts. The problem is that these tiny, insignificant events are blown hugely out of proportion. For instance, say someone doesn't write back to a letter: instantly Catherine is "oh dear my life is over," when it is clear the problem will be solved by the end of the novel. In addition, the recent BBC miniseries better handled the whole Gothic subplot. To be honest, this whole vein of satire is not really introduced until the second half of the novel and composes a very short sequence of only a few chapters. It was kind of ridiculous as there was nothing building up to Catherine's sudden random belief she was a Gothic heroine. As Gina said, it's not a good idea to compare JA to Dickens, but I couldn't help it while reading, so if you are looking for more to happen than dances and invitations, Austen is not your girl.

Also, having read almost entirely Victorian lit for the past 5 years, I'm pretty used to the flowery dialogue that is a trademark of the style. However, I found Austen's language to be terribly stilted and at times hard to follow. "You like a carriage ride, do not you?" Wow - pre Romantic language is very awkward and requires a lot of attention due to odd word choice and even odder syntax. (I actually had forgotten that this was my main problem when reading Emma and just want to give you a heads up if you decide to tackle the story yourself.)

Now where JA lacks in a moving plot, she makes up for in good characters. I'm sorry Dickens, I apologize for blasphemy, but Jane Austen's characters are better, even if your plots are. I kind of see why everyone mocks the Dickensian heroes and heroines, as Austen's leads have much more vitality and personality and humor while still being perfectly genteel. Catherine, at least at the beginning of the novel, has an admirable spunk, and even though her naivete is irritating most of the time, that just makes her more realistic. And oh - Mr. Tilney, will you marry me? Kthanxbye. Instead of being a one-dimensional hero, Tilney is funny and a smart-aleck yet at the same time holds a great deal of pride and respect for those around him. I also liked the sub-characters, such as John Thorpe (his rambling about his carriages and whatnot was really amusing) and Eleanor, who had presence without taking over the show. So the characters were very good.

As you can probably tell by now, Northanger Abbey didn't really help my aversion for Jane Austen's novels. I really appreciate her calm yet stringent humor and her friendly characters, but her plot and wording are difficult for me. I think that's why I prefer the miniseries - you get the benefits of Austen's wit and fall in love with her talents, without having the difficulty of the actual novel. I suppose that's cheating a bit. But at least I'm not spending my time on The Mysteries of Udolpho. ;)

1.5/5 stars
Next up for review: The Moonstone

fic(s): more David Copperfield drabbles!

2010-10-06T15:51:00.005-04:00

I debated on whether or not to post this here or just link to FF.net, but I decided to post all these drabbles on the blog so I can link to the songs they are associated with. :)

OKAYS, so, this is the result of a LJ challenge I discovered last week. These were the rules:
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it’s over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

Naturally I picked David Copperfield as my fandom, to help me out with FF100., but this was so fun I suspect I'll do it again with a different fandom. And I admit I did skip over a few songs because several on my playlist are identical in meaning and would result in stories that were too similar.

And apparently I forget that dialogue is allowed in drabbles. *facepalm* Oh well, enjoy the stories, and if you can, listen to the song while watching - it helps to set the right mood!

1. inspired by "Violet Hill" by Coldplay
Prompt #061. Winter.
The mountains stood out in the distance like a sharp broken sky. Switzerland. The place to which Byron had fled, to where he had gone to think and dream, where I had gone to mend my soul. But ghosts may follow also, ghosts may stand out and whisper, and turn sweet dreams into nightmares. I had lived this way for a long time. I recall trampling the snow in the street, and looking up at the houses that rose, spectral and white, on both sides of me. So quaint they ought to have been, but in my distorted mind they seemed as if they had frozen to death, as if they were pale and ill and something other than theirselves. I remember seeing small faces within, peering outside as I walked past, and I fancied they were calling to me to help them, though I knew that in truth they were likely comfortable and warm by their fires within.
When I walked past one window I saw a small face, and a fair arm, and a cluster of curls, and it seemed as though she were calling to me to save her from this whiteness, but it was impossible. And on I walked.

2. inspired by "Wonderwall" by Oasis
Prompt #077. What.
There are times to say things, and times when words are fruitless. To a gentleman whose heart is awakened, for the first time, to the splendor of love – a true and unalloyed love, yet a love ignored – words seem futile, seem like vague promisses to be broken as they have already been broken. As this gentleman sits in his chair, he wonders what kinds of sentiments could possibly express the tender devotion he feels for her, the gratitude, the appreciation – the LOVE! – how he can reply to all the things she said with no words at all, but with her works and with her eyes when he failed to see the meaning in them.
There are no words to say such things. Even if there were, it is too late for them now. It is time only for a return in action and deeds, and quiet patience and thanks for the way she recalled him to life, even if that life is one of the silence and lost chances he claimed for himself, these many years ago.

3. inspired by "White Flag" by Dido
Prompt #082. If.
It was one moment in a dark hallway, one moment when the stars shone in through the window down the hallway, one moment when both their faces were aligned, and when their images were painted in miniature in each other’s eyes. It was one look.
If Agnes were to tell him now! If she were to speak, as he stands there and looks at her like some thing removed, and tell him that she is not so far removed as he thinks, that she wishes to scream “save me, save me!” from her slow drowning in misery and time. Yes she knows she is the cause of the late scene – yes she knows it is for her sake that Papa has tottered out and slurred empty apologies, yes she knows that it was she who created the trouble, but cannot these things be swept away by this little housekeeper if she parts her lips and begs him to save her?
And yet she lets it pass. She holds her tongue, and David asks, quietly, “Agnes, may I help you, my dear sister?”
“No, Trotwood.”
She will have to save herself. She will have to brace herself against the waters and uncertainty closing in around her, and pray that her love can be her lifeline, and that she can grasp it even in the darkness.
(This one was based upon a scene in the 2000 miniseries by Hallmark. :) )

4. inspired by "Dog Days Are Over" by Florence + the Machine
#068. Lightening.
Oh God. Oh God in Heaven, could it be true?
“Agnes, dear Agnes, oh, so much more than sister!”
No, it could not be. No, there was no break in those clouds except for that sunlight she had searched out herself. It could not be that she felt warm, felt some hope, oh lord – no. She had lived so long in a sort of equilibrium between sadness and resignation, and fearful longing, had dreamt of this moment so often, she could scarcely admit it possible except as another of the hateful visions that swirled around her in her sleep. No. Love and romance was for heroines of novels, it was not for her.
“Agnes, dear Agnes?”
She shut out the streaming radiance with her hands, and felt them pulled gently away. She grasped at the edge of her companion, her dear piano, and turned, and whirled, practically senseless.
“Agnes, my life!”
My life. His life. She had lived her life in silence, had lived it entirely alone, and now, he claimed her life as his own? Could it be possible that he wanted it at all?
And there are tears, and laughing, and instead she clasps him in her hands, grasps his coat lapels in an ecstasy, like some madwoman, as if she could run down the street streaming ribbons behind her like the child she was forbidden to be.
“Trotwood – I have loved you all my life!”
(This one was a bit lame. ;D)

5. inspired by "Check Yes Juliet" by We the Kings
Prompt #074. Dark.
He was a villain. He was a miserable reprobate, and there was no repairing him. He had been banished by his poverty, banished by an alienation of affections, but he was going to commend himself to God and Dora and bear the consequences, come what may. How dare he, as a poor jobless wretch, claim the right to sneak out in the night, to make his way like some vagabond, down the streets in the darkness, and face the disapproving eyes of the lampposts, to arrive at HER street, and walk around HER house, and look up at HER bedroom window, when he didn’t any longer have the right to touch her hand? Some words of Shakespeare came into his head. What play they were from, he was not sure, but he hoped they were from Romeo and Juliet and not from Macbeth as he called them in a whisper to her window. At this moment, he would have loved to run away, to take her with him, to ignore his poverty and to bask in her sweet beauty, and take her off and marry her and live happily ever after.
But it was dark and it was cold and this was a foolish idea, and she slept within, senseless of his torment, which knowledge chafed him a bit.
He knew, or hoped, at least, she would have done it.
But he wouldn’t have done it to her.
And so he walked home and woke up with what he mightily suspected was a head cold contributed by the damp night humors, for such is the plight of the lover.

6. inspired by "Animal" by Neon Trees
Prompt #069. Thunder.
Its strange to see her there in the firelight, sitting at her harp, strumming the chords as violently as if she struck at them with a claw, and to think of her in quite a sentimental way, to look at her dark hair and black sharp eyes with a sort of fondness for times past. Perhaps it’s just a subconscious goading-on by the presence of David and the fact that you are Steerforth and ought to be dashing to pieces any woman in the room…or perhaps it’s the old ugly attraction you used to have for her. Yes, you are quite aware that you hate one another, but then…hate is just the cousin of love, is it not? And so you take one long look at her.
She raises her black hawklike eyes, and at that moment, it seems there is some kind of beastly force binding the two of you together in the magnetized stare, and you know that you have an equally likely chance of taking her in your arms with unbridled passion or of being attacked fiercely by her, as if you had attempted to bewitch a panther.
Five minutes later and you find she is a panther tonight, and you are ashamed and your face is stinging, and you recall that you are selfish and that’s what got you in this mess in the first place – that the most powerful woman you know, and the one that could match you in strength and turn your veins to fire, has been banished at your own hand.

7. inspired by "Mad World" by Tears for Fears
Prompt #081. How?
Mr. Dick always imagined that the people who weren’t overly concerned with the head of King Charles the First, as he was, must live a much happier and productive life. Miss Betsey was quite fierce at times, he admitted, but he suspected she was useful and happy, at least. And yet, here he sat, writing at his memorial, and drifting off as always, and finding that the world was spinning and almost as mad as himself. For instance, there was Trotwood, who ought to be very much in love, rather darker in spirit than usual; there was Dora, who should be as quick as a bright light and happy as a butterfly, drifting farther and farther away at each passing glance; there was Miss Betsey, who was silent and stern when she regarded Dr. Strong and Annie Strong – which Mr. Dick cannot comprehend. And of course there was Miss Wickfield, so good, and yet treated so very badly by everyone all around her.
He could not understand it at all. Of course in his own madness, he assumed he was just seeing things wrong, as – oh dear – they shouldn’t have been this way at all. It was strange and it was sad. If he were a great man, he would set his pen to paper and write them all a happy ending.
But perhaps, came one of his silly thoughts, the better thing to do is to do some thing about it.
So Mr. Dick leaned his chin against the point of his pen, and got ink all over his face, but as he did so he formulated a plan on how to fix things, once and for all.

8. inspired by "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay
Prompt #086. Choices.
Good god. You took it too far. You always take it too far. Of course she was beautiful, of course you deserved her, you did nothing not to deserve her, and were so much better than the lout she’d been promised, and you did so much for her. But you took so much in return – you took everything, and then cast her off the moment she failed to be new, the moment she displeased you. And you made another and worse mistake. You thought she was some frail and drooping exotic flower, a pale lily to be cut away as you felt fit. But you were very much mistaken. For the second you raise your voice to her, she shouts back with a sense of her own worth, which she got at the hands of those dull fisherman who are not, perhaps, quite such idiots as you think. The moment you threatened to rebuke or restrain her, she rebelled and threatened back. And when you made the attempt, she escaped. The best thing that happened to you, the thing that could have led you to such great heights, to happiness and pride, you cast away as though you had thrown it into the sea with your own hands.
So you are thrown across your bed, and the warmth of Italy is surging through the windows around you, and yet you are miserable.
And the worst part of it is, for the first time in your life, you take the blame, you admit it was all your fault. All of it.

9. inspired by "A.N.G.E.L." by Natasha Bedingfield
Prompt #023. Lovers.
When I made the holy vow of marriage under the sanctimony of the altar on that June day, I took that vow very seriously. I was to be a wife. A wife of a good man, though a flawed man. Yes, he was poor with money, but I did not feel we needed money; I felt we needed romance, and that he gave to me freely. He spoke like a poet whenever he opened his mouth, he treated me with the utmost delicacy, as if I were a queen, and in return, I pledged him my loyalty. And I hope I have never rescinded on that promise. I hope that I have been to him what he has been to me, that I allowed him to remain the thing I loved without hindering him or harping on his shortcomings, that I was an inspiration. Perhaps he was flawed, perhaps we lived poorly, and that I was selfish at times and wished for things better, but at the same time, I was always sensible of his devotion to myself and our progeny and society.
And when I saw the goodness in him when he saved a poor girl from misery and a weak man from mischief, I felt I had been repaid tenfold, as if by a prince.

10. inspired by "Material Things" by Jake Troth
Writer’s Choice
The general public has always said riches aren’t everything and that the greatest wealth is in good deeds, but it was Uriah Heep’s personal experience that good deads paid a great deal less than treachery and cunning. Oh, certainly, he had received some charitable provisions by people who pitied him throughout his life, though he didn’t care much for such discarded finery. But now, simply by making a few, ahem – amendations – in the account books, the world was at his command.
But it was not just the material things that mattered – though those were quite satisfactory on their own. Because power, and triumph, and the fulfillment of ambition, were worth something, as well.
He had those too.

New design!

2010-10-06T15:48:00.001-04:00

Obviously, we have a new blog design here at Wickfield! I loved my old Pocahontas one but I had it for SO LONG because I was too lazy to make a new one (nearly 5 months, to be exact). But now I'm back with a much cleaner, cool-weather layout, based upon a LJ layout I saw yesterday. :)

BTW, I'm so sorry I've been so negligent in replying to my comments! I just went through and answered about a month's worth, so if you've been waiting for a response from me hopefully I have replied!

Thank you all for continuing to visit! Wickfield will be a year old in December. :)

Heritage4 T-shirt dress pattern review

2010-10-01T08:05:00.004-04:00

It just occurred to me that my blog followers haven't been introduced to my birthday doll Agnes yet. That post will be coming soon, but for now, she'll just be my mysterious model in these photos. :) I got a craving to do some sewing and make Agnes some new clothes. The ladies on the AG boards overwhelmingly chose Heritage4's t-shirt dress pattern, and over the past few days I finally had a chance to stitch it up after finishing an Etsy order. :P

I found Heritage's instructions very easy to follow, even easier than the official Liberty Jane patterns. I thought the photos were also clearer and I loved the sprinkling of tips throughout the process (the tissue paper tip helped a lot). The problems I had didn't have to do with the pattern. I'll let you in on a little secret...knits are hard to sew. In addition, it was a bit difficult to attach the front ruffles - I'm still not quite pleased with those. But the dress turned out to be very lovely and it looks beautiful on Agnes!

FWIW, I altered this just a teeny bit by making the ruffles wider than specified, and by putting them closer together. :)

Here she is wearing it with Kirsten's black boots and Josefina's black socks, which, in my opinion, look like some of the things we're seeing in the magazines nowadays:

I had originally made it to go with a pair of black leggings (the pattern for which thankfully came with Simplicity 3551 sent by AGFMB member Roberta), but this look kind of dulls it a bit, IMO. It doesn't look like a dress so much as a tunic, here, but at least it's another option!

If you don't mind working with knits, I definitely recommend this pattern. It was fun!

Ah, the life of a schoolmaster

2010-09-29T09:06:00.002-04:00

Yay, a proper post!

Well I'm taking my "Foundations of Education" class for my AA, and it has a lot of interesting facts on the history of teaching in the U.S. I especially liked this 1872 list of "Rules and Duties for Teachers in the Nineteenth Century," haha:

- Teachers will fill the lamps and clean the chimney each day.
- Each teacher will bring a bucket of water and a scuttle of coal for the day's session.
- Make your pens carefully. You may whittle nibs to the individual tastes of the pupils.
- Men teachers may take one evening each week for courting purposes, or two evenings a week if they go to church regularly.
- Women teachers who marry or engage in proper conduct will be dismissed.
- Every teacher should lay aside from each day's pay a goodly sum of his earnings. He should use his savings during his retirement years so that he will not be a burden to society.
- Any teacher who smokes, uses liquor in any form, visits pool halls or public halls, or gets shaved at a barber shop will give good reasons for people to suspect his worth, intentions, and honesty.
- The teacher who performs his labor faithfully and without fault of five years will be given an increase of twenty-five cents per week in his pay.

Okay, so this sounds pretty easy...but what is so wrong about a barber shop? ;D

Excerpt from a Disney fic

2010-09-26T18:12:00.004-04:00

Sneaks away from busy-ness to post an excerpt from a fanfic....

