Here is what "closing on the house" meant in my brain:
We show up at the house, we sign papers, we get the keys. Hooray!
Here is what "closing on the house" actually meant.
We showed up at the title loan company, we signed papers, we... came back to our apartment and do some more packing. Because the closing paperwork has to be processed. Which could not happen the same day that we signed because the cut-off time was 1:30, and we didn't finish everything until closer to 2:00
So no house for us until some time Monday. Which is... somewhat aggravating, to say the least.
In the meantime I've become shamelessly infatuated with MTV's 16 and Pregnant. I know, I know... I'm not proud. But seriously- that show is fascinating. It's such an interesting study of different psyches... not to mention I definitely get to feel smug and superior when I watch it. So... that's probably not the most healthy thing in the world for my psyche. Not to mention there are way better things I could be doing with my time.
...like packing...
8.13.2011
8.11.2011
Homeowner? I Don't Think So.
First of all, this:
No, we are not having a boisterous bacchanalia; that pile o'packets is the sum total of our books (mostly). Liquor boxes are small and sturdy, which makes them excellent for transporting our trades (seriously- someone stop me) which means I've been making friends down on Main Street.... And pretending to be deaf to heavily-Russian-accented-voices and their opinions of my bosom and the rights it affords me. ::cough::
We close on the house tomorrow, and- me being who I am- I spent last night reviewing the 90+ pages of closing documents (and catching errors and questionable entries). As I slogged through that tome (the trick to deciphering legalese is to avoid distractions- like music- and to go reeeaaaaallly slowly to ensure you don't revert to "this-is-boring-let's-skim-it" habits) I came to a realization:
We are not going to be home-owners.
Everyone keeps using phrases like, 'first-time home-owners' and 'finally own your own place!', but the thing is- we aren't. We really, really aren't. We're going to be mortgage-owners. Long-term-home-buyers might be the most optimistic way of phrasing it. And I think that's something that too many people either gloss over, or just don't give too much thought to. But it's right there in the contract- we are expressly forbidden from doing anything that might lower the value of the property. Do you know who gets to dictate what is and isn't allowed to be done to something? Yeah, the person who owns it. Which in this case is the bank. Sobering, isn't it?
Anyway, back to packing...
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| Seven Stacks of... Script? |
We close on the house tomorrow, and- me being who I am- I spent last night reviewing the 90+ pages of closing documents (and catching errors and questionable entries). As I slogged through that tome (the trick to deciphering legalese is to avoid distractions- like music- and to go reeeaaaaallly slowly to ensure you don't revert to "this-is-boring-let's-skim-it" habits) I came to a realization:
We are not going to be home-owners.
Everyone keeps using phrases like, 'first-time home-owners' and 'finally own your own place!', but the thing is- we aren't. We really, really aren't. We're going to be mortgage-owners. Long-term-home-buyers might be the most optimistic way of phrasing it. And I think that's something that too many people either gloss over, or just don't give too much thought to. But it's right there in the contract- we are expressly forbidden from doing anything that might lower the value of the property. Do you know who gets to dictate what is and isn't allowed to be done to something? Yeah, the person who owns it. Which in this case is the bank. Sobering, isn't it?
Anyway, back to packing...
8.06.2011
Rounding the Homestretch
As we enter into this final stage of our lives as non-home-owners, and I am doing things that involve Grid Paper and Tiny Paper Couches, I find myself looking around at our apartment and sighing. Not so much because I feel any sort of nostalgia about this dwelling (really it was only ever meant to be a placeholder) but because... well, it's only a little two-bedroom apartment (under 1000 square feet) and really, we don't have that much stuff- but holy crap we have so much stuff. And I'm trying to figure out the most logical way to pack it all up. Again. The difference being that instead of moving it cross-country I only have to move it cross-town (and not even that, really- it's only like 2.5 miles) which honestly always seems like such a bigger pain in the posterior. And since this will be my tenth move in as many years (including moves ranging from 3000 miles to 30 yards) I feel more than qualified to make that judgment.
