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Thought I should actually, you know, post something. I've great heaping piles of material I could post, but I'm just not going to. So there. This takes place shortly after Vivian enters the Neitherworld, and is staying at the Throckmortons' house with Aquilla, before they head off. This is the morning after they've arrived. |
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I think I was planning to put this up after I had done another draft and edited it a little more, but that's not likely to happen any time soon. I'm happy with how it's looking for now, anyway. Especially since I haven't read it in a few months; I won't, either, because then I won't post it. * * * Antimony watched the ends of the robe flit about as he followed it. He always has to wear it, doesn’t he? The fabric flicked around a corner, and Antimony spun to follow. The pile of ledgers weighed heavily in his arms, dragging him down even further. ‘Hurry up, Antimony.’ Antimony rolled his eyes. Firstly, they didn’t need to hurry; they just need to be faster. Secondly, if he were any faster, he’d be treading on the robe. He had half a mind to comply. He sighed and watched his feet. One step, and his shoe would be stark against the floor; the next, and it would be gone, vanished. Then it would come back again. White. Black. White. Black. The tiled hallways of the House of Questions. The overall motif—with such exciting colours as jet and lily—was very familiar to Antimony. He wore it every day. Just as well, too, as it matched his complexion perfectly. Antimony wondered what he’d be like if his foot did vanish into one of the tiles. As if I need to lose more weight. He tried to find a positive. Maybe I wouldn’t have to run after this great arse anymore. Maybe. ( MORE HAPPENS! AND YOUR BEST CHANCE AT FINDING IT IS HERE! ) |
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From Millie. Directions: Pick 10 characters from 1. Maudlin Trickett I was taking so long in getting around to my next piece, I realised ( you deserved at least SOMETHING ) |
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I've been meaning to do this for a while. I've scanned all the little doodly bits I've done in class when I should be working or listening, and jammed them all together for viewing pleasure. I'm sure I had more. Particularly on lined paper. They're probably on the deck during the renovations. Or I might've handed them in. I don't mind handing in work with characters drawn in the margins, and my teachers don't seem to, either. They never complain. Never even mention it. Do read to the bottom. I saved the best for last. ( Scribbly bits, concept art, and a new design for Dust. ) |
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Yes. That's right. Another journal-like post. It is quite relevant, though. |
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I have written very, very little recently. I'm in a rather unpleasant rut right now, but it should be gone soon. The other day, in Applied Writing, we were asked to write for 10 minutes about somethingorother. |
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A character thing I took from Kate. |
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So, I've been writing bits and pieces for competitions and FLY magazine recently. Money prizes would be nice, yes, but it's the being published part I'm aiming at. A 'by line'. The most powerful thing in all the publishing world. Most of the pieces are still being formed into something which resembles a story (or more than a page), but this one is not only finished, but set in (or based kind of loosely on characters set in) the Neitherworld. Thus, I'll happily put it in here. I've already altered it a couple of times (mostly because I really overdid them using each other's names. Neitherworlders have subtly different customs to us, one of them being frequent use of the name of the person you're addressing. Not only did I realise it wasn't needed in this story, because out of context, it's location in the Neitherworld is irrelevant, but I also just did it outright too much), but I'd still like as much critique as anyone's willing to offer. |
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Such a liar by omission, I am. |
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I've decided to try and write a little something every day, so you should be getting far more updates now. Don't actually expect something every day, though. Firstly, I am going to try, and secondly, I'll only be putting a portion in here. So, seriously, do not expect more. Really, stop it. Look, I mean it, you selfish gits! |
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Here's a new snipply bit. I whipped it up last night. The first part is pretty dreadful, and needs to be rewritten in a way that is actually... good. But I can't be bothered. Some bloody editor I am. Speaking of editing, I am having a wonderful time with it. My room is filled with piles of paper, hacked and bleeding. Red ink everywhere. It's a massacre. JUST BECAUSE A WORD HAS AN 'S' AT THE END, IT DOES NOT MEAN IT NEED'S AN APOSTROPHE. Anyway, I also don't care about the first part of this excerpt, because the dialogue makes up for it. I am so very happy with it, as it came out exactly the way I wanted it to. This is from the first book, The Macabre Hospital, but does not take place during the events of the book--it's a character's backstory. |
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Here we are again. I lied about the time it would take. I know. I'm awful. This time we'll be taking a page from the book of Dust Intention. Or rather a page from his autobiography. You'll also get a very special treat. A drawing will be included this time. Not special enough? This drawing has full frontal male nudity. That's right, a chap in the nuddy. Go on. ( Enjoy it. ) |
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By now you'll have heard the term 'Marquess' at least once and even if you know what that word means or have looked (ooh, I just found a shortbread I forgot to eat before I finished my tea) it up, you'll need a bit of explaining to understand the Neither meaning of it. |
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And now for a collection of facts and quotes which are missing a fair bit of context and may or may not be coherent. Sounds funny, though. ( Enjoy. )
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Okay, it's been too long, and it's time to just write because I can. Let's see what I can find in the dusty archives of my imagination.