Sorry you guys! I hope you all aren't getting sick of the only thing I'm posting being fanfic. But...that's pretty much all I've been doing lately, in preparation for NaNoWriMo. :)

This is an excerpt - chapter two - of a fanfic I'm currently working on as a sequel to Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame (I'm also posting my already-finished Mulan fic here). Just something a little different I thought you'd enjoy. :)
(FWIW, Gringoire, who appears in this chapter, is based upon the character in Victor Hugo’s novel but with a Disneyfied flair. He was partially inspired by the character Miguel from the film “The Road to El Dorado” and so, as a result, I imagine Gringoire having the British accent of Kenneth Branagh in that movie, haha. Anything to help you establish the character in your mind.)

The Second New Face

Let it be known, my friend, that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Let it be known that, although you may happen across a meagre pittance of bread and cheese and sausage, wrapped in a coarse cloth, and left on the street with the flies buzzing around it in rather an unappetizing manner, it may NOT be without an owner. And pray to the saints and your god that this owner is no gypsy, for if one of their race discovers you eating said lunch…well, it will not go well with thee.

So discovered Pierre Gringoire who was, in every sense of the word, a starving artist.

Gringoire was what is called a dreamer, meaning to say, that he relied on the wit of everyone else while pondering the mysteries of this world himself. He was, in his own opinion, a genius, but then genius isn’t always appreciated by the masses and so he starved anyway.

On this bright day two weeks before Michaelmas Gringoire ought to have been composing an unintenionally comical sonnet to the meadowlark or some such thing and making use of his mighty mind, but instead he found himself in the unfortunate predicament of being accosted by five gypsies and dragged from his world of light and air down into their world of shadow and mischief.

“I beg your pardon!” Gringoire cried miserably in his thin voice, his eyes stung sharply by the thick darkness that surrounded him. (It should probably be noted that his mouth was still full.) “I thought it was left behind. I didn’t really mean to steal from you! It’s just that I’m so hungry…”

“Yes, but you don’t have to dance or sing or tell fortunes for your bread. And you don’t have your bread stolen from you when you finally have it.”

“True,” Gringoire considered, thinking out the meaning of it all, but then he suddenly snapped back to attention and began thrashing wildly in an attempt to free himself. “Wait! Please, stop, I’m sorry! Let me go and –“

The gypsies paused for a moment in order to allow him to make his offer. Unfortunately, Gringoire hadn’t thought it out that far.

“Um….” he trailed off, thinking furiously. “How about, you let me go,” he proposed finally, “and I, when I publish this play I have here,” he tapped a packet of parchment in his tunic pocket with satisfaction, “which is certainly a Work of Art, I’ll buy you all the bread you want!”

“Yet your genius hasn’t provided you any money for food,” said one small-eyed gypsy flatly, “else you wouldn’t be stealing ours.”

“True,” Gringoire conceded, “that’s the case so far. BUT I am really quite innocent, innocent as a saint! I am a mere poet!”

“Well your rhymes had better impress the King,” responded one rough, burly fellow with a kerchief knotted around his head and a cruel gnarled earring in one ear. “Or else – “

“Or else there will be a lovely rope necklace in it for you!” finished his red-bearded companion, with a mean laugh.

The King? This silenced Gringoire’s frenzied pleas for a moment (he had the attention span of a gnat). How charming. Gringoire had his suspicions as to why they would be taking him underground, as he had always assumed the king lived in the palace, but then Gringoire knew very little about the habits of the Royals.

Thoughtful as he was dragged along by his captors, he wasn’t sure whether his eyes were adjusting to the darkness or if he actually saw real torches lining the walls in the distance, but as he neared them he could soon distinguish them clearly. Their trembling flames gave the subterranean tunnel a sickly greenish glow; it was like the very image of the earthy stench that filled the air.

“When do I get to meet the king?” Gringoire asked.

“Soon.”

Gringoire regretted that he was so shabby, and made attempts to spruce himself up (which mostly consisted of brushing cheese crumbs off his tunic, setting his pointed hat straight, and making a swipe at his short brown hair), and composed a nice little rhyme for recitation.

And then suddenly, there he was! He supposed he was in the receiving room or whatnot as there was a massive crowd of gypsies, clad in the most brilliant of colors and numerous sparkling jewels, awaiting his appearance. (Now we know why Quasimodo saw no gypsies on the street this morning.)

It was really quite affecting to the senses. He then realized that one of the five who had helped to capture him must have run ahead to announce his presence. To be perfectly honest, for a Villain awaiting judgement and possibly Death, he was rather excited.

The two men who had been ‘escorting’ him hauled Gringoire to his feet where he tottered a bit, disoriented. He carefully gathered his long cloak, made of the most sumptuous and artistic purple velvet and his one piece of finery, away from the grime of the ground, and found they had pointed him at a stage or podium of some sort. Gringoire looked at it and, as he was looking, someone appeared on it. His recent lunch now felt like a stone in his stomach.

This Someone was the devilishly handsome (if this narrator may take the liberty) Clopin Trouillefou – Clopin, King of the Gypsies, Emperor of Truands, one-of-a-kind original and storyteller extraordinaire! With his small greedy eyes, he looked at Gringoire, who stood there blankly (as was his usual custom). Clopin rubbed his spindly hands together greedily.

“You have a prisoner for me, my lads?” he inquired to the four who towed Gringoire along, with overdone grandeur.

“This one was stealing provisions,” the red-bearded one announced. “Says he’s a poet, but we’re not so sure. He’s an unsuccessful one, at any rate. You can deal with him as you see fit, King Clopin.”

“Ah, so you are the King!” Gringoire cried. Because of his extensive reading, he knew how to behave at court. He cleared his throat, settled his face into a respectful expression, and gave an impressive bow.

Clopin looked at it. “I like him,” he said, approvingly.

“Your Majesty,” Gringoire pursued, “I beg your humble mercy for a poor citizen of France. I admit, I am a scoundrel, but it is for my life! I would starve because my mind tells me to live on dreams, and not on bread.”

“He thinks you are the King,” said the larger of Gringoire’s two escorts, in a whisper to Clopin.

“I am King,” said Clopin, narrowing his eyes with a frown.

“Yes, but he thinks you’re the King of France.”

Clopin opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and shut it again.

“You there,” he addressed Gringoire sharply, “who am I?”

“Why, you are the King,” Gringoire responded. “Of course.”

Clopin removed his hat to scratch his head in confusion. “Yes, but I am the King of the…” Clopin gave him a moment to answer, which was pointless, “Gypsies. You know?”

“Oh. Gypsies?” Gringoire’s face fell. Now there would be no opportunity to impress the monarch with his wit and rhymes and gain position as court playwright. Gypsies had no taste. “Well,” he said, sadly, “I wasn’t sure.”

“You didn’t really think I was the King of France, did you?” Clopin asked, expressionless. Even he didn’t think this was all that funny.

“Well, yes.”

Clopin blinked.

“I’m a poet,” Gringoire said, by way of explanation.

“Oh. Oh, that explains it.” Clopin was relieved. “A scoundrel-poet. A poet-scoundrel. Who steals bread from our people!” As he spoke, he strode across the length of the stage, working himself into a high state of indignation. “How selfish – you are one who can walk into any baker’s and buy a penny loaf!”

“Technically, that’s true,” Gringoire admitted, “if I had money, but I am so poor!”

“Well that doesn’t mean he can be a thief, does it, my friends?” Clopin appealed to the crowd with his more normal dignity, cupping his hand round his ear.

“NO!”

“I agree! And what does that mean?”

“EXECUTION!”

“Music to my ears!” Clopin trilled, as the poet was hauled onto the stage by a pair of Clopin’s henchmen.

“Oh, watch the cape, watch the cape!” Gringoire cried, snatching up its trailing him to safety as he was dragged along. He looked at Clopin piteously. “You will put me to death for such a small crime?!” he protested.

“For treachery against the Gypsies,” Clopin responded, tilting his nose and looking down it at Gringoire. “Hardly a petty crime, hardly, hardly! What do you think, Clopinet?”

He appealed, curiously, to a little handpuppet made in his image.

“Cut off his head!” cried the bloodthirsty puppet, much to Gringoire’s horror.

“Oh dear, you naughty boy. We are vengeful today, when as King and Royal Puppet we should be merciful. Instead, let us consult,” suggested Clopin, grandly, “the Wheel of Fortune!” Clopin threw something to the ground, violently, and amidst a cloud of swirling violet fog a massive, splintered wooden wheel appeared. Gringoire blanched a bit. Upon each of the wheel’s sixteen painted divisions (Gringoire may have been nervous, but for an educated man arithmetic still pertains to even the most trying circumstances) were painted crudely in garish colors scenes of the most exquisite torture.

Clopin, however, was practically prancing about with glee. “Shall we?” he suggested. “Shall we give it a whirl, my friends?” The crowd of gypsies applauded and shouted in eager anticipation. In their opinion, any occasion, even an execution, was worth celebrating. “Well then, Pierre Gringoire,” cried the King, “this is your life!”

Clopin practically lifted himself off the ground as he clung to the top peg of the wheel and set it in fast rotation. Whirrrrrr went the Wheel of Fortune, faster and faster, as though some demonic spirits were presiding over the ceremony – round and round and round, each color blurring into the next, each scene more grisly in its every successive orbit. Finally, as Gringoire was clinging to his cloak with one hand and biting the fingernails of his other to the nubs, the wheel slowed, and it tick…tick…ticked, into its final spot. (Clopin, personally, was hoping for the hanging.)

Gringoire took one look at it, and blanched to the tips of his toes. “I am…” he said, in hoarse disbelief, “to be eaten by sea monsters?”

“You are!” cried Clopin automatic and grandly. Then he thought about it. Then he frowned. Then he turned around and looked at the fated wheel curiously.

“Well that’s a dirty trick,” he grumbled. “No sea monsters for miles around.” But you must remember that you don’t get to be Gypsy King without creativity. Casually, Clopin stamped at the ground, and the motion set the wheel ticking to the next, more convenient spot. He peered in for a closer look. “Ah!” he cried cheerfully. “Even better (or worse) than sea monsters – MARRIAGE!”

Now it was clear this would have been a nice humorously dramatic scene – if Someone hadn’t interrupted it with “Oh Clopin, don’t you have anything better to do than drag outsiders down here and execute them?” At this exclamation, all the eager eyes left their fixture on the Gypsy King and his prisoner to settle on the newcomer instead.

It was La Esmeralda.

Clopin was extremely injured on two accounts, the first being that he was interrupted and ignored, which no showman likes; the second being that he wasn’t paid the respect his rank (albeit self-declared) was due, by any stretch of the imagination. “That is King Clopin to you, Mademoiselle La Esmeralda,” he responded with a jaunty performer’s bow and a false smile that presented a dazzling array of gaps and gold caps. “And I execute people – in my Court – for theft and grievous crimes.”

Esmeralda simply rolled her beautiful green eyes, from which she drew her name, planted her hand on her hip and threw back her sea-colored hood, prepared to watch the proceedings with utter disdain and to interject heckling when appropriate.

Delicately, Clopin continued with a hidden scowl at Esmeralda. “Now then. Marriage. The eternal prison and torture, M. Gringoire! Let’s have a look at him, ladies, shall we?” He snatched the poet roughly by his chin, like a horse, and revolved around him as he examined him. “A gangly fellow we have here – a fellow who is not – all – here,” he added, with three raps at Gringoire’s head (which was true). “A 10 o’clock shadow (apparently artistes have no access to a razor), and a shabby appearance – why, who wouldn’t want this fine prize? Come, ladies, come! Who shall cast the first bid?”

Gringoire was not much pleased with Clopin’s selling tactics, but he looked hopefully out into the sea of faces.

At the same time, La Esmeralda, shrouded in the back of the crowd, looked at him. The poet had a very…expressive face, Esmeralda decided; whereas the face of a certain other person of interest to her usually wore a perpetual smirk of sarcasm (which was both irritating and intriguing, Esmeralda had to admit, picturing it in her mind), this sensitive Gringoire seemed to cycle through the range of emotions as fast as his features would assume them. He was not quite so thin as Clopin ( then again, Esmeralda wasn't sure any living person could be so thin as Clopin) but he was infinitely shabbier than any of the gypsies, and dirty as a cart's wheels. She also thought he was rather…addle-brained. But he didn’t seem to be aware of it, which she supposed was a good thing for him, and by the way he tended to his majestic cape, she figured he took pride in this emblem of his creative spirit. But despite his awkward appearance, as Esmeralda looked at him, she realized his eyes were big and soulful. And nervous.

After several minutes of deliberation, it was clear there were no takers, which pleased the Gypsy King beyond delight. That meant a hanging after all, and Clopin was very fond of nooses.

“Well, well, then,” he cried, consulting his puppet alter-ego. “That means a verdict has been made, yes?”

“Yes!”

Clopin was about to make a clever response to Clopinet when, suddenly –

“No. I’ll take him.” The decided voice burst from the crowd. Clopin looked, and Clopinet looked, and there was Esmeralda being difficult again. Without another word, Esmeralda pushed her way briskly through the mass of her people and leapt lightly to the stage. Her little pet goat, the clever Djali, bounded up at her heels.

“Esmeralda, Esmeralda,” Clopin clucked, shaking his head in dismay and irritation. “Now please tell me WHY a lovely girl such as yourself would want to be tied to a fool like this?”

“I’m no fool!” Gringoire protested once more, wrenching his hands out of the grasp of the gypsy henchmen. He could apply himself when necessary, and now he looked at Esmeralda appealingly. “I am a traveller. I have seen the world. And I am a poet. A very fine poet! But the public doesn’t appreciate my vision, and I suffer for it.”

"He is a dreamer of dreams, this one," remarked Clopin without much interest.

“I don’t care,” Esmeralda responded haughtily. “What hypocrites we would be, Clopin, if we were to punish, to hang this man for theft. Theft! Now, tell me, Clopin,” she continued presently, stepping back and surveying the king critically from head to toe, a finger upon her chin, “where did you get that ring on your finger? A jeweller’s shop? I don’t think so. Or how about the feather in your hat? Or those earrings, or those charming shoes – “

“That is beside the point!” Clopin interrupted, clearly displeased. How dare she speak to the king that way? “But if you want to marry this useless sack of…nonsense,” he improvised, with hauteur, “who am I to stop you?”

“You can’t stop me,” Esmeralda returned. “Right, Djali?”

Djali bleated his assent.

Clopin frowned. “Well then, Esmeralda, here you are.” He grasped Gringoire by the elbow and hurled him, stumbling, to the girl’s side. “What beautiful children you will make. Ugly features from him and an ugly temper from you.”

Esmeralda simply smiled triumphantly. “Thank you, Clopin.”

But the King could no longer stand the sight of her. “Begone!” he cried, and Clopinet echoed, “Begone!”

Esmeralda curtsied smartly, and then jumped from the stage, pulling the poet along behind her. Djali cut a path through the amazed crowd by butting everyone out of the way.

“What just happened?” Gringoire managed to ask, tripping along behind Esmeralda as she held his hand.

“I just saved your life.”

“Right….” Gringoire was still in a daze. But then it hit him. “You saved me!” he cried in amazement. “Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you thank you – “

“You’re welcome,” Esmeralda said.

“I usually don’t get myself into such predicaments.”

“Oh, really?”

“No. I am usually quite brilliant. But ohhhhh, someone changed the rules and NOW you can’t take food left on the street. It wasn’t like I wasn’t going to repay them or anything once I made my fortune…”

Gringoire ducked as some of the gypsies rained blows upon him for escaping like a coward. Their faces swirled around the pair, as in a nightmare. “Well then,” he continued, clearing his throat as they finally emerged from the throng. “I suppose that means we are married.”

Esmeralda immediately dropped the hold she had on his hand and shook her head, turning to look him straight in the face. “Um, no. Sorry. Not going to happen.”

“But – “ Gringoire was obviously confused, and stood there, staring at her for a moment.

“Look,” Esmeralda said, tactfully. She racked her brain for a way to say this…nicely. “Um, Gringoire. It’s Gringoire, right?”

“Monsieur Pierre Gringoire,” the poet supplied, “but as you wish.”

“Right. Gringoire. You saw what a madman Clopin can be at times, right?”

“How did he ever become King?” Gringoire asked, incredulous.

“Good question,” Esmeralda agreed, ruefully shaking her head. “He’s not so bad all the time, but when he’s set on a hanging, there’s little you can do to stop him. That’s why I agreed to marry you, to save you. If you were hungry, why should we stop you? It will help keep Besnik from leaving his meals on the side of the road. You’re innocent enough, and I understand why you did what you did. But it’s just…” Esmeralda sighed. “I can’t really marry you. You’re not my type. Understand?”

“Oh, completely,” Gringoire nodded. “You aren’t my type either.”

“Good – “ Esmeralda began, relieved, and then paused. “What?”

“What?” the poet echoed blankly.

“I’m not your type?” Esmeralda repeated.

“Oh. No.”

