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--- smith_and_jones:magenta_writes_to_herself [2007/12/11 01:07]
dotan the email exchange, initial transfer
+++ smith_and_jones:magenta_writes_to_herself [2007/12/17 17:59]
dm Every time I start writing the child complains
@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-Here we will put [[Magenta Jones|Magenta's]] secret crap.
+====== Magenta, alone in her writing ======
-===== Write, said the world =====
+[[Magenta Jones]] writes.
-As you are parking the car in the terminal's parking lot, you get a phone call. Unknown number. There is noise on the other side as you answer. Sounds like a digital interference sort of thing, which is more something Dotan can imagine than something Magenta will note.
+===== Cincinnati airport, the parking lot. =====
-Then there is a monotonous voice. Sounds like a recording, but filtered. Stretched. The voice says "take out your notepad and start writing". Then more noise and the call hangs up.
+The phone hissed and lisped: "take out your notepad and start writing".
-In the voice, scrambled as it is, you detect more than a slight lisp.
+So she parks the car, taps [[Derek]] on the shoulder and asks him to go
+fetch a trolley. Derek gets out and wanders off, not really questioning why they need a
+baggage cart without any bags. He's blood-bonded to Magenta, so if she says jump, he'll put on his tutu and leap.
-===== So I Write =====
+Then she grabs her bag, pulls out the moleskin and nib pen she picked up in an LAX stationary shop, and begins scribbling. She's not focusing on what exactly she's writing; she thinks of [[Smith]], infuriating child(no e) that he is, crippled by his power. she thinks of [[Primogen O'Hara|O'Hara]] and [[Arafel|Arafel]], which the wolf which the fox, Derek and the burnt-out lab, [[Sisko]] and his spraying flowers and she thinks of the angle of the moon.
-Magenta parks the car, taps Derek on the shoulder and asks him to go fetch a trolley.
+"Start writing?", she think. "I was just ending".
-Derek gets out and wanders off, not really questioning why they need a baggage cart without any bags. He's blood-bonded to Magenta after all (since this night, I think), so if she says jump, he'll put on his tutu and leap.
+**<del>Ending it all i</del>In thunder and confusion, leaving the children to wander <del>without adult supervision</del> in <del>bloody</del> fields of poppies under the angry moon. Children crusading in Ypres, mesmerized by visions of invulnerability**
-Magenta grabs her bag, pulls out the moleskin and nib pen she picked up in an LAX stationary shop, and begins scribbling.
+The words mean little to her, but the very act of putting pen to paper calls forth deeper emotions and memories, and slowly, as she writes, they wash over her.
-She's not focusing on what exactly she's writing; she thinks of Smith, infuriating child(no e) that he is, crippled by his power. she thinks of O'Hara and Arafel, which the wolf which the fox, Derek and the burnt-out lab, Sisko and his spraying flowers, she thinks of the angle of the moon, and she writes.
-===== But the World writes better =====
+**ring a ring of roses, pocket full of posies, ladybird, ladybird, fly away fly away.
-Angry thoughts rush through you while your hand quickly scribbles a few lines and then crosses them over, and then you write some more and cross it over (let me know what you scribble), but the very act of putting pen to paper calls forth deeper emotions and memories, and slowly, as you write and cross out, they wash over you. Then you begin to put words together again, slowly this time, and with less sense of direction.
+Your house is on fire.
-"Hope, all but lost among the Ludites (sic), heard the word of fairy thus:"
+Ah-Choo! Ah-Choo!
-Thoughts of politics and Gehennas and outside things make room to things of the inside. To long lost childhood memories, from when centuries were in their teens, not in their twenties, and from when age was countable on the fingers of a girl.
+All fall down.
-"In the desert you seek the Drops of Dew, while my Ocean beckons you."
+<del>She is coming home without the boys.</del>
-You can almost here the lisp, like you heard the words before, in a meadow, looking at the sun shining through a sparkling spider's web. The flooding memory fills you, and your writing - still slow, still devoid of intentional meaning - picks up.
+<del>Home to the wolves.</del>
-"Pretty girl... Ready yourself. You are the house of the holy. The old must judge with eyes of new, setting us free is up to you."
+<del>Now is the hour of our discontent</del>
-You feel, for the first time in decades, "in the zone", writing-wise. It is getting harder and harder to tell whether you are writing this, or living this - the wind and the flowers in your hair, the blue of the sky in your chest and the buzzing of the fairies in your ears.
+<del>will the governess relent</del>
+<del>Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,</del>
-"Hope squinted at the sun, furrowed her brows and said:"
+<del>can she come out to play?</del>**
-It feels good, so you continue.
+With every crossing the feelings grow stronger, the thoughts whip around her, roaring in her ears, and then, all of a sudden, she finds herself in the eye of the storm. A strange calm blankets her. She takes a deep breath, without even thinking about it, and begins once more to put words together. Slowly this time, and with no sense of direction.
+**Hope, all but lost among the Ludites** (sic)**, heard the word of fairy thus:**
+Thoughts of politics and [[The Gehenna|Gehennas]] and outside things make room for things of the inside. For long lost childhood memories from when centuries were in their teens, not in their twenties, and from when age was countable on the fingers of a girl.
+**"In the desert you seek the Drops of Dew, while my Ocean beckons you."**
+She can almost here the lisp, like she heard the words before, in a meadow, looking at the sun shining through a sparkling spider's web. The flooding memory fills her, and her writing - still slow, still devoid of intentional meaning - picks up.
+**"Pretty girl... Ready yourself. You //are// the house of the holy. The old must judge with eyes of new, but setting us free is up to you."**
+Magenta feels, for the first time in decades, "in the zone", writing-wise. It is getting harder and harder to tell whether she is writing this, or living this - the wind and the flowers in her hair, the blue of the sky in her chest and the buzzing of the fairies in her ears.
+**Hope squinted at the sun, furrowed her brows and said:**
+**"Am I going to die?"**
+In the grass, Hope could hear [[The Cat|Mister Whiskers]] rooting around in discontent, troubling the grass with its paws. If it were to find a fairy nestling in a bluebell or bathing in dew, she imagined, it would find it great sport. But the voice she heard, sibilant and playful, wore the sunlight and summer heat like a cloak, a deception over its old cold bones. These fairies would not be hunted by cats in the fields men know, she thought. In the glowing shadows that flitted across her heart, she imagined she could see shapes found in the emptiness beyond lost dreams.
+"You want something," she says, "for which you won't ask."
+Beyond fields and sun drenched grass, Hope sees Mrs. Jones' sad, stern face.
+A lazy mountain of a cloud tumbled above, throwing shadows like thunder.
+"Is the price of the asking too dear?"
+**The voice of the fairy did something that sounded like a sigh to Hope. A sigh made of little bells.
+"Yes, child. You are going to die."**
+Sure she is. It was the only present she got for her forty-second birthday. Beautiful [[Kriemhild]]. She had such an abundant, generous look to her. The more she took, the more it looked like she is giving away. Even when she was draining the last drops of your blood. Or your soul.
+**"But death is not so terrible, and it will certainly not stop you."**

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