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psalm_onethirtyoneNothing much to say today. Feeling a little lonely, but not so badly. Have to sing 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables' tomorrow for the talent show. Hope I survive. I was to sing it with Waen accompanying on the guitar, but it's going to be a capello (which, frankly, I cannot spell) now, because she hasn't learnt the chords. Other than that, fic.
For Kate's story: dark comedy.
Sophie glanced at the schedule on the table before her, and pronounced in tones of doom, "Oh, bugger."
"What is it, Sophie?" Gina looked up from her desk, and paused in her typing for a moment. The letter she was typing happened to be an application to a patisserie to become a chef there.
"I've got Pierre again today. Little Pierre, who is tragically and dangerously depressed over the fact that his Juliet is somehow inaccessible; Pierre, who is obsessed with Chatterton; Pierre, who insists on not admitting his addiction to opiates and then comes into my office smelling, and looking utterly like a cow. I hate Pierre. I hope he jumps in the Seine."
"Sophie," Gina said reprovingly.
"But he's so awful! He doesn't want any help. Stupid blighter. I wish I wasn't a psychiatrist."
Gina cheerfully put another piece of paper into her typewriter.
"I hate you, too. You're going off and leaving me to make little French pastries for mesdames and messieurs. I wish I could cook."
"You wish a lot of things, don't you? Become a hair stylist."
"I hate hair." Sophie pulled the false brown hairpiece out of her already dyed but infinitely too short tresses. "I'm so unfashionable. I'm a nervous wreck because of people like Pierre. I hate him."
"You also hate a lot of things. Do you hate frosted strawberry tart? You must. I shan't discount you, then, when you come to see me in the shop."
"Ha. --Does it look stupid when I put my hair like this?" She clipped the false hairpiece in so that it created an effect not unlike a cat's tail broken in several places.
"Dreadful."
"Bugger it. Bugger it all. I shall tell Pierre the only answer is suicide."
"You'd regret it," Gina said mildly. "You'd also not sleep for worrying."
"I would not. I loathe Pierre."
"Mmhmm."
"Damn. Well, I suppose I'd better get my office ready. See you in a moment." She slipped through the door into her office, and began organising her papers so as to look as busy as possible.
"Sophie! The phone!"
"Damn. Damn bugger it damn." Sophie dashed back out and grabbed the phone, falling against the desk as she did so. "Hello, Sophie Grey."
Gina smiled to herself and went back to typing her application.
"What? What in hell?" Sophie's eyes widened, and Gina looked at her inquisitively. "He didn't? Oh, God." She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and hissed at Gina, "Pierre's killed himself."
"Oh, darling."
"Yes. Yes, certainly. Thank you for telling me. Good-bye." Sophie hung up the phone and stared at Gina. "I hate the world."
"I know, darling. Don't worry. I think there's an opening at the flower shop on my block. They need an assistant."
"I feel horrid."
"Don't. It's not your fault. Flowers are very soothing. I'll call now." Gina picked up the phone and began dialing. "Hello, Marie? Have you still got that opening? Yes. Oooh, excellent, dear. Well, I know a girl who'd like the place. Sophie Grey. Loves flowers, dear. Potty over them. Oh, you're wonderful. She'll come to-morrow. Thank you ever, dear. Good-bye." She looked up. "She'll interview you to-morrow at eleven."
"Thank God! I hate being a psychiatrist."
"You shan't be any longer," Gina said soothingly.
"It's not my fault, is it?"
"Oh, no, darling, hardly."
"I can't help thinking he must've known I didn't like him."
"It was that silly girl. Don't worry about a thing."
"You're magnificent."
"Only within reason. Would you like me to cancel all the other appointments today? You can go home and soak or something. Buy a new book. Buy chocolate, that's always a wonder."
"No, bugger it, I can't. I must live my last day here with my head held high."
"You do that, darling."
"And, um, Gina? Can you call Pierre's people and see when the funeral is? I'll go and leave dahlias or something."
"You hate dahlias."
"I know." Sophie turned and went back into her office, slamming the door. Gina stared at it for a moment, then shook her head, laughing, and picked up the phone again. She wondered if she'd ever get her application filled out.