Well. This was a new concept. Esmeralda looked at Djali, eyebrows raised, and Djali looked at Esmeralda, stunned. But it was rather a welcome one. At least he wouldn’t try to burn her at the stake over unrequited passion. “Oh,” she said, slowly. “Okay. That works out well.”

“True. BUT,” Gringoire continued, shading his eyes as they moved into the light of the street, “I am in need of a friend. I have been gone from Paris for many years. This city has changed a great deal in that time. I’ve never seen so many gypsies before.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Esmeralda whirled upon him, and looked at him narrowly.

“Did I say anything was wrong with it?” Gringoire responded in an offhand manner. “All I’m saying is, I think I’ll stick with you for a while.”

“For a little while,” Esmeralda remarked, with a bit of suspicion. She’d have to watch this one.

But perhaps Esmeralda was not as suspicious as she should have been. Would she have let Monsieur Pierre Gringoire follow her, thread his way at her side through the mill of Parisian villagers, escape without a head of his hair harmed, if she knew who had been his revered teacher at Notre Dame so many years before?

Be looking forward to the finished version posted on FF.net!

Dickens would be proud

2010-09-17T14:20:00.006-04:00

Well, believe it or not, I managed to get through my birthday without asking for one Dickens thing. Aren't you proud of me?

Well, that didn't last long...

Here it is on - of course - my copy of David Copperfield :)

Actually, this was a surprise from my mother - a lovely keychain made by Etsy seller bostoncharm. I really love it - the beads are just the perfect finishing touch, plus the seller found an excellent colored version of Boz to bring out the warm tones in the piece. I also like the chandelier - for some reason it puts me in mind of Great Expectations but I don't think there was actually a chandelier in that.

I also received this wonderful sewing-themed bracelet from the same seller. From my mother's account, it sounds like she was a joy to work with!

Image from seller

You should definitely check out both her Ebay and her Etsy store. It has all kind of elaborate themed jewelry, something for everyone from the Janeites to mythology buffs. Be sure to visit!

fic: Message in a Bottle

2010-09-15T08:51:00.000-04:00

Title: Message in a Bottle
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Ham, Ham/Emily
Prompt: 014. Green.
Word Count: 124
Rating: G
Summary: Ham wishes he could reach Emily, the way the sailors said he could. “He don't know what he'd write, or even if a bottle could hold all he has to say....”
Author's Notes: A slightly-too-long drabble, again, companion to "The Consequence of Yes." Poor Ham. ;)

They used to tell him you could take one of them greenish glass bottles, and put a message inside of it, and throw it out into the sea, to let it be carried, in the soft lull of the depths, to a distant shore. He don't know what he'd write, or even if a bottle could hold all he has to say - "I love you," "I miss you," - and, "I'm so sorry," written a million times. He wonders what she'd think, if he did it, and she found it. He thinks, maybe she'd just let it drift on away. "But, my dear - I'd be happy if you only looked at it - and knew how I were thinkin' o you still."

fic: The Consequence of Yes

2010-09-15T08:50:00.000-04:00

Title: The Consequence of Yes
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Emily, Ham/Emily
Prompt: 025. Strangers.
Word Count: 556
Rating: PG
Summary: Emily reflects on the changed relationship between herself and Ham. “ Forgive me - I wrong him - and would I could have separated myself from this strange new dread he was to me!”
Author's Notes: Okay, so I had a heck of a time naming this fic. I kind of wanted the title to be ironic - the "consequence of yes" is something you would more likely associate with the illicit affair between Emily/Steerforth, not the honorable one of Emily/Ham - but the "yes" Emily gives when Ham proposes changes everything for the worse. Thus, the title. ;)

Everyone told me what a good match Ham Peggotty was. I was aware of it. Had I not grown up with him since I was a child of four years old, and he a lad of 14? "Ham," they all used to say, in one variation or another, "is strong, a hard worker, so very kind ('specially to you, my dear!), and a gen'ral fam'ly man. You can trust in his loyalty, to be sure!"

How could I doubt this? I recognized his sincere, almost worshiping interest in everything I said to him (wheter or not he was truly interested, he cared for my sake), and his concern for my welfare and happiness. I saw his kindness to dear aunt and uncle, and frustrating Miss Gummidge, oh, everyone!

And so when he asked me for his hand in marriage, what could I rightly do - what a fool everyone would have thought me, if I did not - but accept?

Imagine my hurt, and my shame, to find, upon my "yes," how Ham changed in my eyes. I suppose, before, you have shut up one eye, and looked at a thing, and seen it one way; then shut up your other eye, and beheld it again, moved, and turned, the same, yet unfamiliar to you? That was my position! Forgive me - I wrong him - and would I could have separated myself from this strange new dread he was to me!

I knew that I should venerate dear Ham the more, as his future wife. But all the comfort I used to feel when I was near him seemed compromised, in this new role. Ham was a dear friend and brother; as such, I could cling to him freely. But as a husband? I could not even imagine embracing him. I could scarcely look at him any more, for in the new light, I saw him differently. As a brother, or cousin, he was softhearted and clumsy and bashful - as a husband, these same qualities seemed gauche and discomfiting, almost repulsive, in a way. I found a million new flaws in him which was unfair to him and bad in me, but which nevertheless influenced the way I regarded him. It was as though the brotherly support he had been to me was tainted.

So I shrank from him. I clung to my uncle, who expected nothing from me still. Poor Ham - he was hurt by my wickedness, and confused - I saw it in his eyes, sometimes - but I confess I was almost glad of it. I wished he was as uncomfortable as I.

If only we could have remained children - must we grow up, and look at each other with strange new eyes, and change in our actions and love for one another? I think my rebellion against this change also made me behave as I did. It was almost as if Ham and uncle had conspired against me, and that hurt me.

There is no excuse for what I have done. I write this only so that I may be understood - so that I may not be blamed, for beholding a perfect match - a truly virtuous, kind, gentle, caring, honest, and brave young man - and yet viewing that goodness with a shadow of uncertainty and dread.

Busy...

2010-09-14T13:56:00.001-04:00

Hey everyone and all my followers! I guess it seems like I haven't been updating much lately because...I haven't. :P Truth is, I've been very busy in Real Life lately (with school and fiction writing) and so blogging has, unfortunately, fallen by the wayside. Don't worry, I'll still be updating, but a bit more sporadically for the next few weeks until school lets up a bit. I hope you still enjoy the posts though - I guess fewer posts makes each one more special. :P

fic: A Little Off the Top

2010-09-08T10:26:00.000-04:00

Title: A Little Off the Top, or Miss Mowcher's Best Work
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Miss Mowcher, Steerforth, Littimer
Prompt: 072. Fixed.
Word Count: 1740
Rating: G
Summary: David Copperfield. Miss Mowcher plays a deserving trick on her favorite client, Steerforth - but she misses her best chance. “...Alas to those who schedule on a dreary, cold, rainy day, for these tempt the fates, as the angry little woman wields her pair of shears, with a gleam in her eye!"
Author's Notes: Haha, didn't know I'd be able to write a semi-comedy featuring Steerforth in it! ;) Also, in case my implications don't make it clear in the story, this is all supposed to take place the day Steerforth runs off with Little Emily. Thus, there's also a bit of irony in there, since Miss M. is obviously opposed to Steerforth's liason, and doesn't yet know it was she who arranged it in the first place. Third person POV focusing on Miss Mowcher. ;)
Thanks to Holly for her help! ♥♥

It is one of Miss Mowcher's greatest fancies, to think that one day, when she is Rich, that she would like to put a very low ottoman on the floor, and have her clients sit on that, while she works, and let their legs splay out in front of them, and let 'em be inconvenienced for a change, instead of her. This thought is occasioned, on the particular day of which we speak, by Miss Mowcher's tilting her head all the way backwards, to look up at the table she is supposed to stand on.

"I'm in a fine feather today," she grumbles, yanking on the knot of her giant fan-shaped bonnet irritably. "It's the weather, surely." This is probably true. On many days of the year, the pygmy hairdresser can ascend to her perch like a regular person climbing a flight of stairs; can stifle her inner disgust for the fashionable world, and talk about it as though she fed upon it, and above all, tolerate Steerforth's idle and self-centered prattling. But alas to those who schedule on a dreary, cold, rainy day, for these tempt the fates, as the angry little woman wields her pair of shears, with a gleam in her eye!

But it's not only the weather, Miss Mowcher pursues as she clambers up onto a chair. I'm suspicious of that one. I know his way. No matter if he wants to treat hisself like rubbish, but he best not bring a pretty Polly into it, else, by my eye...And she recalls their last meeting in the Yarmouth inn, with the fresh-faced youth who was his friend. If he treats his own sex so badly, God save the weaker one!

Steerforth, according to Miss Mowcher's amazingly precise gentleman's watch, is ten minutes late for his appointment when he breezes into the room, shaking the raindrops from his umbrella (which is nearly the hairdresser's equal in size). He don't seem to be bothered by the weather, in his exquisite dreadnought and shining hat, Miss Mowcher muses, in the interim. I shall find out why he's in such fine temper, or I have no claim to the name of MOWCHER.

"Miss Mowcher!" the handsome young man cries, with a broad smile, upon sighting her. "A minute angel, to be sure. I've kept you waiting, I'm afraid."

"Ah, it's worth it, young man," Miss M. responds, waggishly, and inwardly highly offended at his latest reference to her size, as he pulls his chair toward the table. "Worth it to me," she simpers, "because I like to look at you so, and worth it to you, as your head is starting to look like a washerwoman's mop! You didn't tell me it was an emergency."

"Ah, I've scarcely noticed it myself, Mowcher," Steerforth says blithely as, to Miss Mowcher's infinite annoyance, he reclines casually and carelessly crosses his long legs, nearly upsetting a bottle of hair tonic in the process.

"Been to see the peacocks?" Miss Mowcher manages to ask, insinuatingly.

"Boats, rather. I am quite the fisherman now, Miss Mowcher!"

"Fisher of men, maybe," the hairdresser replies, dryly, as she plunges her short arm into her bag for a shoulder cloth. "You have enough disciples for the title, I think."

"You flatter me," Steerforth laughs gaily. Then, he lowers his voice in an almost confidential tone. "Pray you won't spread this to your various sundry salons, Miss M. - I know your way - but I think I've dug myself up a pearl, in my excavations, indeed."

"Indeed!" cries Miss Mowcher - but her hand twitches on her shears.

"Upon my word as a gentleman," Steerforth laughs. "I do so love the Yarmouth folk - but, do you know, it's almost as if they were separate breeds! The men are clumsy, boorish - one simple youth in particular, Ham he's called, and he has about the wit of one - and the girls are delicate and trusting creatures. Sweet and simple little things! Marvels of nature!"

Yet his cavalier tone, which seems to state "I've found myself another simple plaything," makes the hairdresser grit her little teeth. She knows what it is to be a plaything - far too well, does she know it, and the keenness of this difference can sometimes blind her normally sharp wits. Ah, she's small and weak, I'll bet my eye. Trying to base herself on someone bigger and grander, playing the part - of a lady, this time - so she thinks she's happy. Well I'll make him pay, my dear. "It'll hurt him far more than it will hurt you," she adds, unconscious she has said it aloud.

"What's that, Miss Mowcher?" Steerforth inquires, but Miss Mowcher is imperturbable, and swats at his ear.

"Trying to eavesdrop on my inner sanctum, are we, Steerforth? Fie, for shame!"

Perhaps if Steerforth knew all that was in the hairdresser's "inner sanctum", he would not have requested "a little off the top" in such an easy, offhand manner!

"I'm going to see her this afternoon," he pursues, in the same confidential - yet almost slightly guilty, tone.

"You are, are you?" An Idea begins to form in Miss Mowcher's rainy day head. If only your rainy day head were a little less cloudy, a little less stormy, Miss Mowcher - and you would be able to deduce, more clearly, the mischief Steerforth is planning!

But she only says, "Sometimes, Steerforth, I declare you do try to make me envious! Not enough ROUGE on my little face, eh? Well then! I'll go straight out and buy myself three pots of facepaint, and if that don't do the trick I shall drown myself! Now how do you like THAT? Ain't I volatile?"

Her mighty shears are working busily as she says this.

"Ha, Mowcher," says Steerforth, "I should say I was the volatile one."

"Perhaps," the hairdresser says, lightly, as, with shears in hand, she critically inspects a spot on his head.

"God!" Steerforth cries, suddenly, darting a hand to his head and bounding out of his chair. "Mowcher! You've stabbed me!"

"Ah, ducky ducky," replies Miss Mowcher, roguishly, as she beckons him to return. "You dear innocent thing! You think I pinked you with my shears? No, I BIT you, that's what! Bit you right on the top of your sweet head, like a cannibal. Aren't you surprised?"

"Hmm," Steerforth responds, suspiciously regarding her ugly, coquettish face. "Pray, be more careful."

I shall be careful, you, that I will, thinks Miss Mowcher lightly, and proceeds. "So, we have a rendezvous, my dear?" she asks, casually, as she plies her scissors - so focused is she, that she fails to recall a certain letter delivered by her own hand.

"Not quite..."

"Ha, I've drawn blood!" she cries, figuratively, wagging her oversized forefinger. "I've found you out!"

Steerforth does not answer.

Close, hmm....I'll get him talking. "Well look what I've found!" the hairdresser cries. "A GREY HAIR!"

"Where?!" demands Steerforth, whirling.

The hairdresser holds out her evidence, freshly yanked from the young man's head. "Ah, ducky, you've been fretting! I bet you've been wondering if Polly Pearl has set her eyes for Mr. Bacon, after all!"

"She has not."

"Bully for you, then!" the dwarf exclaims, gleefully.

"Miss Mowcher," says Steerforth, with less couth than is his usual custom, "you are taking awhile today."

"You have bigger fish to fry, my pet?" Miss M. asks, sweetly.

"Rather."

"Well then, I shall cure my idle ways today! Here! Watch me, Steerforth! I am Reformed!"

Her scissors move rapidly for about five minutes. "Ah! I've done some fine handiwork today! I would like to pat myself on the back - if I could reach! - but la, don't you offer, or I'll hang myself! Now you run along, sir! Don't you keep Polly Pearl waiting, for I daresay, she ain't the angel I am!"

Now that he is assured he will make his rendezvous appointment, Steerforth nods courteously, and bows, and puts on his gloves and applies his dreadnought, and makes small talk, in every sense of the term, with the dwarf hairdresser as she packs her bag. Blowing a final mischievous kiss in his direction, Miss Mowcher waddles down the hallway to her next appointment.

Upon her disappearance, Steerforth hastily packs a traveling bag - as though he plans to go on some long journey and will need provisions. He rings the bell for Littimer - yet when the manservant enters the room, his face turns white and he gasps, without a shred of respectability - "SIR!"

"What's wrong, man?" cries Steerforth, going pale at his man's fearful expression. Then, in a moment of realization, he snatches a little green hand mirror from his suitcase.

The reflection that meets his face is not his own! It is the image of something molting; of a large great spot of hair cropped almost to baldness; of the locks remaining dripping in bear's grease, of a reddish-black scab from the scissors' gash, and of disengaged clumps of hair hanging about his ears.

And in the horrified silence that follows, it is Littimer, after a great deal of constraint and suppression, who manages to choke out, with his former bland respectability, "Ahem - I assume you had a haircut today, sir?"

***

This is the last time Miss Mowcher ever sees Steerforth again, but she don't consider it a loss. "Best to make him ugly on the outside, too," she muses that evening, as she warms her damp feet by the fender at home. "That's Truth! And I hope it discourages the poor girl he's pursuing." Alas, Miss Mowcher. Even you, with your mighty shears, cannot cut the ties that bind Steerforth to his pearl called Emily - forsooth, unbeknownst to you, you tied that connection with your own vengeful hand!

But the Miss Mowcher is blissfully unaware of her terrible blunder, and we will leave her so, that she may have one evening in triumph. So triumphant is the hairdresser, indeed, that she is not even sure if she requires an ottoman, anymore. She did peep into a few streaming windows, on her way home, as a reward for herself, and she spied a nice green-and-gold broidered specimen, which was low enough to make long legs splay nicely. "But why bother," she asks herself, philosophically, "when I clearly do my best work from the top of a table? Ha ha ha!"

On photos and drawings

2010-09-07T14:58:00.002-04:00

Josefina is feeling mysterious....

Suffice to say, I've added several new pics to my Flickr since my last update on it. Go check them out!

WRP Review #14: The Three Musketeers

2010-09-02T19:40:00.000-04:00

Okay, so FINALLY, after 3/12 MONTHS since the last review, here's another installment in the Wishbone Reading Project. After my hiatus, and all the reading/writing I had to do for my summer World Literature course, I decided to get back to some pleasure reading. What could be a jauntier tale than the ancestor of the swashbuckling romance - The Three Musketeers?

