northern lights;

jemima m. scott. kind of. "we were young, we didn't care. is it gone -- is it gone -- is it gone? is it floating in the air? all that time wasted. i wish i was a little more delicate. i wish my -- i wish my -- i wish my name was clementine."

[anniemayhew-blog]

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[anniemayhew-blog]

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[kieren-awalker]

A Rose by A Different Name || Kieren & Jemima (GifPara)

[kieren-awalker]

Kieren was broken from his drawing reverie by the sound of her voice. A second later his eyes rose to meet the gaze of the owner of said voice. Kieren had learned early on that having a pleasant expression put people at ease. It had become habit to always wear a smile, but that smile faltered for a moment when his eyes swept over the woman’s visage. He knew her face. He knew her from somewhere. He never forgot a face. It was a skill that had always been most useful to him, and yet here he was scrambling for a name.

His mind whirled through the “cabinets” of his memory, searching, searching… desperately searching for her name, for where he knew her from. All the while his brain turned itself inside out in pursuit of what he was missing, he allowed the smile that nearly always curled his lips, to take residence once again. “Yes, please.” he replied, picking up his tea cup and offering it to her.

"Are you the owner?" he asked, his gaze quickly making a circuit of the little shop before returning to her. From his observations throughout the morning it was the most logical conclusion he had come to. She moved about the place with a familiarity and authority that could only come from someone who had either worked at the establishment for a very long time, or who was in charge.

[greatscottjemima]

There was something beating inside her breastbone. Something terrific. And, it was terrific: adjective; archaic; causing immense terror. Perhaps, too: of great size, amount, or intensity. And, admittedly, occasionally: informal; extremely great or excellent. The meaning did not matter much, Ilse had learnt. People didn't care about meanings. People didn't care about words. This bothered Ilse. This still bothered Ilse, even after having twelve-odd years to adjust. Of course it bothered her. She cared about words. She cared about meanings. But words didn't seem to matter much to this modern world, and that terrified her. It was like a betrayal to her scrupulous nature, and her over-scrupulous nurture. Ilse did not -- would not, could not -- understand it.

There was a terrific sort of terror beating inside her breastbone. Perhaps it had been there since the beginning, boiling below the surface -- back when Ilse was Ilse, and Ilse alone. Back when Ilse had not been Ilse, but Icarus, grazing her glory on an out-of-reach brewing Ambrosia. Back when Ilse had been (almost) beautiful. Back when Ilse had been (almost) great. Perhaps it had always been there -- but, only now, had it bubbled up to her paper-thin skin and was brimming over it through the cracks in her, through the cracks in the her that she presented to the world. Ilse was terrified. That she would fail. That she would be found out. That it would all be for naught. And something greater than that. Something that couldn't be pinpointed. Something that couldn't be defined. Ilse was terrified.

She picked up his tea cup and filled it with practised ease. She hummed her response to his questions, her red-painted lips growing into a smile with the burgeoning notes of the hum. "Yes," she repeated. Ilse's smiles were like secrets. It was fitting, considering who Ilse was. Or, rather -- who Ilse was not. Ilse had secrets inside her. Jemima germinated and flowered with her smiles. There was a space inside of Ilse that was large and felt like hunger -- and, sometimes, in her weaker moments, Ilse thought that that space was for Jemima. Ilse thought that there had always been a Jemima inside her. "Is there anything else that I can help you with?"

[harperdavenport-blog]

The National Museum of Women in Arts? I won’t deny the temptation, but I don’t drive, so traffic or not it’s a bit out of reach. The taxis here are disgusting and I’ll leave public transportation for—well. 

Can I ask you something? Exactly which episode of The Big Bang Theory did you walk out of? 

[greatscottjemima]

"Please don't complain, then. It is not the state of Virginia that is at fault here, but rather your captious attitude. Don't complain. You're being acrimonious. It's vexing."

"I don't know. Can you?"

[oursadsongs-blog]

Visit Original Link

"I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart."

[greatscottjemima]

also brian/annie phone call?? if you wanted to continue that! :D

thank you thank you!! i've added it to the list (◡‿◡✿)

[greatscottjemima]

you missed me. deeply. desperately. you might be in love. please remember me.

who the hell is nat????????