And for Waen's fic, a strange little oddity:
Poisoned Leaves and Tea-Cakes
"Dying, in SLN, is a highly specialised process. There are rules. There are regulations. In SLN, one must never die of an illness, unless it's horribly contracted one. Like," and Dirak grinned, "the French disease. That's a good one for SLN. Or consumption. One may never die peacefully in one's own bed. That's against the rules. One must be shot down in streets, or drowned, or die of alcohol poisoning."
"And all of us suspect that to be the perfect death for you, Di."
"You're awfully tiresome, Di."
"My mother died in her bed..."
"But, Clair. Your mother was not only from Arch-Over-Sun, she was a Falstene-er. They know how to live. Timid little baestie, you. You belong in someone else's family, not with your wild father."
Clair flushed, and pulled her brown hair over her face. Mitha spread out his wings, golden and huge and soft, and wrapped one about her. "Don't worry, Clair. We all know Di's an idiot."
"An idiot! I like that. I'm a plain and simple angel from the outer reaches of society. I'm what in Jelasn folk would call an Irishman. I'm just a poor Palakese with too many ideas." Dirak flashed his most brilliant grin. He was a disturbingly charming angel, with chestnut curls pulled back in a ponytail, and a little moustache. The moustache was rather a point of pride with him, and he had been deeply hurt when Kyliea had told him it looked like pencil.
Kyliea was from Arch-Over-Water, a District of the City remarkably like the Jelasn Venice. She was also from the Sapphirate, which made her quite wealthy. She looked up from a little platter of cakes, and told Dirak softly, "Plain and simple, indeed. You're not plain and simple. You're a disgrace." She cast her eyes around the other occupants of the room. Besides herself, Clair, Mitha, and Dirak, there were Nilya, an A-arian who spoke very little English, and mostly just worried at everyone, Joulan, who was Felakese, and Deyi, who was helping himself to the cake she'd just picked for herself. "We're lucky seven," she added, quite apropos of nothing.
"You call this lucky? This isn't lucky. This is a conference between students who are bored out of their skulls. I'm bored. Aren't you? I'm so bored I could die," Dirak announced. "No one, and I do mean no one, seems to be paying attention to my grand revelations on death in SLN. Now, as I was saying, the Felakese would die in an even more grotesque fashion than us Palakese--"
Joulan gave a little shudder and picked at her sleeve. The Felakese religion demanded constant fasting, praying all night, and the burning of strong incense. Felakese were also required to wear black at all times, and wear their hair bound. Privately, Dirak was inclined to say she looked like a skeleton, which was not particularly far from truth. The only thing at all pretty about her was her hair, which was prematurely silver and streamed down her back in a loose ponytail under the black veil.
"Di, do shut up. You're making Joulan quite uncomfortable." Deyi flicked a cake crumb in Dirak's direction. "Personally, I think you Palakese with your wild customs will be more likely to die a painful death than the gentle, pious Felakese." He smiled.
"Gentle?! How on earth can you say that? They're absolutely dangerous. Joulan's one of the sweet ones who actually talks to Palakese."
"Shut up anyway."
Mitha closed his eyes. "I'm tired. How long is Esui punishing us for? Remind me when we're allowed to leave?"
"Never. That entire firework business of yours, Mitha, is punishable by death. We're lucky if we're condemned to stay here for eternity."
"I've told you before, I had nothing to do with the fireworks."
"Oh!" Kyliea put her finger in her mouth and sucked on it, but not before several drops of light blue blood spilled on the table.
"What did you cut yourself on, darling?" Dirak asked lazily.
"On the cake knife. It's quite sharp. Why on earth did you put such a sharp knife out for cake?"
"I didn't. Clair brought out the cake."
Kyliea frowned. "It tastes funny. My blood, I mean. It's usually bitter. It tastes sweet."
"A connoisseur on blood, that's our Kyliea."
She sighed, and went back to looking through the cakes. Just as she found one she wanted, Deyi reached out and took it again.
"Scrumptious, Clair."