It's the books, mostly. So many damn (and damnably heavy) books. And the thing is? It's not that many books! I've given up so many over the past years- and yet so many remain. I comfort myself that having a house means having the luxury of not having to constantly par down on books- but I may be only kidding myself, because really, if I didn't keep a strict hand on how many books share space with us, they would swiftly bury us in an avalanche of paper and ink.
(We all have our vices.)
At any rate, we're on schedule to close in less than a week, and it has been pointed out to me by certain individuals that I haven't actually shared any photos on this blog. And so I shall take this entry to remedy that glaring oversight:
So there you have it, Gentle Readers- a brief tour of the house-that-shall-be-ours. I even have a name picked out for her (a friend of mine rightly pointed out that all the best homes have names) but I won't be revealing it until the keys are in our hot little hands. In the meantime... back to planning my packing.
Sigh.
It's the books, mostly. So many damn (and damnably heavy) books. And the thing is? It's not that many books! I've given up so many over the past years- and yet so many remain. I comfort myself that having a house means having the luxury of not having to constantly par down on books- but I may be only kidding myself, because really, if I didn't keep a strict hand on how many books share space with us, they would swiftly bury us in an avalanche of paper and ink.
(We all have our vices.)
At any rate, we're on schedule to close in less than a week, and it has been pointed out to me by certain individuals that I haven't actually shared any photos on this blog. And so I shall take this entry to remedy that glaring oversight:
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| Front of the house (crying out for a rocking chair or two) |
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| Back of the house/garage (that porch demands parties!) |
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| Living area- front door to the right |
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| Nathan has declared I may use this for my crafting nook... |
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| Looking from the crafting nook towards the kitchen (that's the home inspector there) |
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| Kitchen! With high cabinets! |
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| Guest bedroom/Nathan's office |
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| Upstairs looking down. So many things to love in this picture. |
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| Hypothetical kid's room/my office |
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| Master bedroom |
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| Sink in the master bathroom. It makes me happy. |
So there you have it, Gentle Readers- a brief tour of the house-that-shall-be-ours. I even have a name picked out for her (a friend of mine rightly pointed out that all the best homes have names) but I won't be revealing it until the keys are in our hot little hands. In the meantime... back to planning my packing.
Sigh.
8.02.2011
The Tragi-Comedic Life of Jenny O (Emphasis on Comedic)
Maybe this ought to be two posts, but since I'd already been working on writing up the First Event when the Second One occurred, you get a(n exceptionally long) Twofer. I actually have a third one that's been bouncing around in my head for a few weeks, but it may never actually make it to the page... we'll see...
Sunday was an odd day for me. In spite of my glorious mood from the night before, I woke up... not wanting to wake up. And certainly not wanting to get out of bed. And double certainly not wanting to leave the house for church and to deal with people, of all hideous things. But I did all of these things, and even comported myself in a manner which I do not believe belied my Mopey Funk- although on the drive home Nathan asked if I was okay, since I was so quiet. I said that maybe sometimes I was just quiet, and he straight up called me on that BS.
We'd been talking all week about doing a hike Sunday afternoon, and although I dearly wanted to just lay in bed and Be Depressed, two things kept me from that course of action: the first was the memory of Nathan dancing with me the night before. The second was my determination not to be That Girl anymore. I've said it before, and I'll likely say it again- depression is like a comfortable old sweater to me. It's cozy. It's familiar. But giving into the fuzzy sweater is just Lazy- and I will not be lazy. Especially because I knew that hiking would eventually put me in a better mood. So I changed clothes and we headed out and started our hike and I was quiet but not sulky, and sure enough- eventually we reached a good spot for photography and I lay on my back and stared up through the trees while Nathan worked and I started to Feel Better. Then we scrambled up a waterfall and I started to feel a lot better. Happy, even. See?
