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shopping!
O!M!G! Sometimes serendipitous little finds are more satisfying than spending a month's earnings on something huge and extravagant. I was idly digging through the bargain bins at Angus & Robertson and managed to find A Concordance, Vol. 1 for $8 (and one of these days I'll, you know, manage to afford The Waste Lands and actually make some progress with the DT series) and...a book that I've been trying to find for FIVE YEARS or something ridiculous like that, for only $5. I would have squawked, but I'd been bopping around the store absently singing R.E.M. songs along with my iPod for the past half hour and I didn't need them to think me any more of a nuisance. Liquid Gold, by Tansy Rayner Roberts. Read it yonks ago when I was but a wee impressionable thing. Renewed it and renewed it until the library got pissy. Managed to track down the first book in the series but not this one. Good feeling.
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schiarire, if more than one copy of these books existed in the seeming universe, I'd buy them and send them to you. I think you'd like them. Pirates! Silver! Time travel! Sexy mercenaries! Australian spelling! Unfortunately, I doubt California has any more copies than Canberra.)
Deadlines are only helpful when they're close enough to be panic-inducing. I'm gazing vaguely at the horizon, where drift the ghosts of my essays and assignments, but there's nothing tangible enough for me to actually be bothered to work. I love holidays. What's scary is that I only have another year and three months to use the 'but I'm a teenager' excuse for my 'eschewing responsibility' phases.
That said, this short story competition entry is due on October 1st and I still need to pull 1000 words out of somewhere and send the thing off to be torn apart by kind beta types. It's like pulling teeth. There's an earthquake! I know that much.
“Hey, Frank,” she says with an automatic smile. Her bobbed hair bounces cheerfully even as she halts in front of his desk, sleek blonde strands picking up the motion. Inertia and momentum. “I think you over-watered yours. Look at it. Hardly any land at all, and all those clouds!”
“Fred,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry. It has volcanoes.” He points them out with a pen.
“You call those volcanoes? Johnson in Accounts has worked out how to get real volcanoes. Massive ones. All over the place. It’s like watching a toffee apple melt in the fire.”
One of the island volcanoes explodes as they watch and begins to sink sheepishly into the water, fizzing steam. Connie blinks politely.
“What about mountain ranges?” Her attention is peeling away.
“Oh, here, wait…no. Sorry. The clouds are in the way.”
“My fiancé works in Coding,” she says. “For our anniversary he managed to spell out my name in mountains, right around the equator. Adorable little snow-capped things. Like biscuits covered with icing sugar.” She seems fond of food similes, though (by the thin defensive hang of her limbs) this should not be a surprise.
Fred glares at his world, as though it can be quelled into a display of extravagance and tender tectonic plates. Nothing happens. The clouds drift.
Connie drifts: away, back to her own desk or the copier or wherever she was going in the first place. Fred rubs the back of his neck and tells himself that he wouldn’t want to be able to make mountains that look like someone’s afternoon tea. Real mountains should be sharp and brown and untidy, dusty with death.
Currently I am just the tiniest bit obsessed with Robert Dessaix (as anyone to whom I have written a letter in the past month will have realised), and I have at least a third of a lovely review/rant/extolling-the-virtues type thing stored away in my mind. Some of it went into my notebook today when I was drinking coffee in a shopping break. I'll save it up for when I finish the collection of his essays and reviews I'm working my way through.
(
schiarire, if more than one copy of these books existed in the seeming universe, I'd buy them and send them to you. I think you'd like them. Pirates! Silver! Time travel! Sexy mercenaries! Australian spelling! Unfortunately, I doubt California has any more copies than Canberra.)Deadlines are only helpful when they're close enough to be panic-inducing. I'm gazing vaguely at the horizon, where drift the ghosts of my essays and assignments, but there's nothing tangible enough for me to actually be bothered to work. I love holidays. What's scary is that I only have another year and three months to use the 'but I'm a teenager' excuse for my 'eschewing responsibility' phases.
That said, this short story competition entry is due on October 1st and I still need to pull 1000 words out of somewhere and send the thing off to be torn apart by kind beta types. It's like pulling teeth. There's an earthquake! I know that much.
“Hey, Frank,” she says with an automatic smile. Her bobbed hair bounces cheerfully even as she halts in front of his desk, sleek blonde strands picking up the motion. Inertia and momentum. “I think you over-watered yours. Look at it. Hardly any land at all, and all those clouds!”