Clair lowered her eyes, pulled more of her hair over her face, and leaned against Mitha, who spread one of his wings over her like a blanket. "Tired, fla-arnse? Go ahead, sleep." He smiled gently, and tickled her nose with a feather.
Dirak rolled his eyes. "I think you're both disgusting. I also think that Kyliea has been poisoned by an expert poisoner. I think she'll be dead by morning. It's quite likely. You're dreadfully rich, aren't you, Ky? Who benefits by your will?"
"None of you."
"That's jolly rotten of you."
"Sensible, I rather think. I feel sick. I'm going to lie down."
"Poison!" Dirak crowed.
"Actually, I think it's being around you all this time. The other thing I'd attribute it to is reading in the bus. My stomach hasn't settled yet."
"Say what you want. You'll be dead by morning."
Kyliea made no reply, but retreated to a corner of the room and lay down on the sofa, pulling the quilt up over her.
Clair pulled a face. "What if she is? I'm scared now. I hate you, Di."
"We all hate Di. I wouldn't worry about it."
Deyi laughed, ate another cake, and told Nilya in A-arian, "The idiots here are all arguing over whether or not Ky's been poisoned. If she has, you know, I think the poisoner's done a poor job. No one could fob it off as suicide in a thousand years now."
Joulan sighed hugely, and stood. "When will Esui let us go back to our rooms? I'm tired."
"You can lie down like Kyliea's doing. Or you can come up with an interesting topic of conversation with us. Anyway, I thought Felakese didn't sleep at night."
"Once a week. I had hoped this would be my day..." She sighed again, and smoothed down her black silk tunic.
Mitha gave her a sweet smile. "I've got another wing. Care to sit here? I don't mind." The hybrid angel fluttered the wingtip like a beckoning hand, and Joulan complied, curling up on the sofa beside him. He spread it over her, and sat back, looking resplendent and sleepy.
Dirak shook his head. "You fools will be deeeeaid by marnin'!" he cried in a wildly accented voice. Mitha burst out laughing for a few moments.
"I don't doubt it. Well, we can see where we are tomorrow. I'm exhausted. Joulan, Clair? We're going to sleep."
Joulan only yawned in answer, and Clair was already soundly asleep, clutching handfuls of feathers in her gloved hands.
Dirak sighed in exasperation, and looked about the room. "Only me, you and Nilya," he told Deyi. "Not a very lucky seven."
"Likely true. When the morphine's in the coffee, you know, it will be a very lucky six, those of us that live."
"Huh."
"And I must say, considering the classes I have tomorrow, I may follow a similar prudent path." Deyi ate the last of the cakes, and made a face. "Jam. I hate jam filling." He curled up in his armchair, grinning hugely.
Dirak sulked.
He sulked for a good ten minutes more, until he realised that he and Nilya were the only ones awake in the room. The A-arian angel stared at him dubiously, and Dirak again realised, with an unpleasant sensation, that he hadn't spoken a word all evening.
"Ah... 'flethfa'," he said with false cheerfulness.
Nilya stared a little longer, a bit suspiciously, and finally said, "Flethka."
"'Flethfa'," Deyi murmured happily, "means 'good morning'. Flethse, Di. That means 'good night'," he added pointedly, and shifted position.
Dirak frowned, and then noticed Nilya was frowning too. "Well. 'Flethse', Nilya." He muttered a few curses to himself in the less formal Palakese language, and pulled a blanket over his head. He fell asleep a few moments later, and had most disagreeable dreams.
Nilya stood slowly, and removed from his pocket a little key. He put the key in the keyhole of the locked door of their little room. Then he slipped out, and returned to his own room, locking the door behind him.
In the morning, all the angels awoke, and were quite fine, except for some general dissent about how unfair it was of Nilya to sneak away. Esui let them out in time for breakfast. At this point, the author pointed and laughed at you for thinking this was going to be a murder mystery, especially as her prose was so awful. She also begged your pardons, but hoped you had gained a good example of how Agatha Christie novels are written, of how obnoxious young people are, herself included, and also of the SLN culture, presented to you while considering the basic races of Palakese, Felakese, A-arian, and Falstene-er, without making you care for the characters in the slightest. Thank you, and have a nice day, and please contribute money to the 'Get Korin Off Agatha Christie' charity.