Anyway it was about then that tragedy struck- or maybe I should say I struck. A branch. With my naked toe. And it hurt, but I scolded myself for reacting so strongly, saying, "O you are just being a big baby- it didn't hurt that badly. You're reacting to the shock, not the pain." So I stuck my feet in the glacier-cold water and felt better. Eventually we got out and dried our feet and started the 2.5 hike back, and at first it was a little painful, but then the pain sort of eased and I thought, "See, you're fine."
Oh but then. Then I turned my foot a little, and put pressure on said injured toe from the side- and I was not fine. I was not even remotely fine, as the pain exploded through my foot and up into my leg, and my stomach dropped out. I kept moving (there may, perhaps, have been some obscenities) and soon enough it was fine again. Walking normally was not at all a problem, and now that I knew that side pressure was, I was very careful about my foot placement. I only screwed up twice more, and both times swiftly corrected.
We got back to the car and, out of curiosity, I took my shoe and sock off:
"That may be a broken toe," I said to Nathan (although what I meant was "fractured" since obviously it wasn't broken broken). I was all for just taping it to the next toe and calling it good, but at my wise mother's insistence I did end up going to the doctor this morning. Here's what my toe looked like by then:
The doctor was great (I do have something of a fondness for podiatrists- they never talk down to me or make me do pointless tests or try to force pills on me). I expressed my fear that I was just being a baby and it was nothing more than a bruise, but he took one look at it and said that usually when it looks like that there actually is something wrong with it. A few x-rays later we had our answer- not fractured, but definitely torn. Oh so torn. He commended me for listening to my mother, and then gave me a freaking sweet laser treatment. With this machine:
Anyway, he told me to keep doing what I've been doing (mostly elevation and not-doing-the-painful-thing, as it will impede the healing process) and that I was not a baby. He also said I could do the buddy-tape thing to help stabilize, but after wearing the tape for about five minutes I realized it was hurting, so I've decided to forgo that for the time being.
So that was that adventure. And now we come to part two,
You may or may not remember, but a while back I submitted some stuff to a magazine. And they accepted. Well today I went to the mailbox, and what should I find but a package! And what was in that package? Why, two copies of a magazine!
As you might imagine, Elation ensued. I immediately flipped to the contents page:...
...and immediately burst into laughter. Why? Take a closer look:
Ah well, I thought. Published is published, right? And it wouldn't be the first time my name had been published incorrectly (the first time was in college- and they not only credited the wrong artist, they didn't even get the title of my piece correct- or bother to get permission before using it.) So I flipped to the story....
...and started laughing even harder:
Because seriously, you guys? This:
::sigh::
But I maintain that I can still call myself a published author, inconsistently spelled name or not. (Although Nathan definitely had fun saying, "I don't know who you are," and the like...)
I sent them a gentle email to point out the oversights, but really- I'm not upset. I've worked as an editor, I know how hard it is to catch every little thing (especially because these women also work day jobs), and quite frankly, it makes for a better story this way.
And really, that's all I ask from life- good stories.
EDIT: I got a very sweet response from the editor! She apologized profusely, and said she'd fix the online version ASAP- before it goes live tomorrow! (She also promised to get the spelling right for any future submissions I might make... tee hee!) See, mistakes happen to the best of us- but if you're willing to take responsibility and make it right, it's really not that big of a deal. ^_^
Sunday was an odd day for me. In spite of my glorious mood from the night before, I woke up... not wanting to wake up. And certainly not wanting to get out of bed. And double certainly not wanting to leave the house for church and to deal with people, of all hideous things. But I did all of these things, and even comported myself in a manner which I do not believe belied my Mopey Funk- although on the drive home Nathan asked if I was okay, since I was so quiet. I said that maybe sometimes I was just quiet, and he straight up called me on that BS.
