undertrykke.

The man with the mirror-fingers emits a low whistle.
“Boy, you really did the number on these babies, huh?”

Unsure whether a response is expected/required, Yvaine - or is it Charybdis? - grunts noncommittally.

“I haven’t seen a sitch like this since ’74.”

The disembodied mouth in his chair doesn’t seem amused.

“So, ah...what’s the story? Unfortunate encounter with a...jackhammer?”

His patient’s garbled gurglings are of the indecipherable variety.

“What was that?”

She spits out the gadgets & wipes the blood from her lips.
“It must’ve been the bullets.”

His eyebrows rocket to his hairline & his eyes slither to the floor.
“...ah.”

She shrugs.
“I bite things.”

koerant.

Honora: a success story.

Liege: visible, cloak gone.

Chimaera: present, always, but forgiven.

Skeeter: was here, is gone- chased out of the room by M.P.’s better half.

Grier: in town.

Coggs: discovering the joys of collaboration.

The Often Orphan: appears from time to time; watches, silently; disappears.
Fractal follows suit, doppelganger in tow.
It’s not a big deal.

Albertina & The Rolling Thunder resolve their differences, Resolve themselves.

The Banshee has screamed off elsewhere.
Her ghost will haunt, but will no longer hurt.

The Mistress leaves her mess on the table.

Yvaine wears the boots.

Dr. Physician: The Mistress is reflected in his every diagnosis.
She sure is an intimidating act to follow.

The Man With the Blood-Red Eyes dogs her steps & marrs her nights.
When she shivers, it has little to do with the cold.


Day in, day out...

parandama.

Yvaine is replacing The Repair Man.
Yvaine is The Repair Man.
And if there’s one thing her mother gave her, it’s work ethic.
She does not shirk.
She does her job.

Commencing re-storation: now.

Having never seen a single episode of This Old House, she’s Brand New to this.
It’s obvious that the foundation is the first order of business.
Vital organs & all that.

The contractors will hear the news & wait for calls that aren’t coming.

This is her project.
She’s quite determined.
No matter how many times she hits her thumb with the hammer or how often the nail gun turns on her.

The journey begins at the local Barnes & Noble.
Settling into an armchair with her latte, she pulls out Step 1:
The Idiot’s Guide to Home Repair.

suku.

something like word association:


Spirals: present. tribal tattoos are back in.
Triangulation: a pattern, unavoidable? shE thinks not.
Extricate: word of the...day? Life. What she must do. But it’s not bad, we promise- said with a smile. It's healthy.
Explosions: par for the course. A given in any action movie.
Shrug: the gesture of the moment. Not dismissive; nay, indicative of peaceful acceptance. We like shrugs.


something like the setting:

[img src="ground zero"]


something like the circumstances:

They’re all trying.
They’re all abandoned.
They’re all strong.
They’re all weak.
They’re all lost.
They’re all fucked up.
They’re all okay.


something like the Indie-movie ending:

The castle continues to crumble behind her as she walks blissfully onwards.
Reaching for his hand,

“Don’t worry, love. Don’t you worry, dearest. We’ll find our houses by the sea.”

merimange.

Albertina is making a royal mess of things.

She’s weaving webs and making pies all in a single, swift motion.

No one’s really sure how she does it.

No one’s really sure she does it.

With the skill of a well-versed multi-tasker, she kneads dough and hums to herself as her spinnerets spool out yards of sticky, treacherous line.

Those who, enchanted by the sweet scent wafting towards them on the waves of her song, make the grave mistake of trusting her always wind up immobilized by the viscous strands.

She’s a one-woman death trap. 

Smiling, she wipes her hands on her apron and takes pie to the survivors.

Cherry.

It’s her trademark.

navette.

Is it the first or second Friday this month?

A calendar really should be drawn up.

For the record: Albertina hates being a child of divorce.

It’s not nearly as worldly & glamorous as it sounds.

She lines up her list of grievances as she packs her bag.

Yet again.

Beast looks up at her imploringly; he senses her approaching departure, and has begun to skulk already.

Poor animal.

She stares back at him glumly,  glaring at the box of salt water taffy on the dresser- her father’s latest attempt at being thoughtful.

She hates taffy.

Edible self-portraits don't really hold much appeal.