The End
Maybe someday I'll rewrite it seriously.
For Kate's story: dark comedy.
Sophie glanced at the schedule on the table before her, and pronounced in tones of doom, "Oh, bugger."
"What is it, Sophie?" Gina looked up from her desk, and paused in her typing for a moment. The letter she was typing happened to be an application to a patisserie to become a chef there.
"I've got Pierre again today. Little Pierre, who is tragically and dangerously depressed over the fact that his Juliet is somehow inaccessible; Pierre, who is obsessed with Chatterton; Pierre, who insists on not admitting his addiction to opiates and then comes into my office smelling, and looking utterly like a cow. I hate Pierre. I hope he jumps in the Seine."
"Sophie," Gina said reprovingly.
"But he's so awful! He doesn't want any help. Stupid blighter. I wish I wasn't a psychiatrist."
Gina cheerfully put another piece of paper into her typewriter.
"I hate you, too. You're going off and leaving me to make little French pastries for mesdames and messieurs. I wish I could cook."
"You wish a lot of things, don't you? Become a hair stylist."
"I hate hair." Sophie pulled the false brown hairpiece out of her already dyed but infinitely too short tresses. "I'm so unfashionable. I'm a nervous wreck because of people like Pierre. I hate him."
"You also hate a lot of things. Do you hate frosted strawberry tart? You must. I shan't discount you, then, when you come to see me in the shop."
"Ha. --Does it look stupid when I put my hair like this?" She clipped the false hairpiece in so that it created an effect not unlike a cat's tail broken in several places.
"Dreadful."
"Bugger it. Bugger it all. I shall tell Pierre the only answer is suicide."
"You'd regret it," Gina said mildly. "You'd also not sleep for worrying."
"I would not. I loathe Pierre."
"Mmhmm."
"Damn. Well, I suppose I'd better get my office ready. See you in a moment." She slipped through the door into her office, and began organising her papers so as to look as busy as possible.
"Sophie! The phone!"
"Damn. Damn bugger it damn." Sophie dashed back out and grabbed the phone, falling against the desk as she did so. "Hello, Sophie Grey."
Gina smiled to herself and went back to typing her application.
"What? What in hell?" Sophie's eyes widened, and Gina looked at her inquisitively. "He didn't? Oh, God." She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and hissed at Gina, "Pierre's killed himself."
"Oh, darling."
"Yes. Yes, certainly. Thank you for telling me. Good-bye." Sophie hung up the phone and stared at Gina. "I hate the world."
"I know, darling. Don't worry. I think there's an opening at the flower shop on my block. They need an assistant."
"I feel horrid."
"Don't. It's not your fault. Flowers are very soothing. I'll call now." Gina picked up the phone and began dialing. "Hello, Marie? Have you still got that opening? Yes. Oooh, excellent, dear. Well, I know a girl who'd like the place. Sophie Grey. Loves flowers, dear. Potty over them. Oh, you're wonderful. She'll come to-morrow. Thank you ever, dear. Good-bye." She looked up. "She'll interview you to-morrow at eleven."
"Thank God! I hate being a psychiatrist."
"You shan't be any longer," Gina said soothingly.
"It's not my fault, is it?"
"Oh, no, darling, hardly."
"I can't help thinking he must've known I didn't like him."
"It was that silly girl. Don't worry about a thing."
"You're magnificent."
"Only within reason. Would you like me to cancel all the other appointments today? You can go home and soak or something. Buy a new book. Buy chocolate, that's always a wonder."
"No, bugger it, I can't. I must live my last day here with my head held high."
"You do that, darling."
"And, um, Gina? Can you call Pierre's people and see when the funeral is? I'll go and leave dahlias or something."
"You hate dahlias."
"I know." Sophie turned and went back into her office, slamming the door. Gina stared at it for a moment, then shook her head, laughing, and picked up the phone again. She wondered if she'd ever get her application filled out.