We'd been talking all week about doing a hike Sunday afternoon, and although I dearly wanted to just lay in bed and Be Depressed, two things kept me from that course of action: the first was the memory of Nathan dancing with me the night before. The second was my determination not to be That Girl anymore. I've said it before, and I'll likely say it again- depression is like a comfortable old sweater to me. It's cozy. It's familiar. But giving into the fuzzy sweater is just Lazy- and I will not be lazy. Especially because I knew that hiking would eventually put me in a better mood. So I changed clothes and we headed out and started our hike and I was quiet but not sulky, and sure enough- eventually we reached a good spot for photography and I lay on my back and stared up through the trees while Nathan worked and I started to Feel Better. Then we scrambled up a waterfall and I started to feel a lot better. Happy, even. See?
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| Happy Campers. Er, hikers. |
Anyway it was about then that tragedy struck- or maybe I should say I struck. A branch. With my naked toe. And it hurt, but I scolded myself for reacting so strongly, saying, "O you are just being a big baby- it didn't hurt that badly. You're reacting to the shock, not the pain." So I stuck my feet in the glacier-cold water and felt better. Eventually we got out and dried our feet and started the 2.5 hike back, and at first it was a little painful, but then the pain sort of eased and I thought, "See, you're fine."
Oh but then. Then I turned my foot a little, and put pressure on said injured toe from the side- and I was not fine. I was not even remotely fine, as the pain exploded through my foot and up into my leg, and my stomach dropped out. I kept moving (there may, perhaps, have been some obscenities) and soon enough it was fine again. Walking normally was not at all a problem, and now that I knew that side pressure was, I was very careful about my foot placement. I only screwed up twice more, and both times swiftly corrected.
We got back to the car and, out of curiosity, I took my shoe and sock off:
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| An instance wherein purple is NOT my favorite color. |
"That may be a broken toe," I said to Nathan (although what I meant was "fractured" since obviously it wasn't broken broken). I was all for just taping it to the next toe and calling it good, but at my wise mother's insistence I did end up going to the doctor this morning. Here's what my toe looked like by then:
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| You can't tell, but the discoloration goes up into the foot... |
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| It was like Star Trek. With fewer catsuits. |
So that was that adventure. And now we come to part two,
You may or may not remember, but a while back I submitted some stuff to a magazine. And they accepted. Well today I went to the mailbox, and what should I find but a package! And what was in that package? Why, two copies of a magazine!
As you might imagine, Elation ensued. I immediately flipped to the contents page:...
 |
| Click to Embiggen |
...and immediately burst into laughter. Why? Take a closer look:
 |
| (My tablet isn't working right now, so forgive the funky touchpad-writing) |
...and started laughing even harder:
Because seriously, you guys? This:
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| Yes, that is the author-photo I submitted. With my name in the photo. |
::sigh::
But I maintain that I can still call myself a published author, inconsistently spelled name or not. (Although Nathan definitely had fun saying, "I don't know who you are," and the like...)
I sent them a gentle email to point out the oversights, but really- I'm not upset. I've worked as an editor, I know how hard it is to catch every little thing (especially because these women also work day jobs), and quite frankly, it makes for a better story this way.
And really, that's all I ask from life- good stories.
