| oo3. |
[December 25, 2008] |
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mood |
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uncomfortably hyper |
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Oi!
I have one thing to say to all of you. Stop it. Stop with the carols! I have had far, far too much butter beer and you still sound like a dying feline on nitrous oxide! Fac taceas, I tell you! A really, really nasty one that stinks of wet quidditch socks and sheds mothballs! No one wants to pet a cat like that, and what I mean to say by this is you'll never get shagged singing like that!
As I said, I've been trying to drown the sound and my sorrows, etc., with copius amounts of drink but, as they say...
Ah, I forget. In vino veritas! But I prefer butter beer. And cakes. I prefer cakes. Many different kinds of cakes, but mainly I can still hear carols! Ascendo tuum! Nemo me impune lacessit---...latine loqui coactus sum.
Oh, bollocks.
Fac me cocleario vomere, I hate you all.
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| oo2. the lights are on but no one's home. |
[November 15, 2008] |
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A ball. How quaint. I find that delusions are best served cold, myself, but I can't say I'm so pragmatic not to fancy some sparkles and hors d’oeuvre along with a main course of death. Hmm, I can't decide which belle I'd take--maybe I just won't go at all.
( Hexed Private. )
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| oo1. don't you feed me lies about some idealistic future-- |
[November 02, 2008] |
I would like to know the identity of our new headmaster or headmistress now, if you please. This mystery is interfering quite spectacularly with my social life.
( Hexed private. )
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| ooo. third person writing sample. |
[October 21, 2008] |
If it hadn’t been for the fact that Scorpius owed his life, good looks, and epic wit to them, he very likely might have hated his parents. Their concern with family honor, tradition, and appearance was all well and good, as long as he wasn’t required to participate in the extremely lengthy (and all around boring) rites that ushered in each new season, most notably seasonal parties and photo opportunities, the latter of which happened to be closing in from all sides. Scorpius had no idea why his mother insisted on what could have been a bloody magazine spread each season; as forthcoming as Astoria had been with him throughout his life, she had never bothered to answer any questions that may or may not have called into question her Decisions on Behalf of the Family.
Decisions on Behalf of the Family was a wide category that included wardrobe change. Scorpius was currently stuck in the interim between number six and seven, and had he not had the enthralling works of Melville to keep him occupied, he was certain he would die from lack of mental stimulation. The photographer who had been taking pictures of Scorpius since he was an infant was mulling around the garden, looking up at the sky through the branches of Scorpius’s giant oak tree while smoking a cigarette, and Scorpius’s father was…well, Scorpius wasn’t certain what Draco was doing. Something appropriately Malfoy, he suspected, though what constituted as Malfoy these days was anyone’s best guess. Scorpius himself was draped over one of the wrought iron garden chairs, his battered copy of Moby Dick balanced precariously on his crotch in hopes that the lewdness of having a story about a giant whale near his privates would ruffle at least one parent’s sensibilities (most likely Daddy’s).
He had been sitting here for what felt like hours. His cheeks hurt. His arse hurt. Scorpius wasn’t even sure he could see any colors outside the range of browns, oranges and yellows that categorized the fall atmosphere of the garden anymore. It was a tragedy. A Greek tragedy—Shakespearian even. Tragic on the level of Hamlet and Macbeth and….was that a giant tarantula on his father’s back, or a leaf?
“Scorpius, come along. I want some shots by the lake.”
Scorpius glanced sideways at his mother, but didn’t move. He instead turned his eyes back to Moby Dick and idly wondered how powerful a summoning spell it would take to pull a vicious white whale from the nearest ocean… Too much. He certainly didn’t have time for it, and he definitely wasn’t rested enough after the ridiculous amount of changing clothes and moving from scene to scene… He’d have to settle with his normal array of weaponry.
“Why?" he drawled, not looking away from Melville, "The lake is stupid.”
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