[greatscottjemima]

para reply to celia (annie).

para reply to priscilla (annie).

starter for alex (ilse).

gif para reply to kieran (ilse).

gif para reply to anthea (ilse).

phone call reply to brian (annie).

para reply to pepper (ilse).

gif reply to epperley (ilse).

sorry for taking so long! i should have everything done by next thursday, bc next thursday i'm going on holiday (✿◠‿◠)

okay i'm going to sleep goodnight!!

[adamlindstrom]

Yeah. For a guy who’s biggest question in life was,”To pee, or not to pee”, Hamlet the hamster really had a hard time.

[greatscottjemima]

"I -- wow. That was a fantastic pun. Congratulations. I think you broke me."

"I'm Jemima. Nice to meet you."

[adamlindstrom]

An autopsy is presently being performed, we shall have answers soon. However there was another hamster on the premises.. Come to think of it, Twinkles did look a bit suspicious at the scene of the crime.

[greatscottjemima]

"Oh, I knew it! How dare Twinkles. How dare he. It's tough out there for a classroom pet. I just hope that Hamlet didn't have an Ophelia, the poor dear."

[captainamireca-deactivated20140]

"I don’t do damsel in distress very well. It’s hard for me to play a victim." | Scarlett Johansson

[adamlindstrom]

My daughter had her first day of Preschool yesterday and she came home in tears because the class pet was already dead. Rest in peace, Hamlet the hamster.

[greatscottjemima]

"Oh, dear. Poor thing. Was it his brother, Claudius, that killed him? Will his son, Hamlet Jr., avenge him? I'm sorry. I don't mean to detract from this great tragedy."

[greatscottjemima]

this is a gr9 writer, yall should write with her tbh

can i put this on ilse's blog

[greatscottjemima]

Ilse + Ilse.

"50 states, 50 lines, 50 crying-all-the-time's. 50 boys, 50 lies, 50 I'm-gonna-change-my-mind's. I changed my mind. I changed my mind. And now I feel indifferent."

[greatscottjemima]

i'm really bad at these things. um. okay. i should probably talk about my characters?? i'm going to do that?? right now?? okay STAY TUNED we'll be back after these messages~~

(i'm also a freakin' sarcastic asshole lil shit did i mention that i apologise in advance.)

QUEEN ILSE OF ARENDON'T:

her birth name (and real name) is ilse ruth cohen, but due to a series of (un)fortunate events (do u get it), she changed her name to ari west and moved to seattle. then, she became grace cassidy, resident of south carolina. then, miss lydia l. sinclair, north carolina native. then michigan, and tatianna katz; then california, and linda du pont. willow mcmacnaro. germany. valerie rose. new york. arden bergmann. spain. madeline fairchild. colorado. finally, jemima m. scott came to alexandria and opened up freya's, a cafe-bookstore hybrid.

ilse is a polygot. she's fluent in english, french, danish, german, spanish, olde norse, olde english, ancient greek, and latin. she does speak mandarin chinese and russian, but can't read or write in them. she's currently studying arabic and italian.

SUPER IMPORTANT. this is important: ilse is the author of the international bestseller novel of roses. i haven't actually posted a synopsis for it yet (oops?), but it's very similar to donna tartt's the secret history. this book is super, super, SUPER famous. in spite of this, it's highly unlikely that anyone in alexandria would actually recognise her. only the first few published copies of the book included her picture in the dust jacket, and she has never done an interview. so, if you'd like to do a plot surrounding this, i'm totally down, but we'd really have to discuss it first.

ANNIE BETH LEE:

OH MY GOSH ANNIE. annie is my baby. she's a fragile little thing, and has a fuckload of allergies and problems with her body. thus, she's in the hospital often. but she doesn't let this keep her down!! annie's a sweetheart. she likes to be the strong one is any situation. she's steve rogers, basically, but with a lesser sense of justice. she's a great person to spill your secrets to, since she refuses to be emotionally weak and therefore can offer you a strong shoulder to cry on. plus, she's a sweetheart, and obvs won't spill anything. annie's gr8.

she's a vet student, and interns at the local vet clinic. occasionally, she pet-sits and dog-walks. basically, if your character has animals, then annie will love you down.

plus, hello. cutie:

if you want to know annie, just look at the above gif tbh. that. that is annie. she smiles a lot.