EDIT: I got a very sweet response from the editor! She apologized profusely, and said she'd fix the online version ASAP- before it goes live tomorrow! (She also promised to get the spelling right for any future submissions I might make... tee hee!) See, mistakes happen to the best of us- but if you're willing to take responsibility and make it right, it's really not that big of a deal. ^_^
7.30.2011
When Love is Stronger Than Fear
The last wedding I was at, Responsibilities were Required of me. That was fine- I love weddings, and I love being In Charge of Things, so it was win-win, in my estimation. Today's wedding, on the other hand, I got to be Just a Guest, and I have to say- that was pretty great, too. Especially since this was the first wedding (since our own) that I got to bring Nathan with me, so on top of my typical "I love weddings and happy people!" blubbering there was also, "Oh remember what we did at our wedding?" blubbering (on my part, anyway). Also the thing that, had you asked me before this evening, I'd have sworn would never happen:
Ladies and gentlemen, my husband danced with me. On a dance floor. In public. There were witnesses! Possibly even photographic evidence! It was... so incredibly moving, because he is a person that does not dance. Can not dance, to hear him tell it. He does not "get" expressing one's self through The Art of Dance, and he is embarrassed by my proclivity for busting a move wherever/whenever (especially in grocery stores). It should therefore come as no surprise that, when the dancing portion of the reception started, I was out on the dance floor with some other brave souls getting my Exuberance on, while Nathan calmly sipped beer and shot photos from the safe seclusion of our table. So when Elvis Presley's "Love Me Tender" started playing and I made pitiful eyes at him, I did not actually expect him to respond beyond his typical head shake. But... he didn't shake his head. He took off his camera, stood up, and walked over to me- and we danced!
And readers, I almost started crying again. Happy crying, because it was such a perfect example of him valuing me more than his own pride. I know he was afraid of looking like a fool on the dance floor, but he got out there, anyway, because he knew it would mean something to me.
And that's the secret, all you non-life-partnered peeps wondering just what it is you you should be looking for: happily ever after is not a magic trophy that someone hands you when you get everything Just Right. It's found in those small moments when love overcomes fear.
Ladies and gentlemen, my husband danced with me. On a dance floor. In public. There were witnesses! Possibly even photographic evidence! It was... so incredibly moving, because he is a person that does not dance. Can not dance, to hear him tell it. He does not "get" expressing one's self through The Art of Dance, and he is embarrassed by my proclivity for busting a move wherever/whenever (especially in grocery stores). It should therefore come as no surprise that, when the dancing portion of the reception started, I was out on the dance floor with some other brave souls getting my Exuberance on, while Nathan calmly sipped beer and shot photos from the safe seclusion of our table. So when Elvis Presley's "Love Me Tender" started playing and I made pitiful eyes at him, I did not actually expect him to respond beyond his typical head shake. But... he didn't shake his head. He took off his camera, stood up, and walked over to me- and we danced!
And readers, I almost started crying again. Happy crying, because it was such a perfect example of him valuing me more than his own pride. I know he was afraid of looking like a fool on the dance floor, but he got out there, anyway, because he knew it would mean something to me.
And that's the secret, all you non-life-partnered peeps wondering just what it is you you should be looking for: happily ever after is not a magic trophy that someone hands you when you get everything Just Right. It's found in those small moments when love overcomes fear.
7.23.2011
Oh Glorious Day!
Today has gone just about as well as a day can go.
This morning Nathan and I loaded up the car, strapped Ruli to the rack, and nipped down to Portland to pick up my Katie. From there we traveled three hours to Otter Rock, where they released me into the wild to surf whilst they went about their esoteric photographer business.
This is only the third or fourth time I've gotten out since being back, and I have to admit that the previous times have left me feeling a little discouraged. It's been cold (really cold), it's been rainy (which I don't mind for surfing, per se, but it sure makes me feel guilty about anyone who's come along with me), and I was out of surfing shape, which means I couldn't go for more than about half an hour to an hour at a time. But today- well for starters it was an insanely gorgeous day: sunny with a nice wind (maybe not so nice for surfing purposes, but nice for non-surfing pursuits) and the water just normally cold instead of dangerously cold. I was afraid such lovely weather might make for a crowded beach, but as it turned out it wasn't that bad- and what was really awesome was that it was the largest gathering of female surfers I've ever seen on an Oregon beach. And all surfing at about my level, so it really felt like a community- lots of smiles and laughing and encouragement. Very comfortable, very empowering, very good.