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Some questionairre designed for characters, Collin, Vivian, Aquilla, and The Metzler (I only used his name for this Journal thing because it sounds nice and I was bored with the other ones I was going to use. Maybe delusions of grandeur snuck in and played their part, but what's done is done) all answer to the best of their abilities, |
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Here we go, I've written the third option. It didn't turn out to actually have much of Captain McLochrie in it all that much, but I am still happy with it. This would be situated in the start of the second book, The Livid Lighthouse. Not much else to say, here you go: ------------------------------ Okay, took me a bit to learn how to do that, but I got it quickly enough. |
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Ahh, don't you just love how pretentious the layout is? Deliciously so. Although probably an acquaired taste. Makes me laugh, at the least. I just feel like writing now. Don't have anything planned, though. Let's see... what shall I write about...? I've an idea. Not the kind of idea I was looking for, but one that is still somewhat effective. Let me put forward some options of subject matter, and you shall decide which I shall write about. I know that two people will probably see this, so whoever says whichever first gets preference. Just choose whichever sounds most appealing to you.
Afterthought: The title sounded a lot better in my head.
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And thus we start the first entry. Actually, before we do, go read the bio in the profile: http://the-metzler.livejournal.com/profi This is a piece set in the third book of The Neitherworld, currently called Attic, Et Cetera (but it's probably likely to change, not sure). It centres around the thoughts of the protagonist about another character who could easily be either a protagonist or an antagonist, it's very hard to tell sometimes. Her name is April Trenor/Scosthrop (she changes her name partway through the book) and his is Mahogany Parlour (or, as he so often insists, 'Mahogany Sedimentary Emmanuel Parlour VII'. No one listens, though). Let's just begin, already. * * * Their first meeting made some awful impressions. It all went downhill from there. At first, April found him tiresome, and soon after found him annoying instead. Then frustrating, very frustrating. She disliked him and found him distasteful. After being subjected to his many poorly-supported and shoddily-constructed opinions, she decided to skip right past hating him, and went straight to loathing. Unfortunately, even that was insufficient, and April was forced to resort to abhorrence. She even stopped feeling guilty about wishing excruciating pain upon him. This was after about twenty minutes of knowing him. She hated his clothes. His starched scholar robe, his coarse tweed waistcoat and those awful, awful plaid trousers with the matching bow tie. She hated the noise his scratchy waistcoat made against the stiff robe when he moved. She hated his brick-like shoes, and the terracotta powder they tended to scuff around. She hated his two foggy monocles (honestly, two?), the chains leading to his obnoxious and highly inappropriate turban, which concealed his long, stringy hair and that enormous bald patch on top, with those few sickening strands sticking out from the front, bobbing around above his face. Oh, how she hated them. She hated his mouths, with their hundreds of clacking teeth. And she hated how she couldn't dicide on which mouth she hated more. She hated his enormous, angular nose and the whistling noise it made when he breathed through it, and the way he insisted on breathing through it when he had two huge, cavernous mouths he could be breathing with, instead of talking with. She hated his ever-changing facial topiary; his tacky, tasteless summer houses, cottages, and bungalows; his delusions of culture; the fact he was the most uncultured Philistine she had ever met; his delusions of grandeur; his complete lack of grandeu; and his voice. Oh his voice... Droning yet piercing at the same time (actually rather impressive, in the same way a flesh-eating parasite is impressive), and never ending. Never ever ending. He could have at least paused for breath, but he just refused. His voice: The Harbinger of Ennui. She hated it. She hated everything about him. And he himself, she abhorred him. And they were only the things she could think of at any one time without being violently and copiously sick with hatred. But although she hated everything he was, loathed everything he stood for, and abhorred him as a whole, she loved him. The kind of love that makes you want to rip out their entrails, eviscerate what remains of their organs and totally exsanguinate them, and, admittedly, doesn't actually resemble love in any way, shape, or form. Oh, how she loved him. * * * Well, there you go. Questions? Insults?
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