“Fred,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry. It has volcanoes.” He points them out with a pen.
“You call those volcanoes? Johnson in Accounts has worked out how to get real volcanoes. Massive ones. All over the place. It’s like watching a toffee apple melt in the fire.”
One of the island volcanoes explodes as they watch and begins to sink sheepishly into the water, fizzing steam. Connie blinks politely.
“What about mountain ranges?” Her attention is peeling away.
“Oh, here, wait…no. Sorry. The clouds are in the way.”
“My fiancé works in Coding,” she says. “For our anniversary he managed to spell out my name in mountains, right around the equator. Adorable little snow-capped things. Like biscuits covered with icing sugar.” She seems fond of food similes, though (by the thin defensive hang of her limbs) this should not be a surprise.
Fred glares at his world, as though it can be quelled into a display of extravagance and tender tectonic plates. Nothing happens. The clouds drift.
Connie drifts: away, back to her own desk or the copier or wherever she was going in the first place. Fred rubs the back of his neck and tells himself that he wouldn’t want to be able to make mountains that look like someone’s afternoon tea. Real mountains should be sharp and brown and untidy, dusty with death.
Currently I am just the tiniest bit obsessed with Robert Dessaix (as anyone to whom I have written a letter in the past month will have realised), and I have at least a third of a lovely review/rant/extolling-the-virtues type thing stored away in my mind. Some of it went into my notebook today when I was drinking coffee in a shopping break. I'll save it up for when I finish the collection of his essays and reviews I'm working my way through.
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*mourns*
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Good birthday, Beth honey? :D
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And in another forty-five minutes, also in theory, I steal someone's cell phone and call you.
While they ALL SLEEP.
Like fools.
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FOOLS.
YES.
Who's still there? I saw Mir got home safe.
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NML. Loggage for Yet Another Damn AU. Harper/Marcus. VERY shiny.
They are very foolish indeed, yes.
Um! Phoenix has also gotten home safe. Everyone else is I think still here. 'Lise and Sophie and Emmy share room with me. Heather and Patty and Aly have room at other end of hall. Gareth and Karen have room upstairs. Gen and Aspen are staying with Sweeney.
*nods*
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I do not know a Phoenix or a Patty or an Aly! I know of everyone else. Have only actually chatted to Sophie and Heather. But you know how it is. With the timezones and the uni work and the having to abandon the bar for long stretches of time :(
*weeps, with Great Woe*
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*cuddles you* technically you and I never chat, either, you know. We just trade comments. Like this, here, now.
Because we're zany like that.
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Dude, the last thing I need is another RP. No. No. Wargle.
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*which is appropriate, as, is currently writing something that isn't really phonesex, as there are no telephones involved, but is not much dissimilar*
And you wouldn't have to join, you know. You could just... read it. :D
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LALALALALA NOT LISTENING.
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The rest of it is loggage.
I could link you to other sex, though...
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Nah, s'kay, I should be writing my psych report.
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And probably I should say that I don't think we're going to manage to call you tonight. Cos I don't have a cell phone or a phone card and I think it was going to be Gareth's phone we were going to steal to call you. Um. Maybe tomorrow morning, your time? Before all the various and sundry people depart? We might manage to do it!
or something.
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*eyes*
I should be awake from 8am. Should. Mobile will be on and most likely wake me up if you need to call earlier.
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I hate math.
Um! I... think we may be waking you up. OR. Instead!
I will just be lazy and wait till I have a phone card, and call you personally. And you will not get a Dragon*Con call, but you WILL get a call from me, which is Much Rarer.
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Well, I don't *mind* being woken up, as long as I know in advance. I guess just see what the others want to do.
It's 5:20am for you, right? To get my time just add two hours and switch am to pm. Or the vice of the versa. I think.
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So! It is possible we will be waking you up; I dunno. I go to bed now, actually.
*falls over*
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so that I can steal it! we'll pan for gold in banks and shit.False beards will be worn by all!no subject
Glad to hear that someone remembers Mocklore! Copies of Liquid Gold & Splashdance Silver can be purchased from the author for ridiculously high/low prices depending on how pleading you are in your email. I charge extra for sending you a rare unautographed edition. :)
Yo ho ho & sexy mercenaries for all,
TansyRR xx
tan(at)tansyrr.com
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*grins*
I can do pleading. Give me a moment to change into my prostration clothes (the ones with the kneepads) and I'll send you an email.
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For you!
*heads to the 5:30 AM e-mail mobile*