And for Waen's fic, a strange little oddity:
Poisoned Leaves and Tea-Cakes
"Dying, in SLN, is a highly specialised process. There are rules. There are regulations. In SLN, one must never die of an illness, unless it's horribly contracted one. Like," and Dirak grinned, "the French disease. That's a good one for SLN. Or consumption. One may never die peacefully in one's own bed. That's against the rules. One must be shot down in streets, or drowned, or die of alcohol poisoning."
"And all of us suspect that to be the perfect death for you, Di."
"You're awfully tiresome, Di."
"My mother died in her bed..."
"But, Clair. Your mother was not only from Arch-Over-Sun, she was a Falstene-er. They know how to live. Timid little baestie, you. You belong in someone else's family, not with your wild father."
Clair flushed, and pulled her brown hair over her face. Mitha spread out his wings, golden and huge and soft, and wrapped one about her. "Don't worry, Clair. We all know Di's an idiot."
"An idiot! I like that. I'm a plain and simple angel from the outer reaches of society. I'm what in Jelasn folk would call an Irishman. I'm just a poor Palakese with too many ideas." Dirak flashed his most brilliant grin. He was a disturbingly charming angel, with chestnut curls pulled back in a ponytail, and a little moustache. The moustache was rather a point of pride with him, and he had been deeply hurt when Kyliea had told him it looked like pencil.
Kyliea was from Arch-Over-Water, a District of the City remarkably like the Jelasn Venice. She was also from the Sapphirate, which made her quite wealthy. She looked up from a little platter of cakes, and told Dirak softly, "Plain and simple, indeed. You're not plain and simple. You're a disgrace." She cast her eyes around the other occupants of the room. Besides herself, Clair, Mitha, and Dirak, there were Nilya, an A-arian who spoke very little English, and mostly just worried at everyone, Joulan, who was Felakese, and Deyi, who was helping himself to the cake she'd just picked for herself. "We're lucky seven," she added, quite apropos of nothing.
"You call this lucky? This isn't lucky. This is a conference between students who are bored out of their skulls. I'm bored. Aren't you? I'm so bored I could die," Dirak announced. "No one, and I do mean no one, seems to be paying attention to my grand revelations on death in SLN. Now, as I was saying, the Felakese would die in an even more grotesque fashion than us Palakese--"
Joulan gave a little shudder and picked at her sleeve. The Felakese religion demanded constant fasting, praying all night, and the burning of strong incense. Felakese were also required to wear black at all times, and wear their hair bound. Privately, Dirak was inclined to say she looked like a skeleton, which was not particularly far from truth. The only thing at all pretty about her was her hair, which was prematurely silver and streamed down her back in a loose ponytail under the black veil.
"Di, do shut up. You're making Joulan quite uncomfortable." Deyi flicked a cake crumb in Dirak's direction. "Personally, I think you Palakese with your wild customs will be more likely to die a painful death than the gentle, pious Felakese." He smiled.
"Gentle?! How on earth can you say that? They're absolutely dangerous. Joulan's one of the sweet ones who actually talks to Palakese."
"Shut up anyway."
Mitha closed his eyes. "I'm tired. How long is Esui punishing us for? Remind me when we're allowed to leave?"
"Never. That entire firework business of yours, Mitha, is punishable by death. We're lucky if we're condemned to stay here for eternity."
"I've told you before, I had nothing to do with the fireworks."
"Oh!" Kyliea put her finger in her mouth and sucked on it, but not before several drops of light blue blood spilled on the table.
"What did you cut yourself on, darling?" Dirak asked lazily.
"On the cake knife. It's quite sharp. Why on earth did you put such a sharp knife out for cake?"
"I didn't. Clair brought out the cake."
Kyliea frowned. "It tastes funny. My blood, I mean. It's usually bitter. It tastes sweet."
"A connoisseur on blood, that's our Kyliea."
She sighed, and went back to looking through the cakes. Just as she found one she wanted, Deyi reached out and took it again.
"Scrumptious, Clair."
Clair lowered her eyes, pulled more of her hair over her face, and leaned against Mitha, who spread one of his wings over her like a blanket. "Tired, fla-arnse? Go ahead, sleep." He smiled gently, and tickled her nose with a feather.