Alexandre Dumas' famous novel is based partially on historical fact, during the 1699s battles of French v. English, Protestant v. Catholic, and features some interesting twists about such figures as Anne of Austria and Cardinal Richelieu. If historical accuracy is what you are looking for, I suggest you pass on this - Dumas gives a practical Disney treatment to history, tweaking and romanticizing fact to better suit his own literary needs. Fortunately, the result is terrific and fun to read. :)

Young Gascon D'Artagnan has come to Paris to make a name for himself as a soldier for the king. Upon his arrival, he has words with three renowned, but somewhat mysterious, superior soldiers - musketeers Athos (silent and mature, but with a habit of drink), Porthos (humorous, bold, showy, and with a love for food and women), and Aramis (a sometimes-soldier, sometimes-priest-in-training, according to his mood). Their natural skill and wit wins admiration all around, which is a good thing, as almost immediately, the royal sphere is cast into political intrigue, pitting the royals against the Cardinal and dragging good citizens - like D'Artagnan's faithful mistress, Madame Bonacieux - into danger and prison. In addition, the mysterious and viper-like Lady de Winter holds secrets of her own, and is out to destroy D'Artagnan, even if it means escaping prison with her Machavellian schemes.

I really enjoyed this story, surprisingly, as I'm not usually one for action/adventure/derring-do. Dumas very skillfully works his plot so that it is as exciting as possible. There's also a great deal of humor intermixed within the intrigue - I especially like Porthos' attempts to extract money from his lover!

Though Dumas is not known for insight or psychology, I still found his characters likable and fun to read about, and many were surprisingly uncaricaturized, (Porthos being the main exception, hehe). D'Artagnan was both irresponsible yet deeply honorable; Athos was noble yet had sickening weaknesses and a violent past; Madame Bonacieux is courageous and loyal to her queen and lover, but not to her husband, and Aramis is a clever hypocrite who is also capable and brave. And though Milady is a total femme fatale, she stands out as unique because women with a mechanical, calculating brain are quite rare in Romantic lit!

I did detect a few problems. First of all, the story isn't really about The Three Musketeers - the first 2/3 of the book is primarily about D'Artagnan, with a good deal of Athos, and only occasional appearances from Porthos and Aramis (usually for comic relief). The last third is almost entirely about Lady de Winter; fortunately, I liked her character and schemes (though not her uncanny ability to corrupt EVERYONE), abut some of you might dislike this. I also found some of the historical and military passages hard to follow; this is due more to my own lack of knowledge on either subject than Dumas' fault, but I'd suggest a Penguin Classics or annotated version to help you out. In addition, this story is probably not for the young'ens, due to sexual content; though tactful and discreet in description, there are two scenes where D'Artagnan sleeps with a woman, and he *does* have a mistress (through their romance is never sexual). Just thought I'd point this out.

Though Dumas' storyline is a bit Old Hollywood (or maybe just typical French lit - I seem to be sensing a pattern here) - with fainting heroines, striking and helpful coincidences, and perfectly-timed swordfights - I still feel there's something more sincere in the storyline. It's an exciting battle between good and evil, courage and cowardice.

3.75/5 stars
P.S. Did you know they only say the famous "All for one" speech ONCE? Crazy!

Next up for review: Nina tackles Jane Austen with Northanger Abbey

poem: Ill Blood

2010-08-31T19:57:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know it's Tuesday, but I wanted to go ahead and post something while I write up my The Three Musketeers review, which I'll hopefully post tomorrow! This poem is also going to appear as a guest post on Dickensblog sometime this week. It's the first DC fic I wrote!

Title: Ill Blood
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Uriah Heep
Prompt: 022. Enemies.
Word Count: 327
Rating: G
Summary: Uriah resents the arrival of David Copperfield, as it casts him into deeper darkness. “I think it strange/These memories I entertain/Knowing now the inside of my angel’s heart/And the devil I became there.”
Author's Notes: This is rather a lame poem I wrote back in 2008, paralleling Uriah a bit with the biblical character; this is more Uriah-inspired, also, since the language doesn’t fit his vernacular; I suppose you could say it's his thought process. But I thought I’d share it anyway. ;) Enjoy!

I saw him one morning
Through the eye in the wall
Papers kindling in my hand
Letters burned across the page
I think it strange
These memories I entertain
Knowing now the inside of my angel’s heart
And the devil I became there.
So let it be.

With each new act, new look
New bright and cruel fascination
He brought to everything
I sank and shrank.
I folded every limb into a corner
Darkened by a false illumination.
But still I let it be.

I never understood how such
Uneasy sufferers
Could be quite so free round me
Free not in the goodness of their heart
– No, only one was that –
But free in all the falsity they spat
They would not speak a word to me when I was there
But how they lay their souls about the floor
For me to glean!

And yet I still have questions:
The demon asks the saint
Did you never think
About the wisdom long inflicted on my head?
You noticed how
My eyes hungered, how they stared
And watched you as you took
My single precious lamb from me.
But let it be.

And let it be that,
Spider that I am,
I, with a poison thread
Stitched together all the artificial shreds
Of you who fled from me
Tied you to her and bound
Them by their look and word
And him to sins he harbored
By no act of mine.

Humility humility
Most scorching of all words
Cunning, mocking,
Marking by its subtle touch
False false false.

But does it speak of you or me?
Me, my humble desperate sins upon my head?
You, your cold and calculating dread
Of me and all about me?

And yet I have got a little power now.

I saw some kind of god one morning
Through the eye in the wall.
There was I time I could have struck him dead.

A sale - and a move?

2010-08-22T08:32:00.002-04:00

Hi everyone! First things first, I want to announce that I have a new sale going on at my Etsy! In honor of my 19th birthday (coming up on Tuesday, yay!), select Little Wonder Dolls are 19% off. These are savings of $20 and more, so now's the time to try one out. ;)

Secondly, I'm considering moving my blog over to Livejournal. The lure of userpics is almost becoming too much for me, plus I'll be able to legitimately participate in FF100, and there are other benefits such as premade layouts and more attention to graphics post. But what do you, my followers, think? Will you continue to read if I move over to LJ? (You can still get updated from LJ sites in your Blogger Dashboard). Let me hear your input before I make the move!

fic: Concerning Oranges, and Peeling in General

2010-08-18T06:00:00.004-04:00

Here's today's DC fic, yay! I also posted a Sherlock Holmes fic from 2007 on my FF.net account, so go check that out and leave me some ConCrit!

Title: Concerning Oranges, and Peeling in General
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Mr. Dick, Uriah Heep
Prompt: 012. Orange.
Word Count: 1279
Rating: G
Summary: David Copperfield. In a discussion with the young Uriah Heep, Mr. Dick finds that, sometimes, innocence is the greatest judge. “Wednesday afternoon, and Mr. Dick is all alone, sitting on the front stoop outside of the Wickfield's quite Canterbury house, contentedly - and absently - peeling an orange. "
Author's Notes: I'll admit, it was a bit of a stretch to get this particular story to fit this prompt, but I think there's a nice metaphor in there somewhere. ;)

Wednesday afternoon, and Mr. Dick is all alone, sitting on the front stoop outside of the Wickfield's quite Canterbury house, contentedly - and absently - peeling an orange. The coach has arrived early today, and so there is no Trotwood. Mr. Dick had said hello to Agnes, who had gone out in her sweet and serious way to dancing lessons, but until Trotwood returns (and Mr. Dick suspects that boy is, at the very moment, engaged in the most fearsome sums), he will be in solitude. He wishes he could share his orange with someone. It is almost too much for one.

Mr. Dick is reflecting upon King Charles' head, as is usual for him, and wondering if he stuck an orange on a pike, if the crows would come after it and think it was King Charles' head, etc., and is sucking off the juice from one finger, when he hears the front door open behind him. After vaguely fearing he was supposed to go in to get Trotwood, and realizing with relief that he wasn't, he turns around. It is Mr. Wickfield's young clerk standing there - rather sourly, Mr. Dick thinks. He can't ever recall the lad's name, but before he can say anything anyway, he is stopped by an imperious word.

"Move."

It takes Mr. Dick a moment to realize this command is addressed to himself, which of course does not improve matters. Uriah Heep (Mr. Dick suddenly recalls his name) is looking down, from his very tall height, with a strange and rather unpleasant expression on his face - Mr. Dick would almost think it superior, if he wasn't perfectly aware of Uriah's wonderfully good manners.

"I'm sorry - " he begins, "I am in your way?"

"Rather," responds Uriah Heep, in a way that sounds like his face looks, "I 'ave to be getting home to mother - I was forced to stay late for Mr. Wickfield. So if you would very kindly get yourself up off the walk, it would be appreciated."

Mr. Dick scrambles to his feet, nodding obligingly. The boy must be in a very bad mood, he thinks, for he don't usually speak so imperiously. What Mr. Dick does not suspect is that his own simple person emboldens Uriah to speak thusly. He does not suspect that Uriah Heep intends to lord over the pitiful specimen that would not - and could not - rebuke him. For Uriah Heep takes power, a rare delicacy to his kind, wherever he can get it - even if it is from a madman.

But, happily for Mr. Dick, he does not know this.

"My boy," he says, encouragingly, "would you like to share a very delicious orange with old Mr. D, to lift your spirits?"

"They don't need lifting, thank you." But he sits down anyway, for whatever reason. Mr. Dick thinks he has triumphed.

"You are one of Trot's friends, are you not?" he asks cordially. "He's a very good boy, Trotwood is. It is his ancestry, you know. His aunt? Just the same! The most wonderful woman in the world!"

"Ah, of that I am certain," replies Uriah, blandly. "Master Copperfield 'as been very fortunate, indeed. A lovely aunt, and a smart gentleman like you to guide him. If only we all had such tutors, such guardians in a despicable world!" He draws in an amiable wheeze.

Mr. Dick thinks this must be a compliment from the words in it, but somehow, it don't quite feel like one. "He is a very good boy. Very good. Even though he has had bad things tone to him, he is still good. I feel sorry for the bad people, though." And he separates a wedge of orange from the whole.

"Do you? You feel sorry for the bad ones?" Uriah Heep says, sharply, surprisingly the elderly gentleman. "It's very high and mighty, to call yourself good, and judge others, saying they are 'bad,' and so on, when you've never been put in their same places, and don't know how you'd behave."

"Oh no," Mr. Dick shakes his head emphatically. "You misunderstand me, Master Heep, very much! I was only saying this. Sometimes, I wonder if all people were good, once. Born that way, you know," he clarifies, peeling away a large strip of fragrant rind. "I have known very many good people - Trotwood, and Agnes, and the most wonderful woman in the world." His brother was even good, except when he was frightened, and wanted to send him away, though Mr. Dick refrains from mentioning this. "I hope I am good. I think that the bad people" - like the dark gentleman and lady who had relinquished David Copperfield's son - "must have had bad things done to them, and were quite hurt by it."

There seems to be a change in Uriah Heep's features, which Mr. Dick takes for rapt attention.

"And yet that," he adds, "don't mean the bad people should carry on the tradition, and be bad to others! I can spot em. And then - well then - they shall pay!" Mr. Dick doesn't quite know HOW they would pay, but he knows it sounds impressive to say so. He thinks that maybe, at the present moment, were he to encounter a bad person, he would hurl his orange at them, and make their coat all sticky. But he don't say this aloud, of course. He doesn't want to be thought violent.

Mr. Dick is so lost in these reveries, that when he diverts his attention away from orange-peeling, and focuses on Uriah Heep, he is surprised to find that the ungainly boy has gathered his books and leapt to his feet. "Almost," thinks Mr. Dick, wondering, "as though I've said something to upset him!"

"Would you like," Mr. Dick offers, by way of soothing things, "for me to help you carry your books to your home?"

"No!" responds Uriah hastily, and, Mr. Dick thinks, rather less sourly than before, and more like his usual self. "I am a very umble person, you know, and you a gentleman - "

"Ha ha! I am no gentleman, boy, I am just poor simple Mr. Dick," replies that man, chomping the last bit of his orange, and flinging the rind out into the street for the birds. He is flattered nonetheless.

"It is true! So true!" Uriah replies, backing away slowly. "A Gentleman. A Gentleman who 'as inspired me by your words today. Those are so true, also! And always know sir," he adds, "that I am your most umble servant - you will remember, sir, that Uriah Heep was always most obliging and umble in gen'ral? A good friend, you know?"

"Certainly," says Mr. Dick, mystified.

"Ah, thank you sir - thank you very much for that!" Mr. Dick is beginning to think Uriah is more trained in the art of prostrating himself than the Orientals in the pictures books, as he salaams, and edges down the street, and disappears.

Uriah Heep is very young yet, Mr. Dick. You will regret that you have taught him to be more secretive, to have more slyness, to better apply the veneer of humility in his dealings with everyone, so that it may better serve him, in the end. But you have also struck a chord in his sinewy soul, and you have frightened him. Because, Mr. Dick, you ARE good, and sometimes there is nothing so frightening as that.

Yet Mr. Dick is perfectly unaware of all this.

Rather, he is more disappointed that he talked so much he did not enjoy his orange. Alas, he has learned his lesson today!

Narnian Blog Event Entry: Tumnus Drawing

2010-08-17T09:03:00.004-04:00

Well here I am with some more artwork and a teensy little honorary post for The Christian Fashionista's Narnia Wardrobe Event! Mine has nothing at all to do with fashion, though. ;) Instead, I'm posting a sketch of Mr. Tumnus in the Narnian Blog Post category, :)

This drawing is showing Tumnus as he makes his way through the wood in LWW. However, instead of tripping along casually, like in many illustrations, I wanted to show him having a hard time. After all, the forest and the elements are under the witch's spell! So he's leaning forward, forcing his way through the snow (you can't see the snow well in this scan, unfortunately), and his umbrella is bent backwards. ;) This is very rough - it's only a sketch, after all! - so one of these days I'll have to turn it into a real drawing. :)

This is also the first time I've drawn a humanoid - those satyr legs are very angular, haha!

Frodo drawing + gif

2010-08-13T17:15:00.003-04:00

Well I was in the mood to draw something on MS Paint today, and for some reason, Frodo popped into my head. I have no idea why - I don't even like Lord of the Rings - but I guess I had hobbits on the brain because I had to read FOTR about a month ago for my World Lit class. ;) So anyway, with MS Paint, a mouse, and about half an hour, I got Mr. Frodo (who turned out looking rather like Shia Le Bouf) and the Ring:

Under the cut, you can also view the .gif I made of the process in which I did the drawing. Just a peek at my methods...

Narnia web event

2010-08-12T15:49:00.002-04:00

Hi everyone! I wanted to post today about Miss Raquel's blog event, beginning on August 15th - it's based entirely on C.S. Lewis' world of Narnia! You can use your fashion sense to recreate Narnian costumes, use modern pieces to give your "wardrobe" a personal spin, or just do a post on what you love about the series. You can check it out here.

I won't be able to participate for awards, as I am very unfamiliar with the story (I've only read LWW), but maybe I can post a sketch of Mr. Tumnus I made a while back. ;) We'll see - for now, go check out the rules and information!

fic: The Birdcage

2010-08-11T06:01:00.002-04:00

Title: The Birdcage
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Murdstone, Murdstone/Clara
Prompt: 084. He.
Word Count: 136
Rating: PG
Summary: What the sacred institution of marriage means to a man like Edward Murdstone. “The tender light that draws the shadow, at first, begins to scald in its brightness; it breeds his perverse loathing of the one that faithfully loves him in return”
Author's Notes: A slightly-too-long drabble, explaining a phenomenon my mother has told me about, that some men, who hate themselves, begin to hate their lovers once they realize they could possibly like them. Hopefully it's not too sympathetic to Murdstone!

For the man who has grown up with rigid law and strict composure forced upon his every slightest movement, a man cloaked in the consuming shadow of an austere elder sister, with every sentiment suppressed into an an efficient wall of reason, to LOVE - and be loved - is an experience of both pain and pleasure. The tender light that draws the shadow, at first, begins to scald in its brightness; it breeds his perverse loathing of she who faithfully loves him in return: to think that she founds her entire existence upon himself disgusts him, for he hates all that represents him. And he strives to build up his same wall, the same cage around the pretty bird that haunts him. Sometimes, a wedding ring can be the gilded latch to this sordid cage.

fic: Underground

2010-08-11T06:00:00.002-04:00

Title: Underground
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Peggotty
Prompt: 085. She.
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Summary: Peggotty reflects on the pending marriage. “Peggotty realizes that it's not all selfless, her antagonism to this match.”
Author's Notes: Another drabble, just a peek at Peggotty's thoughts on Edward/Clara.