And then, of course, the coup de grace to my previous discouragement: I'm back in shape. The daily cycling commute has got my cardio back up to where it needs to be, and my back finally seems to be recovering from whatever it was I to it back in March (it involved dancing and alcohol and back-bending too exuberantly) which means my pop-ups are far less painful. That combined with the small, pleasant waves meant that I was actually catching and riding more than I was missing- and I had one especially beautiful, long ride that felt like pure triumph. My soul was singing all day long, happy to be home again in the ocean.
Once the other two lured me back on shore we headed out to in search of fish and chips, which, as you may recall, is something of a favorite of mine. I've not had particularly good luck finding any of decent quality on this side of the Atlantic, but I am happy to announce that the fare to be had at The Chowder Bowl in Newport, while not perhaps on par with the docks of Portsmouth, was definitely the best I've had stateside.
So that was particularly pleasing, as well. Not to mention the scrumptiousness of Katie's clam chowder, followed up by bread pudding with a generous dollop of brandy. (Hmm, I am beginning to detect a Certain Correlation between my Best Days and Delicious Food. Mere coincidence? Or something more sinister...)
On the drive home we got to talking about how nice it will be to have the house, and access to a driveway and a hose. I'll be able to rinse off Ruli, and clean up all my gear without Ridiculous Shower Acrobatics, and give the Blueberry a bath without worrying about what might happen to our various racks. The sewer scope came back good, so we're still on track to close by the 15th. It was pointed out to me that I've not yet posted any pictures of the house on this blog, so that will be an entry in the near future. But now? Now it's time for bed, 'cos Nathan's gotten it into his head that we should go hike around Mirror Lake tomorrow, and I definitely need to recover from today's activities!
This morning Nathan and I loaded up the car, strapped Ruli to the rack, and nipped down to Portland to pick up my Katie. From there we traveled three hours to Otter Rock, where they released me into the wild to surf whilst they went about their esoteric photographer business.
This is only the third or fourth time I've gotten out since being back, and I have to admit that the previous times have left me feeling a little discouraged. It's been cold (really cold), it's been rainy (which I don't mind for surfing, per se, but it sure makes me feel guilty about anyone who's come along with me), and I was out of surfing shape, which means I couldn't go for more than about half an hour to an hour at a time. But today- well for starters it was an insanely gorgeous day: sunny with a nice wind (maybe not so nice for surfing purposes, but nice for non-surfing pursuits) and the water just normally cold instead of dangerously cold. I was afraid such lovely weather might make for a crowded beach, but as it turned out it wasn't that bad- and what was really awesome was that it was the largest gathering of female surfers I've ever seen on an Oregon beach. And all surfing at about my level, so it really felt like a community- lots of smiles and laughing and encouragement. Very comfortable, very empowering, very good.
And then, of course, the coup de grace to my previous discouragement: I'm back in shape. The daily cycling commute has got my cardio back up to where it needs to be, and my back finally seems to be recovering from whatever it was I to it back in March (it involved dancing and alcohol and back-bending too exuberantly) which means my pop-ups are far less painful. That combined with the small, pleasant waves meant that I was actually catching and riding more than I was missing- and I had one especially beautiful, long ride that felt like pure triumph. My soul was singing all day long, happy to be home again in the ocean.
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| Happy happy- but see how my hair was already drying from the sun? I'd been out not even an hour at that point. |
Once the other two lured me back on shore we headed out to in search of fish and chips, which, as you may recall, is something of a favorite of mine. I've not had particularly good luck finding any of decent quality on this side of the Atlantic, but I am happy to announce that the fare to be had at The Chowder Bowl in Newport, while not perhaps on par with the docks of Portsmouth, was definitely the best I've had stateside.
 |
| Woo, mission accomplished! |
So that was particularly pleasing, as well. Not to mention the scrumptiousness of Katie's clam chowder, followed up by bread pudding with a generous dollop of brandy. (Hmm, I am beginning to detect a Certain Correlation between my Best Days and Delicious Food. Mere coincidence? Or something more sinister...)
