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17 - Chatham. Something something consistent something something.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” Chatham swore into the basin. The water was hot, nearto steaming, and she’d have recognized it scalding her hands if she could sparethe attention to recognize the pain. She scrubbed hard, driving a deep crimsonstain and not a few skin cells down the drain as she ground her palms togetherin a combination of terror and fury. A cracked mirror dangled unevenly abovethe sink, and she glanced up into it, appalled at the face that gazed back ather. It was a grim visage that could not have been her own – the eyes were darkcircles, a hint of mascara staining the cheek; a wisp of matted, dark blondhair hung over a forehead caked in dust and blood. On a different day she mighthave gasped at the shock of her own countenance, warped so thoroughly from itsearlier meticulous poise, buther eyes instead flitted nervously between the running sink and the door wedgedshut behind her. She’d nearly kicked the door off its hinges as she’d fled intothe bathroom, the heel of her shoe snapping at the impact as the barking oforders and smell of gunpowder echoed down the gilded hallways.

She reached one hand from the sink to her hip for her phone to find onlythe ripped satin of her gown. “Stront,” shesaid, rolling her eyes back in panic “Gibson, can you hear me?” she hissed,hoping the audio feed in her glasses could still reach her mobile in the pocketof her purse somewhere out in the main hall, and returned to washing theblood-spatter from her neck.

“Out, damn spot!” the digitalassistant replied with its usual irreverence. “That is not your blood, Ipresume?” The truth was that some of it was hers, and some of it not. A timewhere she might tell the difference had long since passed, a sad testament topredicaments both past and present. She patted herself down reflexively to inspect for any organic damage, and to her relief finding none.Somewhere out in the main hall,the body of at least one of the assailants was not so lucky- ever cautious, theWebley she’d strapped to a thigh-holster under her gown had left a fairly sizable.38-sized hole in whomever she’d managed to hit.

“I need you to call the Met,now.”

Santomas coughed and heaved beside her, wheezing with labored breath.She’d propped him in a heap against the toilet stall, his face and hands a gorymess from the glass shrapnel that had rained on him when the main chandelierhad exploded. The cuts weren’t deep, and with stitches he’d be fine, but he waswoozy with anemia and likely going into shock. Chatham had half-carried,half-dragged him down to this bathroom when the firing started.

“And EMS.”

#probably not exactly what you were looking for #replies #andrezel #the world ocean

9, 11, and 15 :)

9. Are you an artist?

Oh that’s a loaded question. It depends on what you define as art? I can’t draw or paint for shit. I’m seriously bad at it. I think I take okay photographs, but I need more practice. I’m a mediocre instrumental musician at best and since my voice changed in my teenage years I’ve lost all sense of singing pitch. I’m a pretty decent swing dancer, which maybe counts? So for visual or performing arts, I’m going to say no.

I’m a tolerable writer. Ref: this blog that people follow for some reason.

11. Describe your ideal day.

It’s 55 degrees and raining lightly. October, probably. I get up, check the news, and get some light exercise. I shower and eat some breakfast, then curl up in the Ikea chair by the window reading and writing and nursing a cup of tea. Just before lunch I wander over to Hard Sell house to catch the late football game, association probably but maybe even gridiron. Bran and I go to the market and find whatever’s fresh, then back to the house where the wife joins us for afternoon cocktails and discussion. We make dinner, eat, and drink, and laugh. Later in the evening we watch a film or argue passionately about something entirely academic, and probably drink a little bit too much. Suddenly it’s midnight and the wife has fallen asleep on the couch; the band goes to bed and I carry her home.

15. Five most influential books (in no particular order):

*The Unoriginal Sinner and The Ice Cream God - John R Powers*Neuromancer/Count Zero/Mona Lisa Overdrive - William Gibson *The Guns of August - Barbara Tuchman*The Killers - Ernest Hemingway (technically a short story)*Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut

(Runners up include E E Cummings: Complete Works 1904-1962, The Metaphysics of Morals by Immanuel Kant, Madness Visible: A Memoir of War by Janine di Giovanni, The Cold Equations (short story) by Tom Godwin, The Man In The High Castle by Philip K Dick, The Crimean War by Orlando Figes, After Virtue by Alasdair MacIntyre, Collected Works of P Virgilius Maro)

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andrezel replied to your post: /crashes in well, hello, forgot i existed over...

missing you!

baroness! did you know there’s a new historical fiction about the blixens and the mistress-whose-name-i’ve-forgotten? circling the sun, by paula mclain (of the paris wife fame). i haven’t read it yet, but we have it at the bookstore and it’s very pretty and golden.

#andrezel #replies #should i just dig you up on facebook or something i'm not sure how much i'll be around here and i don't want to lose touch entirely <3 #MISSING YOU TERRIBLY TOO