Peggotty realizes that it's not all selfless, her antagonism to this match: she knows she don't much care for a fourth party, in and of itself, someone taking her dear girl from her, giving her things Peggotty, no matter how hard she works, could never afford (barring only love and dedicated tenderness), but its harder still to see his swarthy brow, and strong countenance, and unwavering manner, sharply contrasted with the airy smile. She knows she an't the only one ill at ease in his gloomy presence; it's as though she sometimes feels a haunting from the little grave nearby.

Animation meme!

2010-08-05T10:50:00.001-04:00

Well, the Animated FilmFest kind of fizzled out and died, and here we are at the end of summer with only two entries. Yikes! I'll post the rest of my list of recommendations tomorrow, but today, I give you a meme I've had in my Blogger pretty much since I began it last winter.

French poster for Pocahontas - one of my favorite posters!

"X" what you've seen, "O" what you haven't finished but saw sizeable portions of, leave blank what you haven't seen at all. Bold what you loved and strike through what you didn't like.

Classic Disney
--------------
[X] 101 Dalmatians (1961)
~~[X] Alice in Wonderland (1951)~~
[X] Bambi (1942)
[X] Cinderella (1950)
~~[X] Dumbo (1941)~~
[O ] Fantasia (1940)
[X] Lady and the Tramp (1955)
[X] Mary Poppins (1964)
[X] Peter Pan (1953)
[X] Pinocchio (1940)
~~[X] Sleeping Beauty (1959)~~
[X] Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
[ ] Song of the South (1946)

Disney's Dark Age
-----------------
[X] The Aristocats (1970)
~~[X ] The Black Cauldron (1985)~~
[X] The Fox and the Hound (1981)
[ X] The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
~~[X] The Jungle Book (1967)~~
[O] The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh (1977)
[X] Oliver and Company (1986)
[ ] Pete's Dragon (1977)
[X] The Rescuers (1977)
[X] Robin Hood (1973)
[X] The Sword In The Stone (1963)

The Disney Renaissance
----------------------
~~[X] Aladdin (1992)~~ (only because I watched it so much!)
~~[X] Beauty and the Beast (1991)~~ (overrated)
[X] A Goofy Movie (1995)
[X] Hercules (1997)
[X] The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
[X] The Lion King (1994) (first movie I saw in theatres!)
[X] The Little Mermaid (1989) (movie's okay but I can't stand Ariel)
[X] Mulan (1998)
[X] Pocahontas (1995)
[X] The Rescuers Down Under (1990)
[X] Tarzan (1999)

Disney's Modern Age
-------------------
[X ] Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001)
[X] Bolt (2008)
[X] Brother Bear (2003)
~~[X] Chicken Little (2005)~~
[O] Dinosaur (2000)
[X] The Emperor's New Groove (2000)
[X] Fantasia 2000 (2000)
[ ] Home on the Range (2004)
[X] Lilo & Stitch (2002)
[X] Meet the Robinsons (2007)
[X] Treasure Planet (2002)

Pixar
-----
[X] A Bug's Life (1998)
[O] Cars (2006)
[X] Finding Nemo (2003)
~~[X] The Incredibles (2004)~~ (yuck)
[X] Monsters Inc. (2001)
[X] Ratatouille (2007)
[X] Toy Story (1995)
[X] Toy Story 2 (1999)
[ ] Wall-E (2008)

Dreamworks
----------
[X] Antz (1998)
[X] Kung Fu Panda (2008)
[X] Madagascar (2005)
[] Over the Hedge (2006)
[X] The Prince of Egypt (1998)
[X ] The Road to El Dorado (2000)
~~[X] Shrek (2001)~~
~~[X] Shrek 2 (2004)~~
[] Shrek The Third (2007)
[X] Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron (2002)

Don Bluth
---------
[O ] All Dogs Go to Heaven (1989)
[X] An American Tail (1986)
[X] An American Tail: Fievel Goes West (1991)
[X] Anastasia (1997)
[X] The Land Before Time (1988)
[X] The Pebble and the Penguin (1995)
[O] Rock-a-Doodle (1991) (I think I've seen this...)
[ ] The Secret of NIMH (1982)
[ ] Thumbelina (1994)
[ ] Titan AE (2000)
[ ] A Troll in Central Park (1994)

Stop Motion
----------
[ ] The Adventures of Mark Twain (1986)
[X] Chicken Run (2000)
[X] Corpse Bride (2005)
[X] James and the Giant Peach (1996)
[X] The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)
[] Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (2005)
[ ] Coraline (2009)

CGI Glut
---------------------
~~[X] Happy Feet (2006)~~
[ ] Monster House (2006)
~~[X] The Polar Express (2004)~~

Imports
--------
[] Arabian Knight (aka The Thief and the Cobbler) (1995)
[ ] The Last Unicorn (1982)
[ ] Light Years
[ ] Triplets of Belleville, The (2003)
[ ] Persepolis (2007)
[ ] Waltz With Bashir (2008)
[ ] Watership Down (1978)
[ ] When the Wind Blows (1988)
[ ] Yellow Submarine (1968)

Other Animated Movies I Can't Categorize
-------------------------------
[ ] Animal Farm
[ ] Animalympics
[ ] Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon The Movie
[ ] Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker
[X] The Brave Little Toaster (1988)
[ ] Bravestarr: The Movie
[ ] Care Bears: The Movie
[X] Charlotte's Web (1973)
[X] Fern Gully
[ ] G.I. Joe: The Movie
[ ] Gobots: Battle of the Rock Lords (Starring Will Swenson?)
[ ] He-Man & She-Ra: The Secret of the Sword
[ ] The Hobbit (1977)
[X] The Iron Giant (1999)
[ ] Justice League: The New Frontier
[ ] Lord of the Rings
[X] Little Nemo: Adventures in Slumberland (1992)
[ ] My Little Pony: The Movie
[ ] Pink Floyd's The Wall (1982)
[X] Powerpuff Girls: The Movie
[X] Quest For Camelot (1999)
[ ] Ringing Bell
[ ] Rock & Rule
[X] Space Jam
[ ] Starchaser: The Legend of Orin
[ ] Superman: Doomsday
[X] The Swan Princess (1994)
[ ] Transformers: The Movie (1986)
[ ] Wizards
[O] Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)
[ ] Wonder Woman
[X] Balto

fic: Tables Turning

2010-08-04T06:30:00.000-04:00

Title: Tables Turning
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Agnes, Mr. Wickfield, Uriah, Mrs. Heep
Prompt: 056. Breakfast.
Word Count: 1562
Rating: G
Summary: At the breakfast table, Uriah petitions to have his mother move in with the Wickfields – and things instantly change. “I wondered what satisfaction he derived from joining us at table…I assume he relished the very fact that we could not send him away: that he reveled in our discomfort...And so I presented the façade of perfect equipoise, as though his appearance there did not affect anything in the slightest.”
Author's Notes: From Agnes’ POV. I hope you guys can handle some more Wickfield and Heep fic - I just always wanted to see this scene and David doesn't show it!

Uriah had decided to take breakfast with Papa and myself again that morning. I cannot say I was glad to have him there – in fact (though I suppose it is uncharitable), I wished with all my heart for the old days, when he took his meals in the office, on his knees, and Papa and I had an hour to ourselves, in which to plan our day or discuss the dreams of the night before. Those days were long gone, however, by the time of which I write – Uriah had increasingly begun to inject himself, sitting straight across from me, with a good view of Papa. I wondered what satisfaction he derived from joining us at table, particularly as he seemed astonished and honored to be there at all, and requested no more than the most meagre scraps reserved from the meals of the day before. I assume he relished the very fact that we could not send him away; that he reveled in our discomfort, which, despite all our efforts, was made all too clear in the overwhelming silence that presided. And yet I presented the façade of perfect equipoise, as though his appearance there did not affect anything in the slightest.

Papa was ill on that particular morning from the effects of his consumption the ni ght before, and the usual cheese and bread sickened him – when I offered it as was our custom, he vehemently thrust it back with a shamed apology. Uriah offered me some dish and of course I could not accept. It was all very awkward, with Uriah’s clear pleasure, Papa’s obvious illness, and my inability to eat anything put in front of me.

At length, Uriah cleared his throat. “If you are feeling quite well, Mr. Wickfield….?” He swivelled his head to look up into my father’s face (which he was supporting in both his hands).

“Yes, Uriah, go on with it.”

“Thank you! Well, as I was telling Miss Agnes, just the other day, mother has been very under the weather, wasn’t I telling you, Miss Agnes?” I nodded. He had read me the entire letter. “Mother has been very under the weather. I think there might be a flu going about, because you don’t look well, sir.”

“I’m quite all right, Uriah, thank you.”

“Glad to ear it! So glad! Well, I was thinking I am a very charitable person, you know, and especially so to those as ‘ave done well by me. Now I can’t bear to think of mother hacking and feeling gen’rally bad, and so I would proposition that she…” he looked exceedingly modest, and drank meekly from his glass.

I glanced at Papa. Poor Papa! He looked as though he wished to dash from the room, as though he’d do anything to finish the discussion and sink into solitude. And yet I knew that, to bring Mrs. Heep into our home, would be the same as letting an evil spirit from a magic ring (even if she were not bad herself) – the consequences, two of them in perfect harmony, wielding their influence over my father and I – was too much to bear.

I glanced fervently at Papa, trying to convey this to him in my look, but he was too sick, and I felt the sharp glare of Uriah’s small eyes upon my face, which caused me to instinctively yield. I had no power.

“So you would like your mother to stay, Uriah?”

“Oh! Oh!” he looked positively stricken. “ Could she? She wouldn’t take up much space – she an’t so tall as me,” he added, mildly, “and she could even take my room, near the office.”

“Yet you cannot both stay there,” I remarked, thinking Papa would reject the proposition on the grounds of too little space, but I instantly regretted my words, for Uriah nodded and commented, “How thoughtful you are, my dear Miss Agnes! How unfathomably considerate! Alas, we would need two rooms, and as I couldn’t think of that… I shall have to consider other options….”

“You don’t intend to leave!” Papa cried, raising his head, but Uriah merely regarded his napkin, as though to say, “who knows what the future holds?”

“Well – well,” Papa looked helplessly to me, “he could have – he could have Trotwood’s room, couldn’t he, my dear?”

“Papa – ” said, hesitantly, and looking very closely at him.

“It’s the only empty room, Agnes,” my father urged – I think he must have forgotten that Trotwood’s room was but two doors away from mine.

“I couldn’t possibly do that!” Uriah cried, instantly. “Master Copperfield don’t visit often – I imagine it’ll be less and less, now he’s employed, you know, and learning the ways of this world – but the room must be ready for him always, always!”

“Oh, nonsense!” Papa said quickly, and I saw, with sadness, that he felt Uriah’s power over him keenly. And it was soon settled – Mrs. Heep was to take Uriah’s old room and he was to take Trotwood’s.

“Mother will find a tender companion in you, Miss Agnes, I’m sure,” Uriah observed as soon as my father had left the room.

I looked hard at him, but he never took his eyes from my face, and I made no reply.

***

I had met Mrs. Heep but once or twice before, many years past, when she had fetched Uriah home on holidays or his birthday in November; and I had had a very wicked laugh over her with Trotwood, who had visited her and who he characteristically described as looking exactly like her son, which she did. She seemed to remember me much better, which startled me somewhat, as though we’d been intimate companions in a former life, and said I’d grown so much (which was of course, true) and had come to be quite a beauty. Here she looked so suggestively at Uriah (or seemed to) that I was put quite out of countenance, until Papa sent me to introduce her room.

Upon stepping over the threshold, she fell into such raptures I feared her small fragile body would collapse with each new gasp. The room still bore the traces of Uriah’s Spartan preferences – a few books, a desk, a calendar on the wall with violent red X’s obliterating each day – but as for her own decorating, Mrs. Heep promptly put one pillow on one of the bare wooden chairs, and seemed to be highly pleased with the effect, and quite at home.

All that day, for Papa’s sake, I listened to Mrs. Heep’s lamentations of leaving “the old house,” as she called it; such earnest expressions might have been quite moving and touching, if I had felt them to be at all sincere. Perhaps I was of too suspicious a nature at the time, but Mrs. Heep’s continued references to “Father” (her husband, I soon realized, not her ancestor) and the “early days” they had spent in their little hut, were so broken by quick and surreptitious studies of our furniture, drapes, piano, and my dress and jewelry that I really suspected they possessed a sort of falseness, and would have liked to leave the room if ever I had the chance.

“Miss Agnes is a very kind person, Mother,” Uriah Heep grinned, when we met them in the hall. His eye lingered on the link of Mrs. Heep’s arm with mine. “Very condescending to people so lowly as ourselves, mother, to be sure. And I am certain, mother, if ever you are in need of company, Miss Agnes would be appy to oblige you.”

From then on Mrs. Heep was, indeed, my constant companion; whereas I used to join my father in playing our favorite songs, even with Uriah looming in the next room, I was now pulled away from my father, as though to an opposite pole, and Uriah tended to my father instead. All of this, I felt, would lead to some kind of evil; even I, with my sheltered and solitary habits, was aware of that. And yet when I suggested this timidly to my father, after planning my speech for several days, he only rebuked me, and that I could not bear at all, for even in his distress or alteration, he was still the one person I honored and loved most in the world.

I think I have forgotten to mention another aspect of this change in our house. I did not notice it for several weeks. I cannot say if even I might have dreamed it. But one night, as I read in my bed, in my night dress, my plain hair let down along my shoulders, and a solitary candle flickering at my side, I thought at felt a movement at my door, which was barred. It was a strange sound, like the noise of footsteps, yet they did not continue but – I think – they sounded as though they paused at my door; and a chill spread over me, to think of he who now lived two doors away, and I quickly pulled the curtains about the bed and snuffed the candle.

Yet perhaps I dreamed it. Even if I did not, it matters very little.

New Etsy item!

2010-08-03T11:29:00.002-04:00

A pair of cotton trousers for your 12-inch Waldorf doll, made in your choice of 9 fabrics. :)

Check out the listing at my shop for more details!

Johari!

2010-07-29T12:41:00.004-04:00

Thanks to my newest followers, Lib and Jare (hey new followers! *waves*) I stumbled across the Johari window. The idea is that I pick the 5-6 words I think best describe me, and then you pick the 5-6 words you think best describe me, and we get to look at the overlap and lotsa fun statistics. ;)

I know it's kind of hard judging someone via the Internet (as you don't REALLY know them), but I'd really appreciate it if you'd give it a shot! Here's my link:

http://kevan.org/johari?name=Wickfield

You can also make your own!
(BTW, for those of you who are missing the Wishbone Reading Project, it's almost off its summer hiatus! I shall return in a few weeks with a review for The Three Musketeers...after I read it, of course. XD)

HMM....

2010-07-29T12:40:00.000-04:00

...they're casting for a new British Peter Pan miniseries?
http://uk.starsinmyeyes.tv/ArticleDetails.aspx?artid=7025&catid=19#axzz0v5k4xv2r

Unfortunately, it looks like Peter is going to be 14 (as usual, argh) but maybe this could be the long-awaited BBC series?

poem: Of a Lady

2010-07-28T06:40:00.002-04:00

Title: Of a Lady
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Emily, Emily/Steerforth
Prompt: 003. Ends.
Word Count: 315
Rating: PG (just for thematic elements)
Summary: Emily reflects on her division from Steerforth. “Let us look at ships that sail to sea/We will not talk about you, nor your link to me."
Author's Notes: The first poem I've published for you all to read (just like I promised, Marian!), but not the first DC one I've written (that one's coming soon!). A little angsty, but I hope you like it - I based it on T.S. Eliot's stream of consciousness style. ConCrit is very much appreciated!

Let us look at ships that sail to sea
We will not talk about you, nor your link to me
Flee to the green shores of Italy
From the time you said you loved me
Oh
You said you couldn't ever let me go
Told me I was so unlike the others
Told me I had so far to go
That we could sail so far that night -
I remember stubs of pipes and ends of ropes
Tossing seas and burning storms
And broad blue jewels that scrape an ashen sky
Just kept listening to those silky words you'd say
And held you in my arms as you drowned me in my own mistakes -
I remember silver coins pressed hastily in hands at night
The slow half-look of shame and dawn of solemn fright
Formed in the damp flicker of the fire's light
I shall make you listen as they say
Now here's another gaudy Lady
Who wishes she had just kept on watching the ships off the shore -
And would it have been worth the broken house
The withered door that shudders on its hinge
The sodden ashes in the unlit grate
The fisher's boat that's tossed on storming seas
The empty arms, that ill-formed blank embrace
to leave the other place
And tread the streets I find so very long
Winding in and out of pools of hollow stars
And search for snatches of unremembered songs
And find that all the lights are dark
And wonder why I must walk so very far -
I'm still looking for a certain face
Which I have seen before some other place
In some long distant memory left behind -
And roads unwind
And can a necklace truly buy a soul?
The seas sing still, and blanket shores of Italy
But I cannot hear them any more
They do not sing to me.

fic: Dora's Will

2010-07-28T06:39:00.005-04:00

Title: Dora's Will
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Dora
Prompt: 065. Passing.
Word Count: 163
Rating: G
Summary: Dora makes a choice. "...suddenly, there is clarity, made blinding for the first time, in her fast-coming darkness."
Author's Notes: I dunno - a random semi-drabble about Dora, since I don't usually write about her and I probably should. I hope this isn't too redundant to the actual content of the novel! ;)

There are times when Dora wants to beat her Doady with her little fists, because he smiles at Agnes, and cries at her, but of course she knows this is one of her stupid thoughts - since he only does it because she is dying and they all know it, but no one wants to talk about it.