On the drive home we got to talking about how nice it will be to have the house, and access to a driveway and a hose. I'll be able to rinse off Ruli, and clean up all my gear without Ridiculous Shower Acrobatics, and give the Blueberry a bath without worrying about what might happen to our various racks. The sewer scope came back good, so we're still on track to close by the 15th. It was pointed out to me that I've not yet posted any pictures of the house on this blog, so that will be an entry in the near future. But now? Now it's time for bed, 'cos Nathan's gotten it into his head that we should go hike around Mirror Lake tomorrow, and I definitely need to recover from today's activities!
7.17.2011
A Return to Fiction
Several Literary Related Events went down today. First off, we finally got to see the new Harry Potter movie ("finally"? It's only been out three days... sheesh...), and I'll have you know I went in prepared with a hankie. Which I used. And of course I have my nerd-core complaints about it (which I shall not get into here lest Spoilers Occur) but all in all I just really enjoyed the hell out of that movie. The dragon alone sent me in to rapturous wriggles of beautifully-rendered-anatomy artist-glee.
From there we walked up a block to the brand new library, which was having its Grand Opening today, so I could pick up my five books on hold (mmm, graphic novel glut). It's a gorgeous library- so modern and lovely and just... wonderful. (And my pocket-book breathes a sigh of relief that the temptation-to-impulse-buy-books has been once again reduced to manageable levels.)
So both of those things put me in a brilliant mood, as did the subsequent reading of Daytripper (beautiful on so many levels- exquisite linework, exquisite sentiment: I highly highly highly recommend it to anyone, but especially anyone who ponders death, life, and the intersections thereof) and the cherry on all of that delicious cake was getting a text from one of my beta readers this morning saying that she now finds my protagonist "curious and spirited" which is a vast improvement over "I want to slap the hell out of her" (said beta's reaction to draft one). Needless to say, all of this fictional goodness but me in excellent spirits to sit down and work on "the new one", so that is what I did. And then I realized that I haven't thrown any fiction up here for a good long while, so I thought I'd share a bit...
***
Whenever Urgrosma had spoken of the wall that surrounded the castle of the Sleeping Rose she had said it had grown out of a plant called verbrenindorn, a word which translated, more or less, to “burning thorn”. I’d always thought she had meant nettles- those stinging plants that itched like fire if bare skin accidently brushed against them. But what I stood before now was nothing that had grown naturally in our world.
I stared at the thorns, trying to discern why exactly they made the hair on the back of my neck rise up in alarm. The casual observer might have chalked it up to the ghostly blue fire that danced along the spines- and although it’s true such obvious proof of its magical nature was a bit… unsettling, I did not think it was that alone which gave me the sense of danger. The flame did not give off any heat, and did not burn the grass around it- nor did it melt the tip of my spear when I poked it experimentally. But something- something about this had led to the scattered skeletons I saw- some laying right at my feet, others visible deeper within the thorns: all charred. Could it be that the barrier was slowing growing outward? Was that why there were bones at different depths? Or was there something hiding amidst the thorns, sometimes emerging to kill, other times dragging its prey in? The dragon, perhaps?
As I was pondering this, my horse let out an irritated squeal and danced sidewise, knocking into me in such a way that I slammed my face into the pommel of my sword. Pain spiked through my skull in that way that only hitting your nose can cause, followed by the unpleasant sensation of blood pouring from my nostrils.
“Skyfather’s tits!” I swore, wiping the blood away with a swipe of my hand that ended in flinging the red fluid onto the thorns. Anything other blasphemies I might have been tempted to utter were immediately silenced by what I noticed then.
The blood was burning.
Not the blood on my hand, or smeared across my face- but every droplet that had struck the eerie blue light of the thorns had burst into white-hot flame. I stared at it in disbelief for a moment, then gathered more from my upper lip and held it above the plant. I flicked my fingers and again, wherever the blood touched the blue fire it sizzled and burned.
