#thestolenlibrary

[decotext]

When the first limp noodle appeared in Charles’ trouser pocket he was with his friends and they were sitting in the park at night, smoking stolen cigars.

guys read this short story im not kidding its fucking . . . everything i could have dreamed of and more

from the first sentence i knew i was in for some good shit

[decotext]

hello I wrote this and I think you're a really good writer so I would love your thoughts http://thestolenlibrary.tumblr.com/post/137417491499/spaghetti

jesus christ

your ask isn’t on but i tumblr messaged you 

[postmetaectotranscendentalism]

“Miss Lamington, why don’t you suppose there is a Minister or Magic?” “What an absurd idea.” “Well, perhaps there isn’t the need for such a thing now, but there are more obsolete positions still in existence – the Minister of Mortal Duels, for example, who was sitting across from us and fast asleep for the entire session. Or the Minister for Quarantine, despite the fact that the last outbreak of plague was over a hundred years ago and all that happened was that everyone got rather itchy for a few days. Yet there is no Minister of Magic and there never was.” “Well, I suppose it comes under the Minister of Criminal Suppression.” Fred was offended. “Are you saying I’m a criminal?” “I’m saying that permits and registration of magic-users need enforced to ensure ethical practice and accurate taxation. That is all.” Leonora was fully aware that Fred did none of these things.

[postmetaectotranscendentalism]

Lastly, he pushed up his sleeve – the leech was firmly attached and had swollen threefold in volume with blood. It was a medicinal leech, with anticoagulative and anaesthetic saliva to keep the blood flowing and the host content. At times, Fred had a tendency to be inconveniently empathetic, and in their short time together, he had named his leech Hirudo, and had come to think of Hirudo as a “he” despite full knowledge that leeches were hermaphroditic. Hirudo pulsed happily as he continued to fill himself with delicious, delicious blood from Fred’s cephalic vein.

[postmetaectotranscendentalism]

I’m going to start posting bits of my spec-fic writing here because why not

For anyone who read the stories, the room of a magic-user could be expected to look like a fantastical hybrid library-workshop. A learned mage would possess a small library of canonical books, at the very least including the corpus of Picatrix and a translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and perhaps they would possess several of the contemporary grimoires. Apotropaic charms, either nazars and omamori were necessary as errant magic tended to attract unwanted attention. An astrolabe was essential, as was, in the very least, a small apothecary for preparing tinctures and extracts. Fred had none of these things. His room was what one would expect of a teenaged boy. It was a small room with a slanted roof in the attic of The Bird and Devil. The furniture and his personal effects were organised in a way in which only he understood – half of his clothes were thrown over the desk-chair while the other half were in miscellaneous drawers, books lay on almost every flat surface, left open to save the page, part of the desk had been scorched black and the edge was crumbling off, not improved by the fact that Fred had developed a habit of picking at it while working. A bed with white sheets and a single pillow was pushed against the wall at the lowest part of the room.