"What a mean person I am." It is a vague, but insistent whisper in her mind, as she looks out the window, where Agnes and David bid each other farewell. It seems to her, sometimes, that she is a great Villain, and has stolen something; and she has thought this for quite some time now. "Though it's stupid of me."

And she looks once more out the window, and breathes, and suddenly, there is clarity, made blinding for the first time, in her fast-coming darkness.

"In stories the heroines make Dying Wishes," Dora murmurs, with some kind of resolute strength. "This will be my one."

Amanda picspam!

2010-07-27T07:44:00.003-04:00

Hmmm, haven't had a good AG post in a few weeks so I thought I'd share a few new ones of Amanda (with her newly improved face-coloring, lol). Enjoy a bit of picspam!

David Copperfield promotionals!

2010-07-25T10:02:00.002-04:00

There's a new development for my sadly-neglected David Copperfield site, Remember - thanks to Elise and Sharona Lee, I have added a ton of new promotionals to my DC collection, and moved all my original ones over to Picasa! You can view them here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/NibsWasHere

I still have to add a few to my 1935 gallery, but otherwise, have fun browsing!
(You can also add some of these to your own galleries - just don't take more than 20, please!)

fic: a different wine.

2010-07-21T08:11:00.000-04:00

Title: A Different Wine
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Agnes, Mr. Wickfield
Prompt: 060. Drink.
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Summary: “She used to yearn to break the curse that held her father in what seemed to be a terrible grasp, but now she knows that such demons can bring exquisite happiness also.”
Author's Notes: My first drabble, exactly 100 words AND CHOCK FULL OF AGNES!ANGST. But then that’s kind of hard to avoid, lol. Anyway, I drew this parallel a while back and though shorter is sweeter in writing about it. ;)

He slowly finishes his wine, drinking it back, shimmering red in the light. Agnes poured it for him. She knows his addiction, knows his pain, knows she’s powerless to stop it and yet she feels she shouldn’t stop it, anyway. There are other kinds of addictions; she realizes this now. She used to yearn to break the curse that held her father in what seemed to be a terrible grasp, but now she knows that such demons can bring exquisite happiness also – and she thinks of a certain smile, a certain laugh, a certain touch, so far away.

fic: Contemplations

2010-07-21T08:10:00.000-04:00

Title: Contemplations
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Agnes, David, Mr. Wickfield, Uriah, Mrs. Heep
Prompt: 004. Insides.
Word Count: 1270
Rating: G
Summary: Inside the minds of the characters at that fateful dinner in Canterbury. “If only David could have seen inside the minds of those around him, as we can, how differently might that evening have played out!"
Author's Notes: This is totally ripped off from “The Reveries” from Mervyn Peake’s Titus Groan, but I thought it would be a fun look at the characters in a tense situation. Plus, it’s Mrs. Heep as you’ve never seen her before!

It is sometimes difficult to ascertain the innermost thoughts of a person, when they display such a different façade to the outside world; how true, especially, of David Copperfield and the party that surrounded him on that troubling evening in Canterbury, at the dinner that forewarned of wicked deeds to come! If only David could have seen inside the minds of those around him, as we can, how differently might that evening have played out!

MRS. HEEP’S CONTEMPLATION

Oh Ury my Ury look at him there so polite look he’s at the ’ed of the table just as we’d planned and he looks like his father only handsomer which admittedly ain’t sayin much but still at least he ain’t proud which is what’s important after all the good book says it’s the meek as’ll inherit the earth and though while having the whole earth would be nice I’d have no use for places like Africer or Chiner or Siam and even though I’m gettin' on in years I’d prefer a few pounds to make a silk dress instead like the girl has on if it ain’t vain I’m not sure as if Ury is quite sensible goin’ after her she’s so proud she don’t look at him (or me) or talk to him (or me) and she’s not at all loyal right there she’s laughin’ at that Copperfield’s jokes (he’s proud too) but at least she’s pretty and Ury is only ‘uman after all I guess she looks like her mother mainly only a wider mouth though her father’s not a ugly one himself but then if we was to fall in love that’d make her and Ury siblings-in-law and if they was to get married it’d be incetustous and that is forbidden I think in the holy book but then it could’ve been tempestuous as my poor old eyesight is so very bad but at any rate it would be ill advised…

URIAH HEEP’S CONTEMPLATION
Hmm it looks as if we’re almost out of wine better tend to that what irony my ‘aving to resort to this just being friendly ain’t enough evidently I s’pose God helps those as helps themselves they taught that in school but also patience well patience doesn’t get you anywhere patience has you sittin’ in the dark reading Tidd for five years and has you be a pawn but being proactive is what makes the world go round oh dear he’s out of wine that’s better he really oughtn’t drink so much this wouldn’t even work if he wasn’t a drinker in the first place so it’s not really my fault and look at that upstart Copperfield over there so upset but won’t say a thing or do a thing all full of pride and captivation he don’t care for Miss Agnes only prejudices her against me and runs off again and he could have anyone he wants to oh yes well we’ll see about that now won’t we oh dear the idiot drinks so fast here have some more sorry Miss Agnes but this is a means to an end a means to an end and I wouldn’t do it anyways if you’d talk to me like you used to before he came along and if you’d put in a good word for me to the old man and if you didn’t make yourself so beautiful and…

MR. WICKFIELD’S CONTEMPLATION
What oh dear is my glass empty again oh no I’ve done it again oh my love what would you think of me now would you look at me so sadly as my dear girl does just as if you she wasn’t proud of me it’s just because I’m so alone and Agnes gets on all right and the buisness gets on all right and it helps me oh dear I’m getting sleepy it helps me from going to despondency and madness so it’s a kind of medication in a way oh no I must have drunk ever so much or are doing something bad for Agnes won’t look at me you are always looking at me from the painting you seem so far away oh I’m very very drunk but wait there’s still some more in my glass perhaps I’m not so drunk as I thought CURSE that Uriah Heep curse the day I brought him here curse pity and mercy and oh how far I’ve fallen and is he ordering more wine I hope he is I can’t bear it I can’t bear anything anymore and Agnes still won’t look at me…

AGNES WICKFIELD’S CONTEMPLATION
Poor Papa he is ill again I’m so very glad David I mean Trotwood is here I don’t think I could bear it otherwise how can I stop Papa from drinking so much I must not be cheerful enough but if I smile Uriah will think I’m smiling at him and he’s so terrible and I’m sorry if it’s wrong to say so, but I’m not saying so so even if it’s wicked in me to think it it’s the truth and it’s nearly 8 o’clock which means I’ll have to sit with Mrs. Heep again which I would not mind so much if only I didn’t have to leave Papa alone for I don’t trust his judgement when he’s like this oh Trotwood please keep him safe you are holding my hand beneath the table so you must know what I am suffering and I can do nothing but perhaps you can you are so good and strong oh Papa you are so weak but I am no stronger!

DAVID COPPERFIELD’S CONTEMPLATION
What a wretch he is look at his gloating and his smirking if he looks at Agnes once more I swear I’ll pitch him out the window poor Agnes what must she be suffering in this house I swear I will visit more often I shall have to explain to Dora because it would be simply wrong to abandon Agnes but I must not think too much about Agnes even if she is holding my hand for it will make me emotional and then I will lose my temper and say something I’ll regret no no I’m above that but Uriah Heep if Agnes says one word in the affirmative I will pitch you out the window in triumph for you are a coward and a cur to take advantage of an innocent girl and a weak old man so perhaps Agnes is too quiet and perhaps Mr. Wickfield too weak but they deserve help not exploitation Mr. Wickfield please stop drinking dear lord there’s no need to toast my aunt again and now he’s toasting Mr. Dick oh dear perhaps it is partly his fault – but still, Uriah Heep is a cur and a coward and deserves an ill ending I’ve never met someone so unlike myself!

***
And the clock strikes eight, each sonorous toll the echo of its ancestor, and each member of this party breaks from their own reverie, and curtsies, and writhes, and bows, and nods, and drinks, as is their usual custom, seen to the outside world.

Recommended Period Films

2010-07-20T09:58:00.006-04:00

Well I've been meaning to do this for AGES, and here I am with my blog over half-a-year-old and still no Recommend Period Films! Shame on me!
Anyway, my family has watched a TON of costume dramas - we like their historical and literary aspects, as well as the fact that they are usually clean, which is, unfortunately, rare. I've seen many more than I've listed here, but these are my favorites. ;) I've also made sure to starr the ones with somewhat objectionable content (though all of them are PG).

Amazing Grace
Bleak House (2005)
Cranford
David Copperfield (1974)
David Copperfield (2000)
Downton Abbey *suggestive content
Dr. Bell and Mr. Doyle *violence and very accurate mannequin nudity :P
Emma (BBC, 2009)
Five Mile Creek (TV series)
Lark Rise to Candleford
Liberty! The American Revolution
Little Women (1995)
Longitude
Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes *violence and very accurate mannequin nudity :P
My Family and Other Animals *suggestive content
Nicholas Nickleby (2002) *violence
North and South (2004)
Pocahontas (1995 and yes it does count!)
Pride and Prejudice (A&E, 1995)
Return to Cranford/Cranford Christmas special
Sherlock (2010 series, technically not period but based on the original series) *suggestive content, violence
Sherlock Holmes TV series (Grenada, w/ Jeremy Brett)
The Young Victoria
Wives and Daughters

If you are wondering about a film not listed here, leave a comment and I'll let you know if I've seen it and what I thought about it. ;)

Creativity isn't dead!

2010-07-18T12:44:00.002-04:00

Wow. So I first saw this song on So You Think You Can Dance, and was surprised to find almost nothing about it on the Internet when I looked it up afterwards. Turns out, the choreographer contacted an artist who wrote this song on YouTube! Now Christina Perri is an overnight success, and with good reason - this is one of the loveliest songs I've heard in awhile! Music buffs will also recognized the Beethoven influences, particularly his Moonlight Sonata. So without further ado, I present Jar of Hearts.

I think I'll have to write a fic based around this one of these days... :)

I can agree with that

2010-07-16T13:55:00.000-04:00

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

And also

I write like
Charles Dickens

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Awesome!

fic: Among Black and Scarlet

2010-07-14T19:39:00.002-04:00

Title: Among Black and Scarlet
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Uriah Heep
Prompt: 011. Red
Word Count: 326
Rating: PG, just for weirdness
Summary: Uriah Heep’s vows right after his slapfight with David. “…yet the one man he hates with the intense hatred of jealous ambition and aim is free of his power, and it galls him.”
Author's Notes: Third person POV, focusing on Uriah. Lots of ugly fuming, lol! And I could NOT think of a title for this one - if you have a better one, throw it at me!

Before the red has died down on Uriah Heep’s face – the cruel, burning swathe from temple to jaw – he has seethed, and fumed, and made horrible vows to himself of treacheries yet to come. It is not so much the strike that infuriates him – in truth, he has kicked dogs in the street harder than David Copperfield’s paltry slap – but it is the realization that any hold he had upon the upstart is dissolved, that somehow Copperfield has the better of him, is possessed of some secret he cannot ferret out. Wickfield is his, Dr. Strong is his, Micawber is his, even Agnes is powerless to do anything he does not will; yet the one man he hates with the intense hatred of jealous ambition and aim is free of his power, and it galls him.

The color – or rather, the colorlessness – returns to his face, yet that night’s mischief is not done. Rambling down the streets like a broken windmill dashed along the road, he keeps to darkness, as though his paleness will absorb the very shadow; rushing back to the house, he once more clutches the books of accounts in his wasted hands; in the height of his emotion, he stares recklessly at his angel’s window, infinitely removed from the ground on which he treads, and blows a poisoned kiss to the window to curse her and drag her into his power.

Uriah Heep knows that things may come to an end, that all things have their season, and that double treachery, careful planning, vicious lying, are the only rafters for his castles in the sky. And he instinctively puts his hand to his lank face, his great splay fingers plastered over the faint print of David Copperfield’s own mark of violence, and the red in his eye seems to drain the blood from every pore, in its vivid intensity.

fic: Ablaze

2010-07-14T16:32:00.009-04:00

Well, as soon as I decided to do the FanFic 100 on David Copperfield, I got busy writing - I've already written almost seven fics! And as I am very impatient and want reviews, I've decided to go ahead and post two - I'll try to do this once every week. Please give me criticism and suggestions on this story, also on what characters/scenes/whatever you'd like to see! I live for comments! :)

Title: Ablaze
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Steerforth, Traddles, David, Mr. Mell
Prompt: 052. Fire
Word Count: 793
Rating: G
Summary: After Traddles accidentally starts a fire at Salem House, David forges his bond with Steerforth – but he doesn’t seem to realize the older boy’s total indifference. “I thought, then, that he was a god; I think, now, he might have been a fiend.”
Author's Notes: David’s POV, written during the Salem House days.

Traddles had been poking viciously at the fire, never a good thing. I am ashamed to admit, knowing now my great friendship with the man he was to become, that Traddles was known for his extreme clumsiness; and as I read of Gulliver, the feared and revered giant among the swarming Lilliputians, suddenly a great shriek arose from the far end of the room.

All our 20 pairs of eyes swiveled in Traddles’ direction, and each (excepting, probably, Steerforth’s) grew wide as saucers at the sight that met them. A great leaping flame seemed to tumble out of the grate, as if it were a sentient thing, and instantly spread up the robes that had been hung there to dry.

“Don’t overreact!” Steerforth warned as all us younger boys immediately sprang from our beds and dashed to the windows, as though they were our only escapes, and in three long strides he was very near to reaching Traddles, who was about to burst into tears. But in the semisecond of their division, poor Traddles panicked, and kicked the blazing log across the room in an attempt to smother it, instead leaving a foaming trail of fire in its wake.

“TRADDLES!” everyone shrieked. We immediately gave ourselves up as lost, and began coughing violently in unison.

Steerforth cuffed Traddles hard, nearly knocking him to the ground. “David, get that pitcher!” Steerforth shouted, and overwhelmed by this honor, I instantly darted towards the washing table and clutched the creamy, cracked china pitcher, half-full with water. Steerforth flung its contents on the blaze but, alas, with little effect. He groaned and plucked the robe off Traddles and spread it over the floor and stamped, but it only caught in the flames, and crackled to its death.

The curtains were thoroughly engulfed now, each successive flame licking its way to the top of the room, brushing the ceilings, glowing on Steerforth’s focused features, as a marble statue lit by some divine light. The drops of sweat were springing to his reddened face, and I wanted to be so like him I could hardly bear it – I could imagine no sea captain, no general, no leader of any kind as self-possessed or as agile as he was then, for it was almost inhuman. But suddenly I was seized by a sincere fit of coughing, for the thick white smoke was spreading, like the flames, across the room.

“Somebody get Mr. Creakle!” a desperate unfortunate cried from the back of the room, and in other circumstances this would have been sage advice, but we feared the wrath of Creakle almost more than we feared a death by fire, and we hesitated, like a single boy. Traddles gulped.

“I’ll fetch him,” he said, huskily, as though he were paying penance for his great crime, and disappeared, but somehow it wasn’t as fantastic as Steerforth’s bravery.

I watched Steerforth, in that half glow, slightly obscured by the white swirls of fog that enveloped him, and I cried, in the throes of my emotion, “I esteem you Steerforth!” for I felt that I should have gone to Hell if I didn’t say it, it was so deserved. It was like my dying speech, and it was the first time I had said this. He turned then, and looked at me. One look.

It is strange how your world changes over the years. I remember Mr. Mell rushing into the room in his tattered robe and slippers (Traddles had evidently met him in the hall and chosen him as a substitution); I saw him kick the burning robes into the grate and pull down the curtains, thrusting them in afterwards, to let them be consumed; I saw him organize the small boys into a mechanical system of water-basin-passing that flushed all traces of fire from the floor, and even the blaze on the ceiling died down as he opened the windows, allowing the smoke to rush from the room, as though it were announcing a new saint within. Yet Steerforth gained all my praises, all my admiration.