UM. that's it, i think. i can't think of anything else to put. you should?? totally plot with me?? thank you for reading this far?? i love you already tbh?? bye??

[greer-larson-deactivated2017120]

Someone has to know a good coffee spot around here, right? My brother forgot to buy coffee for the house, and the coffee maker isn’t even unpacked, and I get really crabby when I’m uncaffeinated. Evidently I also talk too much, and too fast. Sorry about that.

[greatscottjemima]

"Freya's. I reccommend Freya's. Personally, I like their double espresso con panna. It retains the bitterness of an ordinary espresso, but the intensity is softened by the cream. Tell them that Jem sent you, and they'll give you a free Danish."

[peppervodka-deactivated20160608]

coffee for two ♚ Pepper & Jemima

Pepper skipped around the kitchen in her bright pink headphones, dancing to a catchy pop song while she finished the French toasts. She wielded the spatula around like a mic, throwing her head to the sides in full circles and lip synching to the music. The dog lifted his head to peek into the room, curious, which granted him a passionate solo. “Can you feel my heartbeat—?” she sang, dramatically putting a hand against her chest just before she turned and fished the toasts out from the pan. Pepper was a huge fan of pop music and karaoke bars, especially when she wasn’t feeling so hot, but since she was in America now and she didn’t know enough people—as of yet—that she could friends, open mic nights weren’t an option. (She wasn’t that much of an out there person… despite the attitude.) Instead, she turned her favorite playlist on and decided to cook herself something sweet.

The butter cookies came out first—warm and soft, half vanilla and another of cinnamon. Perfect, her mother would’ve been proud. “Sorry, Simba,” she said with a pout towards the animal who followed her into the kitchen after the delicious scent of fresh baked cookies. Pepper took a bite from her butter cookie and moved on to the stove, where she’d prepare what Americans called French toast. Of course, to her French self, it was just pain perdu. Did Americans think French people would eat a single kind of toast? She had never bothered to ask.

She moved the mix-soaked slices of bread to the pan and fried them until their crust was golden on both sides. “Délicieux!” Pepper announced to Simba. “Ne me regardez pas comme ça. Il va vous rendre malade!” She took another look at the plate of cookies and toast and wondered whether Jemima would rather have tea—but the coffee was ready. Deciding to take a leap of faith, she grabbed the plate and the bottle of coffee and headed downstairs to knock on her landlady’s door. “Jemima, j’ai cuit les biscuits! Et pain perdu.”

[greatscottjemima]

On that lazy Sunday morning, she painted her bedroom ceiling a bright blue. A bright, bright blue, the blue of a festive flag. And that blue, combined with her white bed sheets and wood furniture, and her red gauze curtains? If she screwed up her features and squinted, then that blue almost looked like the blue of the Union Flag. A sense of patriotic pride had swelled up inside her chest, and if such a pride were not for the country that she currently in – well, who was to know? Jemima was a French-Canadian, and while the Canadian colours were red and white, the Fleurdelisé flag was blue and white. It attested to Jemima’s background, surely. Any visitors would either think that the colour scheme was merely pretty, or a physical attribute of Jemima’s homesickness. And, technically, it was – just not Jemima’s. She missed her parents. She missed her mormor. She missed her bubbe. She missed her Denmark, her England. She missed it like one might miss a limb, or an organ – a heart. Ilse was homesick, certainly. Jemima, however, was not.

’Let it Be’ floated from her cherry-red vintage inspired radio, soft and turned down low, and Ilse hummed along as she applied a final coat of sealant to the ceiling. A knock sounded, coinciding with covering of the last corner, and Ilse called out a: “Just a second!” before hopping down from her stepping-stool and setting her paintbrush down gently on a nearby trash bag. Unbeknownst to her, a stripe of paint was dashed across her arm, and little speckles of blue covered the hairs at the crown of her head. Ilse wouldn’t have gotten the door, if she had known. At least, Ilse would not have gotten the door without changing first. But, Ilse didn’t know about her Bleu de France hair – and the smile that lit up her features at the sight of Pepper is a testimony to that. “Salut, Pepper!” She stepped to the side of the doorway that held the hinges, holding the door wide open to let Pepper pass through. “Venez, s'il vous plait! J'ai un peu sucré thé Atlanta dans la cuisine, voulez-vous un verre? Je teste une nouvelle recette pour Freya's."