A magic that turned blood flammable, attached to thorns that looked sharp as any blade.
I took a step backwards, suddenly realizing why the skeletons were at different depths in the wall: those further in had hacked their way through the barrier for a while- until a single thorn had pierced their skin.
I had a brief moment of illness as I imagined what it might feel like to burn to death from the inside out- then felt overwhelming gratitude for whatever insect had stung my heretofore gentle mare.
“Good girl,” I said, grabbing her reins and leading her away from the verbrenindorn. “Very, very good girl.”
From there we walked up a block to the brand new library, which was having its Grand Opening today, so I could pick up my five books on hold (mmm, graphic novel glut). It's a gorgeous library- so modern and lovely and just... wonderful. (And my pocket-book breathes a sigh of relief that the temptation-to-impulse-buy-books has been once again reduced to manageable levels.)
So both of those things put me in a brilliant mood, as did the subsequent reading of Daytripper (beautiful on so many levels- exquisite linework, exquisite sentiment: I highly highly highly recommend it to anyone, but especially anyone who ponders death, life, and the intersections thereof) and the cherry on all of that delicious cake was getting a text from one of my beta readers this morning saying that she now finds my protagonist "curious and spirited" which is a vast improvement over "I want to slap the hell out of her" (said beta's reaction to draft one). Needless to say, all of this fictional goodness but me in excellent spirits to sit down and work on "the new one", so that is what I did. And then I realized that I haven't thrown any fiction up here for a good long while, so I thought I'd share a bit...
***
Whenever Urgrosma had spoken of the wall that surrounded the castle of the Sleeping Rose she had said it had grown out of a plant called verbrenindorn, a word which translated, more or less, to “burning thorn”. I’d always thought she had meant nettles- those stinging plants that itched like fire if bare skin accidently brushed against them. But what I stood before now was nothing that had grown naturally in our world.
I stared at the thorns, trying to discern why exactly they made the hair on the back of my neck rise up in alarm. The casual observer might have chalked it up to the ghostly blue fire that danced along the spines- and although it’s true such obvious proof of its magical nature was a bit… unsettling, I did not think it was that alone which gave me the sense of danger. The flame did not give off any heat, and did not burn the grass around it- nor did it melt the tip of my spear when I poked it experimentally. But something- something about this had led to the scattered skeletons I saw- some laying right at my feet, others visible deeper within the thorns: all charred. Could it be that the barrier was slowing growing outward? Was that why there were bones at different depths? Or was there something hiding amidst the thorns, sometimes emerging to kill, other times dragging its prey in? The dragon, perhaps?
As I was pondering this, my horse let out an irritated squeal and danced sidewise, knocking into me in such a way that I slammed my face into the pommel of my sword. Pain spiked through my skull in that way that only hitting your nose can cause, followed by the unpleasant sensation of blood pouring from my nostrils.
“Skyfather’s tits!” I swore, wiping the blood away with a swipe of my hand that ended in flinging the red fluid onto the thorns. Anything other blasphemies I might have been tempted to utter were immediately silenced by what I noticed then.
The blood was burning.
Not the blood on my hand, or smeared across my face- but every droplet that had struck the eerie blue light of the thorns had burst into white-hot flame. I stared at it in disbelief for a moment, then gathered more from my upper lip and held it above the plant. I flicked my fingers and again, wherever the blood touched the blue fire it sizzled and burned.
A magic that turned blood flammable, attached to thorns that looked sharp as any blade.
I took a step backwards, suddenly realizing why the skeletons were at different depths in the wall: those further in had hacked their way through the barrier for a while- until a single thorn had pierced their skin.
I had a brief moment of illness as I imagined what it might feel like to burn to death from the inside out- then felt overwhelming gratitude for whatever insect had stung my heretofore gentle mare.
“Good girl,” I said, grabbing her reins and leading her away from the verbrenindorn. “Very, very good girl.”
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