And I remember that earlier look he returned to my declaration, vividly, now, as I write this page. I remember the light that reflected in his blue eyes, the orange glow cast upon his face, the image that he had been born of the fire himself and – what I now know – the emptiness in that look, void of the same deep feeling I had expressed, though I thought at the time he was merely distracted by the efforts of his valor. He has done many things since that time. I thought, then, that he was a god born of the fire. I think, now, he might have been a fiend.

Fanfic 100!

2010-07-13T07:16:00.005-04:00

since the Dickensblog group fic has ended, I've been kind of missing all that writing every week or two. I need to keep my skills up, especially since (as you all know, of course), I'm aiming to participate in the upcoming NaNoWriMo. Today, I just so happened upon Fanfic100, a Livejournal community with a very interesting challenge: "Write one hundred fanfics centered around this fandom you’ve chose. You can use old stuff that you’ve written before, or new stuff. Fictions, drabbles, poems, scripts. Anything is game as long as it is set in your fandom. You don't have to post them all at once. You can do one at a time, or a couple, or whatever you want."
And the catch: each of the fics must fit into one of the 100 following prompts.

Not all the content on this LJ is family-friendly, but this page should be pretty safe for everyone - anyway, the prompts are at the top of the page:
http://community.livejournal.com/fanfic100/profile

So I kind of want to do it! But which fandom should I choose? I'm seriously leaning toward David Copperfield (of course), but could you all stand 100 DC drabbles posted here? ;) It would also be harder, since the novel was written from David's point of view, to focus on different characters...unless I also used third-person or first-person from their POV!

Then again, I could do a different Dickens book, or even Disney. What would YOU like to read? :) And do you have any suggestions/encouragements/tips? Let me know - I think this will be a lot of fun!

Well that makes sense

2010-07-08T18:08:00.005-04:00

I got this one from the very hilarious Spacefem. If you take it, please tell what you got in the comments section!

Your rainbow is shaded blue.

What is says about you: You are a tranquil person. You appreciate friends who get along with one another. You share hobbies with friends and like trying to fit into their routines.

Find the colors of your rainbow at spacefem.com.

Sounds about right to me!

BTW, unrelated of course, but thanks for filling out the poll, and for those of you who haven't, please do - I love to see who's reading! And also, thanks so much for all the well wishes on reaching 50+ followers!

I made it! 150 posts and 50 followers!

2010-07-07T13:39:00.004-04:00

Well I suppose the title says it all, but I'm proud to announce on my 150th entry that Wickfield now has 50 followers! Thanks to my fellow AG fans for pushing my followers-list to my goal, and thanks to everyone who has logged on to see the things I write - the blog wouldn't still be here without you!

(Now...do you think we could make it to 100? Just kidding!)

The Summer of Love Blog Parade!

2010-07-06T18:49:00.006-04:00

Here is the Summer of Love blog parade at With Love and Kisses! Go check it out!

Here are the rules:
- Answer all of the questions on your blog with the icon
- Send me {Bleah} a link of the post you've done about this parade
- Link it back to me {Bleah} and tell your followers to link it back to the both of us {Nina and Bleah} - did you hear that, ladies? Make sure your followers link back to me {Bleah}, you {Nina} and themselves {that would be you!}
- Tell your followers to give you the link to their blog and then tell me {Bleah} how many of your followers have done it Please leave your links, lovely readers!
- Ask your followers to do the same and let me {Bleah} know again
Note from Bleah: I am trying to get 100 people to do this... once we've reached one hundred I will have a giveaway of some sort to celebrate the beginning of the school year!

And now we begin!

Justin Bieber or Adam Young? Ooh, Owl City (Adam Young) all the way! My sister has his album and it's quite peppy and enjoyable - "Then we'll take a long walk through the corn field/And I'll kiss you between the ears," haha.
The Prince Of Peace or Lord of Lords? Guess.
Peaches or Apricots? Never had apricots, but I love peaches!
Blogger or Facebook? Blogger, obviously!
Myspace or Twitter? Neither - I give enough info out on my blog, I think....
Computers or Cell Phones? Computers, for sure. I don't own a cell phone and I don't have anyone to call anyway.
Dating or Waiting? I'm waiting, right now - I'm busy enough with college and other projects and wouldn't be able to devote proper time to a "boyfriend." But I'm keeping my eyes peeled!
Peaches and Cream or Strawberry Shortcake? - Strawberry Shortcake - it's sweeter. ^_^ Stripes or Polka Dots? Ah, there is a time for everything, so both!
Pink or Blue? Blue, definitely, though I wear my share of pink.
Black or White? Both together!
Skirts or Shorts? Shorts, but not extremely short ones. ;)
Jeans or Slacks? Jeans
Sneakers or Flats? Sneakers, but I could use a pair of flats, lol.
Sandals or Flip flops? Flip flops - I live in them!
Once Upon a Time or The End? The End...hopefully a satisfactory one.
History or Mathematics? History! I still want to be a history teacher, even if it looks like I'll have to start out as a multi-grade teacher.
Awards or Tags? Awards!
Ballet or Soccer? Um, neither for me, but I would always watch ballet over soccer.
Keyboard or Pen and Paper? Ooh, I need pen and paper for the first draft (so I don't get distracted by my blog), but a keyboard is better for quick work!
E-mail or Hand Written Letters? Well, it depends on the person. Both are good ways of communication!
Candles or Flashlights? Flashlights for actually lighting an area, but candles for ambiance!
TV or Books? Well TV is easier, but I prefer books. ♥
Action or Romance? Neither, really, but out of the two I guess romance - the period drama type, not the RomCom type, yuck!
Cats or Dogs? Neither, but if I had to choose, cats.
More Questions or Stop Now? I think I need a break, lol. ;)

Literary Lane blog parade!

2010-07-06T18:00:00.006-04:00

Okay, ladies, today I'm posting entries for TWO blog parades! Here is the first, from Living on Literary Lane. The webmiss is having a terrific giveaway - you can win goodies for your blog or even a $60 blog makeover!!

Have you ever run outside during a rainstorm (and if so, please describe it)?
Only when I was little, and only with a proper raincoat and permission, lol. I'd really rather not ruin my hair and clothes and makeup just to get wet, frankly! :D

What is your favorite Sense & Sensibility version: 2008 or 1995?
I've only seen the 1995 one, so...

Do you keep a journal (and if so, how many have you filled)?
It's odd that this is a question because I've recently been toying with this idea. It would be more of an idea journal - some of the thoughts running through my head, because I'd like to put down what I am thinking, not so much as a record about myself, but so that I could reuse some of my thoughts in my stories. So no, I don't have one, but I might make one.

What is your favorite thing about summer?
Well it used to be having no school but I take summer classes, so I guess it's just having a 10-week semester instead of a 16-week one!

What is your favorite classical song?
Don't know if this counts, but I adore Carol of the Bells! I don't even celebrate Christmas but I do love the song. ^_^

It's your wedding day. And while you are going down the aisle (gracefully, of course), the audience suddenly bursts into singing "How Do You Solve A Problem Like ____ (your name)?" What are your emotions?
Heheh, I plan on getting married at the justice of the peace so, no aisle, but if for some reason I were going down an aisle and this happened, I would be confused and look at my husband/fiance because I've never heard this song before! Once I realized what it was all about, though, I'd probably think it funny. :)

What is your favorite scene in Sense & Sensibility? Is the same scene in the movie(s) (and if so, do you like it as well)?
I don't really have a favorite scene (not a huge Austen fan!), but I really liked Edward and Elinor's romance - I liked how low-key and slow it was, as it seems more realistic than thunderous romantic scenes in other stories.

Which of Jane Austen's books is your favorite? Why?
Hmm. I've only actually read two, P&P and Emma, but I've seen all of the miniseries. I'd have to say Emma is my favorite out of the Austen stories because she is so full of herself (and thus an interesting, different character), plus I like Mr. Knightley and Mr. Elton and the whole love confusion is funny. ;)

Describe your perfect reading "nook":
A comfy chair you can curl up in, near a big window to stare out, and with plenty of room to throw my books around! ;)

Have you ever been accused of reading a book when you were supposed to be doing chores?
You bet!

You are on the beach, and you are wearing normal clothes (NOT a bathing suit). Do you consider jumping into the cold ocean anyway?
As Atlanta said, this would only happen if I were with someone else, but it could happen. :P If I were just standing there by myself there wouldn't be much point, right?

Do you consider yourself a matchmaker like Emma?
I think I could be but I haven't had much of a chance yet - though I could definitely see myself disapproving of a match I thought unsuitable!

What do you like best about my blog? What do you think is the worst? (It's always good to get feedback, so I know what to change and what to keep!)
I've never seen your blog before, but it is very beautiful and easy to navigate! I love the title! But it could use a bit more Dickens, don't you think? ;)

What are your opinions involving letters: short and brief or long and lovely?
Long and lovely - it gives me a lot to read and reread until the next one. ;)

What Scripture verse has encouraged you a lot recently?
None, really. I don't look to a particular verse but instead take in parts all throughout the Bible.

Do you consider yourself an artist? If so, in what way?
Yes, I do, and I'm always trying to expand my talents. I love to draw, both with pencil and digitally; I love to sew and design costumes for dolls; I like to make Waldorf dolls (though apparently I can't sell any :/); I've sculpted before, and I love to write! In fact, you can view some of my artwork here and you can read my stories here. ♥

What interests you in a blog: beautiful layout or good content?
Both. The layout is what draws me, but the content is what keeps me coming back!

Do you believe in saving your first kiss for your wedding day?
That's currently the plan, lol, but you never know. ;) It sounds really sweet, though. :)

What are your opinions involving modesty?
I think it's important to be modest, but it's not a matter of submission as some object it to be, it's another way to control the access guys have to you. If you are letting it all hang out, how are you sure the guy likes you for you, for your mind and for your accomplishments? You can direct his focus by the clothes you wear. And honestly, I've never seen the point of wearing solely skirts for modesty - if it's a personal choice I'm totally accepting of that, but no where in the Bible does it say you must wear skirts (after all, everyone wore "skirts" at the time it was written), and it seems they are more...accessible...than pants. So, I think as long as you are covered and would feel comfortable walking into a room of men with what you are wearing, I think you are good. ;)

Did you enjoy answering all these questions?
Surely.

How to make your AG doll blush ;)

2010-07-05T15:37:00.001-04:00

Hi everyone! I hope you had a fun 4th-of-July weekend, I certainly did! Along with chilling with family and going to a local fireworks display, as well as further planning my NaNoWriMo (including doing some quick character drawings!) I've been working on my American Girl collection. I received a new doll on Friday, my first fair-skinned Mattel doll (you'll hear more about her soon ♥), and seeing her rosy cheeks made me feel sorry for my rather sallow #14, Amanda. Amanda is a PM doll, and as you can see in pics like this, she had very little color on her sweet face! So I decided to give her a touch of rosiness, and I want to share my technique with you. :)

I actually got the idea from AGFMB members simplepretty and Katie148. Some people mix paint to color their dolls' faces, while others use stenciling cream. But as these board members suggested, I used a creme lipliner pencil! The shot below shows all the materials you'll need for this project - the lipliner pencil, a Q-tip, and/or a paper towel.

This is a close-up of the pencil I used - the discontinued Wet n' Wild #713. Simplepretty and Katie148 used Loreal pencils in coral tones, but I wasn't planning on going shopping any time soon and besides, these pencils cost about $8! My mother had the Wet n' Wild one in her cabinet, and she hadn't used it in years: though it looked quite dark on the paper towel, it was a perfect warm peach color for Amanda's face - so ask your mothers and search your makeup supplies and you might find something that will work perfectly!

I started with Amanda's mouth because if you do the cheeks first, you'll be rubbing over it with your hand as you do the lips. Working carefully, I drew thin lines on Amanda's bottom lip (not shown), then quickly scrubbed in the color with the Q-tip, spreading it out to make it even. You will need to do this several times to build up layers of color - go carefully, and perhaps use another doll or pictures as a guide, to make sure the lips look naturally shaped, and not too dark.
(In these pics, I've already colored Amanda's cheeks, but I' m just showing you the basic idea. ;) )

In order to blush the cheeks, you will need either a Q-tip (you can use the same one as on the lips), or a paper towel. Scrub color from the pencil thickly on the tip of the swab, or in a circle on the paper towel, like so:

There are slightly different techniques for each material - the Q-tip lays down light swathes of color, and you can use it to scrub circularly and easily see what you are doing. The paper towel, on the other hand, leaves bigger, slightly darker marks, and you'll quickly need to rub in the color with your thumb. I personally preferred the Q-tip method for more control, but the paper towel method is quicker. Apply the blush to the apples of the cheeks, taking a look at the doll to make sure the spots of color are symmetrical.

And that's pretty much it! I do have a few pointers I wish I'd thought of when I was doing this: it would probably be a good idea to wash your doll's face with water and baking soda prior to adding color. :) You also might want to remove your doll's head from her body, or at least take off her clothes so you don't accidentally get any color on the fabric. ^_^ And before you go skipping off looking for a coral-toned lip pencil, remember that darker-skinned dolls from Mattel have a more wine-toned rosiness to their face, so consider the doll you are working with first.

Have fun adding color to your dolls, it will help to freshen them up and make them look healthy and happy again!

On writing and NaNoWriMo

2010-07-02T18:08:00.005-04:00

Okay, well now that you've had two days of Gormenghast reviews, I want to share with you a bit of my own literary eccentricity and a peek at my plans for my NaNoWriMo (which is coming in four months!) story, Paper House.

-----------------------------

In the story, 16-year-old Arthur Audley comes from a working class family for which fame is their ticket to higher social circles - they value talent and fortune in their children, they hone it to their own ends, and awkward Arthur is shown to be basically useless to them, especially compared to his younger brother Jonas who is destined for *stardom*. When curious stranger Mr. Tewe, with his violet suit and timid manner, requests Arthur agree to employ himself at Paper House, his parents are only too eager to dispose of him so he can send his wages back home. Arthur only wants approval, and so he accepts the invitation.

Paper House - the home of business tycoon and self-proclaimed benefactor Mr. Magnus - employs several youths in order to keep them "busy and useful" - but at very low wages. The boys bind and refurbish the many damaged books Magnus obsessively collects but never reads, only displaying them for show. At Arthur's arrival, two other boys are employed: Rupert, a large and oafish and rather lazy, but charming young man who sorts pages, and pale serious Si, who has worked for many years, slowly accumulating a store of knowledge from reading the books he binds. He expects a raise in position, as promised by Magnus for five years.

But soon Rupert receives an inheritance and climbs the social ladder denied to Si, who is hypocritically urged to "work for his rewards" as the only proper way of receiving them. When Si becomes scorned by Magnus and his daughter Serena, he plans to bring down the legacy and grandeur of Paper House, trading one obsolete system for his own equally damaging values - and when he enlists Jonas Audley as his accomplice, Arthur becomes trapped in the middle.

And here's an excerpt of the first meeting between Arthur and Si. Si's not really a through-and-through villain, more like an antihero:
Now Arthur was of that kind that imagines themselves to be extremely discreet and amazingly astute, when really everyone knows exactly what they are doing at all times. Arthur thought that the many sidelong glances he directed at Si went unnoticed. In profile, Arthur could see the other lad had a normal-sized but rather harsh and beakish nose and that, as he concentrated carefully on his work, he seemd to continually blink his prominent and watery eyes. Normal skin but fair hair had Si, pale as the hair of some very young children, but dulled to a greyish hue, and though Arthur didn't notice, he also had a profusion of the same running down his arms and standing out like white vines against his skin. His overall appearance was not exactly ugly, Arthur decided, but certainly peculiar, and he had the air of something mouldering, or of a thing left too long in the dark.

-----------------------------

I hope you enjoyed the excerpts! I've been constantly revising things in my head (for instance, Tewe was originally going to be the villain!), and right now I'm trying to work in some humorous bits. I was also trying to shoehorn in a love story but I don't suppose every novel has to have a love story, right? If you have any suggestions or comments please share, I'd love to hear them!

Discovering Gormenghast: Gormenghast review

2010-07-01T08:03:00.010-04:00

If ever [Steerpike] had harboured a conscience in his tough narrow breast he had by now dug out and flung away the awkward thing - flung it so far away that were he ever to need it again he could never find it....he is climbing the spiral staircase of the soul of Gormenghast, bound for some pinnacle of the itching fancy - some wild, invulnerable eyrie best known to himself; where he can watch the world spread out below him, and shake exultantly his clotted wings.

For those of you who read yesterday's review, you already know I really loved the first book in the Gormenghast trilogy, Titus Groan. That book, along with being a great story in and of itself, served as a terrific prequel to the second book of the series, Gormenghast. Written a bout five years after the first novel, it is in Gormenghast that the actions begun in TG reach their greatest height and level of destruction.