Dirak rolled his eyes. "I think you're both disgusting. I also think that Kyliea has been poisoned by an expert poisoner. I think she'll be dead by morning. It's quite likely. You're dreadfully rich, aren't you, Ky? Who benefits by your will?"
"None of you."
"That's jolly rotten of you."
"Sensible, I rather think. I feel sick. I'm going to lie down."
"Poison!" Dirak crowed.
"Actually, I think it's being around you all this time. The other thing I'd attribute it to is reading in the bus. My stomach hasn't settled yet."
"Say what you want. You'll be dead by morning."
Kyliea made no reply, but retreated to a corner of the room and lay down on the sofa, pulling the quilt up over her.
Clair pulled a face. "What if she is? I'm scared now. I hate you, Di."
"We all hate Di. I wouldn't worry about it."
Deyi laughed, ate another cake, and told Nilya in A-arian, "The idiots here are all arguing over whether or not Ky's been poisoned. If she has, you know, I think the poisoner's done a poor job. No one could fob it off as suicide in a thousand years now."
Joulan sighed hugely, and stood. "When will Esui let us go back to our rooms? I'm tired."
"You can lie down like Kyliea's doing. Or you can come up with an interesting topic of conversation with us. Anyway, I thought Felakese didn't sleep at night."
"Once a week. I had hoped this would be my day..." She sighed again, and smoothed down her black silk tunic.
Mitha gave her a sweet smile. "I've got another wing. Care to sit here? I don't mind." The hybrid angel fluttered the wingtip like a beckoning hand, and Joulan complied, curling up on the sofa beside him. He spread it over her, and sat back, looking resplendent and sleepy.
Dirak shook his head. "You fools will be deeeeaid by marnin'!" he cried in a wildly accented voice. Mitha burst out laughing for a few moments.
"I don't doubt it. Well, we can see where we are tomorrow. I'm exhausted. Joulan, Clair? We're going to sleep."
Joulan only yawned in answer, and Clair was already soundly asleep, clutching handfuls of feathers in her gloved hands.
Dirak sighed in exasperation, and looked about the room. "Only me, you and Nilya," he told Deyi. "Not a very lucky seven."
"Likely true. When the morphine's in the coffee, you know, it will be a very lucky six, those of us that live."
"Huh."
"And I must say, considering the classes I have tomorrow, I may follow a similar prudent path." Deyi ate the last of the cakes, and made a face. "Jam. I hate jam filling." He curled up in his armchair, grinning hugely.
Dirak sulked.
He sulked for a good ten minutes more, until he realised that he and Nilya were the only ones awake in the room. The A-arian angel stared at him dubiously, and Dirak again realised, with an unpleasant sensation, that he hadn't spoken a word all evening.
"Ah... 'flethfa'," he said with false cheerfulness.
Nilya stared a little longer, a bit suspiciously, and finally said, "Flethka."
"'Flethfa'," Deyi murmured happily, "means 'good morning'. Flethse, Di. That means 'good night'," he added pointedly, and shifted position.
Dirak frowned, and then noticed Nilya was frowning too. "Well. 'Flethse', Nilya." He muttered a few curses to himself in the less formal Palakese language, and pulled a blanket over his head. He fell asleep a few moments later, and had most disagreeable dreams.
Nilya stood slowly, and removed from his pocket a little key. He put the key in the keyhole of the locked door of their little room. Then he slipped out, and returned to his own room, locking the door behind him.
In the morning, all the angels awoke, and were quite fine, except for some general dissent about how unfair it was of Nilya to sneak away. Esui let them out in time for breakfast. At this point, the author pointed and laughed at you for thinking this was going to be a murder mystery, especially as her prose was so awful. She also begged your pardons, but hoped you had gained a good example of how Agatha Christie novels are written, of how obnoxious young people are, herself included, and also of the SLN culture, presented to you while considering the basic races of Palakese, Felakese, A-arian, and Falstene-er, without making you care for the characters in the slightest. Thank you, and have a nice day, and please contribute money to the 'Get Korin Off Agatha Christie' charity.
Maybe someday I'll rewrite it seriously.