This story begins when Titus is 7 years old; after reintroducing us to the key characters and unceremoniously killing off a few that have lost their purpose, Peake dives into the plot. Though he is the 77th earl of Gormenghast, Titus is required to spend his early years gaining the experience peasant boys have, including going to school. As he continues through his education and adolescence, he grows increasingly dissatisfied with the expectations forced upon him as Earl. Meanwhile, Steerpike, through various dastardly deeds, has ascended the ranks of Gormenghast hierarchy to become the sole Master of Ritual. However, in Titus, Steerpike has a powerful enemy he overlooked in his cool calculations, and soon the battle to alter centuries of Gormenghast tradition grows dangerous and deadly - for everyone who lives in its shadow.

Oddly, the areas where Peake shined in TG were not as good in Gormenghast, and vice versa. I am glad to see more strength in the plot - HOWEVER, it takes so long to get to the meat of the story. The first half of the book is literally comprised of dense description (of things which were already extensively detailed in TG), lengthy accounts of the lives and thoughts of Titus innumerable professors, as well as the love affair between Irma Prunesquallor and one of their ranks. All of this would have been fine in moderation - the new characters were just as good as the old ones, Irma disturbingly hilarious, etc., but we didn't need to read hundreds of pages about characters who basically disappear and of an essentially fruitless affair.

I actually grew to like Steerpike in this sequel, though, as Peake finally begins to show us the flaws in his scheming, and the true madness behind his calculating brain. Here, Steerpike tended to steal the show in his mix of horrendous crimes and odd, teenagerish pranks. The struggle with Barquentine in the fire is probably the highlight of the book, and one of the best things I've ever read.

Most of the characters we loved are back, including Prunesquallor and Fuchsia, but they don't get nearly enough attention as they should since the book focuses mainly on Steerpike and Titus (and Irma x professors). There are slight changes to some of the characters - Prune, for instance, has lost his trademark cackle - but also improvements. I like Flay far better as a man of the wilderness; the Countess' strangely loyal dictator-style is interesting; Dr. Prunesquallor is shown to be hardcore, brave, and sensible, and ten kinds of awesome in general; and Fuchsia is wonderful and broken and misguided and tragic. The only one I really disliked this time around was, unfortunately, Titus. So much so that he gets his own paragraph. ;)

Do any of you remember Wesley Crusher from Star Trek TNG (*looks at a certain sci-fi fan among my readers*). Apparently he was the screenwriters' darling while the audience almost unanimously hated him. "The Wesley" is now the term for any such character. Titus is this kind of character. Now I actually sympathized with his rebellion against Gormenghast rules because it was actually deserved (unlike the usual woe-is-me-I'm-dissatisfied-royalty plots). But it was his personality that got me - he's not likable at all. He is rebellious and yet wants the power of his title, selfish and self-centered, and moody (mainly as a teen; child!Titus is okay). His obsession with "The Thing" gets old after about three pages and his final encounter with her was awkward, to say the least. And yet Peake loves him (the series was originally going to revolve around Titus for several books), and we get saddled with him for half the book.

I must say, though, I really did love his relationship with Fuchsia (though the Prune x Fuchsia element in TG was flatly dropped V_V), and there were many other redeeming parts; it's quite an exciting story, if not as good as TG, and the displays of loyalty, descent of Steerpike into utter madness, and the villainy and mystery surround Gormenghast are all well done. But then we also have too many rambling scenes, some awkward sexual innuendo, and, oh yeah Titus.
I would give this book 3/5 stars, because I did like it, I just wasn't thrilled. There is another book to the trilogy (of course), Titus Alone. Just the title explains why I'm uninterested, but the story, written in the last stages of Peake's declining health, is also known to be a strange and badly edited work. However, if you've read it or any of the Gormenghast trilogy, I'd love to hear your thoughts! I know they were practically novels themselves, but I hope my reviews will help you in deciding if these works are ones you will enjoy as much as I did. ♥

Discovering Gormenghast: Titus Groan review

2010-06-30T08:25:00.004-04:00

"Drear ritual turned its wheel. The ferment of the heart, within these walls, was mocked by every length of sleeping shadow. The passions, no greater than candle flames, flickered in Time's yawn, for Gormenghast, huge and adumbrate, out-crumbles all."

Ah, here we are with the Titus Groan review - it's been in the works for quite some time now! Then again, it took me several months to read the book, too - you may remember my asking about it after posting some of Mervyn Peake's Bleak House illustrations. After receiving some good advice in my comments, I decided to put the WRP on hold to tackle this 500+ page novel and its equally long sequel, Gormenghast. This series is often said to be one readers totally hate or absolutely love - now how did I take it?

Mervyn Peake wrote this novel in the mid-1940s, and its themes of a broken country and social system align nicely with British troubles of the time. This book is not at all political, though - in fact, it's rather a teen-friendly level, I would say, written in a style that has the verboseness and detail of Dickens, the image of Tim Burton (he could make a really good movie from this!), and a touch of Addams-Family-style dark humor. :) There are a few moments I feel I should warn you about, though - one person gets pregnant out of wedlock (the whole thing is pretty tastefully done, though), and their seems to be some predatory innuendo about Chef Swelter and the kitchen boys (though others have said he is just supposed to be cannibalistic...). It's still quite mild, but I just though I would warn you. ;)

This first novel is deceptively named Titus Groan, but this character - the much revered 77th Earl of Gormenghast - is just a baby and really doesn't deserve the book title or the pomp he receives. ;) The entire story hinges upon the ritualistic world Titus is born to - every living action is strictly done according to age-old, ridiculous protocol passed down through generations. Some of the Gormenghast residents - especially creaky old manservant Flay and ritual master Sourdust - welcome such continuity, but others - like Lord Sepulchrave, his daughter Fuchsia, and more - are growing weary of it. Change is afoot in the halls of the crumbling, decrepit castle, and when upstart kitchen boy Steerpike - a sociopathic, albinistic teen - arrives on the scene, it seems the entire structure of Gormenghast is destined to collapse at its foundation.

You really have to love reading, love words for their own sake, because DANG, Mervyn Peake can be wordier than Dickens most of the time! Once I got used to the long passages of narration, though, I began to appreciate their imagery - it really helps to set the tone, to establish the strange world as reference when action and dialogue actually do occur. Something I found rather odd is the fact that despite some true beauty and poetry in the story, it never quite seemed like it reached the level of classic adult writing - it was more like a really really good YA novel. Nothing really wrong with that, just an observation.

The plot itself, despite its wordiness, was actually quite a page-turner (I was GLUED to this book over the weekend I read it!). I really like how Peake kept you guessing - you never know who is going to die or be killed, how it will happen, how Peake will construct each scene. He moves back and forth quite nicely between various viewpoints; the only thing that really irked me was Keda's plot, which proved to be pointless and seemed more like an interruption than anything else (it plays a larger role in the second book, but still).

Now, the characters - somehow, I think this is where Peake excelled. At the beginning, every character seems flatly eccentric or self-absorbed, like they are caricatures that you would never like or can't figure out. But as you continue reading Peake develops their personalities, showing their flaws and awkward beauty layer by layer. My personal favorites were Dr. Prunesquallor and Fuchsia Groan. Prunesquallor, at first, seems hugely effeminate (I mean, he wears lime-green pajamas and a flowered robe), weak, and even insincere, but by the end of the novel he is shown to be Gormenghast's only sane figure, with a heart of gold and a quick, efficient mind (♥ Prunesquallor!). Fuchsia, meanwhile, has skyrocketed to probably my second-favorite female literary character. A pitifully neglected child, she can be petulant and brooding and even childish, but she also has this demented sweetness and deep devotion in her that makes you love her and root for her. Really though, all the characters were great: the only one I didn't much care for was Steerpike who, thanks to Jonathan Rhys Meyers' beautified portrayal of him, is now frequently fangirled. His schemes were interesting, but because we were provided on motive or reasoning or background behind Steerpike's evil deeds (except some vague wish for power), it's kind of hard to care about him.

Actually, it's through Steerpike that many of the main flaws of the novel are made clear - he's interesting but, IMO, a rather unlikable character, and his villainy seems to work out too perfectly, to come too easily to him. If he brought down Prunesquallor, for instance, who has a brain to match Steerpike's, well that would be a triumph, but instead he tricks a pair of mentally-impaired spinsters which is easy, and which leads perfectly into all his other trickery.

Titus Groan had its flaws in wordiness and plot problems, but this by no means defeated the enjoyment I got from it. I'd definitely recommend it - and after the novel ended on something of a cliffhanger, I was eager to read the sequel. Was it able to match and surpass Titus Groan, or did it fall rather short of its goal? The next part of this review is coming tomorrow!

4/5 stars

(Oh, and also, Prunesquallor x Fuchsia forever!)

Albums and a meme ♥

2010-06-29T13:14:00.004-04:00

Okay folks, I have two things to post about today. :) First of all, I've been transferring a lot of my AG and drawing photos into my Flickr albums, so you can pop over to browse some of my best photos and illustrations. Leave me a comment if you visit!

Also, I've stolen my meme from Lydia today - it looked like a fun one and we haven't had a meme lately. ;)

YOU:
1. Name: Nina
2. Date of birth: August 24, 1991
3. Where you live: Southeast USA
4. What makes you happy: Nice people, AG collecting, writing, getting good grades, laughing with my sister
5. Currently listening/the last thing you listened to: Haven't Met You Yet by Michael Buble
6. An interesting fact about you: When I was eight, Highlights for Children's Sept. 1999 magazine published my drawing of a stegosaurus in the "Dinosaur Don" section!
7. What do you love at the moment?: The fact that I'm going to be getting my first AG doll in 6 years for my birthday and that she'll be my first custom!
8. Favourite place to spend time: Uh...At the computer! XD
9. Favourite lyric: You can own the earth and still/ all you'll own is earth until/ you can paint with all the colors of the wind. ;P
10. The best time of the year: Autumn, right before winter ^_^

RECOMMEND:
1. A film: Fantastic Mr. Fox. or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - both are a little odd but quite entertaining!
2. A book: Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake. A review is still coming on that!
3. A band, a song, or album: Coldplay (band)
4. A manga/anime: I don't watch anime. Ick.

PLUS:
1. Two things you like about yourself: I like that I am smart and that I'm extremely loyal
2. What you are looking forward to: My birthday, for reasons mentioned above ♥
3. What you are not looking forward to: November, because that's when I'm going to try to start my NaNoWriMo story and I'm a bit apprehensive
4. Favorite quote: I read, I study, I examine, I listen, I reflect, and out of all of this I try to form an idea into which I put as much common sense as I can. - Marquis de Lafayette

It's done!!

2010-06-26T21:21:00.004-04:00

Oh my gosh, we finally finished the Charles Dickens group fanfiction - Brought to Life. I ended up taking over more chapters than I meant to (I wrote five of the parts, I think) but anyway, I wrote the grand finale yesterday so I hope you'll head over and read and review it! (I also added it to the Master Dickensian Fanfiction List.) In other news, Gina has put it in my head to do some illustrations. Not sure if/when I'll find the time but...if I do, I want to try some more silhouettes!

And one more thing - hopefully some time this week, I want to share with you a bit about the NaNoWriMo story - Paper House - I hope to write this fall (school willing, lol). I think if I tell others about it it will make me more obliged to actually write it!

The Winners of "Make Believe" - A Peter Pan Blog Event!

2010-06-24T11:50:00.009-04:00

Well, we received a lovely collection of Neverland-inspired posts, the votes on your favorites are in, the judges and I have broken a tie, and I am pleased to announce the winners of Make Believe!

Image from Tumblr

CATEGORY 1
The Neverland Guide to Being a Pirate by Lydia at Gioiello
"...This is a post to tell you what you need if you decide to become a female pirate. It's sort of like a guide. Blue hair is optional, never required. Though it may set you apart from the boys. ;) ..." more

CATEGORY 2
Tinker Bell's Wardrobe - A Fairy Fashion Shopping Guide by Atlanta at The Story of a Seamstress

"Our story begins deep in the woods of Neverland - inside the hidden boudoir of a small fairy named Tinkerbell. She has a dilemma....Tink takes one peek into her closet, throws herself on the bed and moans out the inevitable despair of every girl since the beginning of time - that she has nothing to wear..." more

CATEGORY 3
She knew at once that he was Peter Pan... by Ez at Fairytales, French Fries, and Little Baby Kisses
"She knew at once that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy had been there we should have seen that he was very like Mrs. Darling's kiss. He was a lovely boy clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees, but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his first teeth...." more

CATEGORY 4
Slightly Different: A School Story by Jane at Novel Pretender
“'And what is your name?' The teacher asked in a stilted voice, as if she really had no desire to know the answer.
'Slightly.' He replied...." more

Thanks to everyone for participating (winners, you will be getting your banners in a week or so)! This was a great event and I look forward to the next one - Peter would be proud!

Disney Coloring Page Meme

2010-06-22T13:57:00.004-04:00

Wow, it's only been four days since my last post, but it seems like a LOT longer, lol! Mental note: next time, don't take the World Literature class with a load of reading in the shorter summer semester (but at least I've already read Faust!).

Anyway, I thought I'd share a bit of artwork today - I did this picture for my dad for Father's Day, as a sort of remake of a drawing I gave him from my coloring book when I was younger. It's part of the Disney Coloring Page Meme that originated on DeviantArt - mine is not as good as the many you can find there, but I'm satisfied with it considering I did it with a mouse. ^_^

The idea is that you take a scan of a Disney coloring page, like this one of John Smith from Pocahontas:

using the style and color palette of a classic painting - mine was Ships in a Storm by Andreas Achenbach:

and you get this!

It's the best digital thing I've done in a while, though I never could color in those ropes, so I just axed them. -_v I want to do some more of these once I get my tablet, it's a really nice exercise in color and shading!

Just a tiny request....

2010-06-18T15:15:00.004-04:00

I just realized - I am only FOUR followers away from my 50-follower goal! If you enjoy what you see here, please, add yourself to the followers widget in my lefthand sidebar. I don't suggest adding yourself for the sake of adding, but if you have been putting it off or hesitating about following....now's the time to do it! ♥ Also, if you have any suggestions on how I might improve the blog or what types of posts you'd like me to feature, let me hear it!

Problems with polls

2010-06-17T09:10:00.002-04:00

You may have noticed that the polls in the sidebar are coming up "not found" and, obviously, preventing you from voting. Don't worry, it's not a problem with your computer or browser, it's a problem with Blogger's systems. It's a known issue and they're working on fixing it, so just hang tight and I'll certainly extend the polls so everyone can get the votes they deserve. Sorry for the issue!

Make Believe Finalists - VOTING IS OPEN!!

2010-06-16T06:51:00.007-04:00

Thank you so much to everyone who participated in "Make Believe" - for Wickfield's first blog event, it turned out wonderfully, with nearly 40 fabulous entries!

It took a lot of deliberating, but after consulting with my fellow judges Christy and Rebecca, and using a 2 out of 3 vote basis, we were able to narrow down the list of entries to get three finalists for each category. So without further ado, here they are:

Peter Pan-inspired blog post - FINALISTS:
1. The Neverland Guide to Being a Pirate by Lydia
2. Thoughts on Peter Pan by Jane
3. Peter Pan in Scarlet by Bets

Neverland Style - FINALISTS:
1. Neverland Fashion by Earwen
2. Tinker Bell-Inspired Fashion by Celine
3. Tinker Bell's Wardrobe - A Fairy Fashion Shopping Guide by Atlanta

My Own Neverland - FINALISTS:
1. The Lost Boy and I by Katie
2. She knew at once that he was Peter Pan... by Ez
3. Lost Girl in the Woods by Miss Raquel

Dreaming of Peter Pan - FINALISTS:
1. Peter Pan's Shadow -- Make Your Own Decal by Bets
2. Peter Pan Pants - Making Green Dye From Weeds by Ez
3. Slightly Different; A School Story by Jane

And I want to remind anyone who didn't make this finalists list that your post was still wonderful and so much appreciated - consider yourselves all runners-up with high honors!

But for the finalists - VOTE! You may vote only once in each category and please - read the posts before you vote! The polls will close next Monday night. Remember, the winner in each category will receive a banner and will have their links listed in the sidebar as the "Best of Peter Pan blog event". So don't waste any time, go choose your favorites!

Make Believe Giveaway Winner

2010-06-14T13:21:00.003-04:00

Taking my cue from Amanda Beth and using Random.org to determine the winner, the lucky number chosen was 11 - and that means Lydia is the winner! Well, she's my sister, but you can't argue with true randomness. :P Thanks to everyone who entered, and stay tuned because in the next few days voting for the post entries will be opened!