Canvas, Day One

Ania hunched her shoulders, clutching a small brown parcel to her chest. The wind whipped at her wispy dark hair, pulling strands out of her braid. She shivered, and wished her coat fit properly instead of flapping loosely.

If Britta were there, she'd have said to stop complaining and focus on the task at hand, then during the night, she'd adjust the coat so it would fit and say nothing more of it. The thought made Ania smile for a moment, but her face darkened again, akin to the sky.

Somehow she felt...vulnerable without her older sister to guide her. She was alone on the streets, and the sun was setting. Few others dared stay on the roads this late in fair weather, much less a winter storm.

She wasn't surprised when a tall figure stepped out of a dark alley, blocking her path. "State your name and your business."

"Ania Calloway. I'm going home."

The man relaxed slightly. "A Calloway, eh? Any relation of Miss Britta?"

Ania nodded, feeling a bit better. Britta worked washing and mending clothes for a number of the merchant class. If this man knew who she was, he couldn't be someone too terrible. Unless he was somehow responsible for her disappearance. Ania swallowed. "S-she was my sister."

"Was?" Ania got the feeling the man was raising an eyebrow, but she most of the light came from somewhere behind him, so she couldn't see his face.

"Aye. She's been missing for almost a week."

"Well, you have my sincere condolences." He stepped aside. "You should hurry home...before the storm gets any worse."

Something about the way he said 'hurry home' felt like a warning or a threat. Ania couldn't decide which. Still, though, she took his advice, practically running the rest of the way as snowflakes began churning through the air. There were steady footsteps behind her the whole way, but she didn't dare look back.

After several more minutes, Ania drew to a halt and glanced around. Her eye found no living being and her ear only the light whisper of falling snow. She opened the door of the cellar and darted inside, making sure it latched behind her.

"Ania...?" Twelve-year-old Karina sat up on her pallet in the corner, pulling her blanket over her shoulders.

"Stay under your covers, Kari," Ania said softly. "I have to take the canvas to , and then I'll come down and tell you a story."

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and Ania tiptoed through the first floor. She avoided the parlor with smashed in windows, instead skirting through the hall. Portraits of the family who'd once lived her lined the walls. She didn't focus on the fact that they were now dead. She didn't focus on the fact that their empty eyes were staring at her.

She reached the kitchen and started up the second staircase. On the middle step, she froze. Was that the sound of a door creaking below her? No, it couldn't be. Lise seldom left the attic. Her bad leg made stairs hard on her.

Ania went up the second staircase, then the third as quietly as she could, then pushed open the attic door.

Lise was at her easel, as always, squinting to see in the dim light of the lantern. The painting she was currently working on seemed at first glance to be an ordinary enough scene, a view from the attic window as people returned home from the market, bags and bundles tucked under their arms. Ania's eyes were drawn to the far right, where a little girl in pink rainboots huddled under an umbrella. She hugged her knees, and her tear-streaked face made her look so alone. The other townsfolk walked past her, as if no one was there.

Ania cleared her throat, and the artist turned around. "How many sold today?"

"All of them," Ania replied, "Only one sold in the morning, but a foreign merchant came at the end of the day, and bought the rest."

Lise snorted. "It would be a foreigner. Another one from the south? They always did like to look at our pain and laugh."

"Aye."

"Well, their money's good enough, so I can't complain, can I?"

Ania shrugged slightly, and set her parcel on a table. "Here are the canvases you asked for, and the rest is in here." She brought a cloth bag out from the pocket of her coat.

Lise took it and spilled the six gold coins into her palm, running her fingers over each. "Did you already take your share?"

"No. My portion would be a silver and three coppers, and the man paid in all gold. I was hoping perhaps you'd have some change."

"Oh, just take it all." Lise poured the coins back into the bag and thrust it at Ania, holding up a hand when she started to protest. "It's well nigh time someone gave you a lucky break. Now get out."

There was an unsettling look in the artist's eyes now, a fire that was blazing out of control. She started painting the outline of someone else huddled near the little girl, ignoring Ania's presence.

Ania murmured a quiet "Thank you," and hurried down the stairs, still slightly in shock.

When she reached the basement, Karina was waiting for her.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked in concern, rushing to her sister's side.

"Somebody knocked while you were upstairs. I peeked through the crack, and it wasn't Britta, so I didn't answer it."

Ania blinked. "At this hour? Who was it?"

"A man with a dirty brown coat. He wasn't carrying anything, and he didn't have a mustache like Papa did."

"Did he say anything?"

"Nope, he just knocked, and then walked away after I didn't answer."

"I wouldn't worry about it, then," Ania said, smiling for the younger girl's benefit. "If he'd wanted something, good or bad, he'd have at least called out a hello.

"On a brighter, note, guess what?"

Karina's eyes widened. "Is Britta back?"

Ania shook her head sadly. "No, but the paintings sold well today, well enough that we can have three meals tomorrow, and I'll be able to get you some medicine, if the merchant doesn't try to cheat me."

Karina grinned. "Can we have cheese?"

"If there's any at the market."

Karina started to squeal with excitement, but it turned into a cough.

"You need to get back to bed." Ania guided her to her pallet and tucked her in. "Has there been any more blood?"

"No. Can you tell me a story now?"

"Of course. What would you like a story about?"

Karina considered. "Something happy. I like happy."

"Okay." Ania thought for a moment, then began. "Once upon a time, there was a ten-year-old girl."

"What was her name?"

Ania hesitated for a moment. "Britta."

"This is a story about Britta?"

"Yes, and a funny one at that."

"Are you in it?"

"A little."

"Is Mama? Papa?"

Ania laughed. "Yes, Mama and Papa are in it. You weren't born yet, though. Now are you going to let me tell the story?"

"Oh. Right." Karina curled up in a ball, pulling the blanket up so only her eyes and forehead stuck out.

Ania continued. "The Christmas Britta was ten, we still had the big house with the rowan tree in front, but it wasn't the best year for money. Britta only got a copper pocket money, but she wanted to buy everyone nice Christmas presents. She first tried to sell her Christmas dress, she hated it with a passion, but Papa caught her and sent her to her room. Of course, that wasn't enough to stop Britta. She always was so determined and rebellious..." Ania trailed off, wondering if Britta had joined in one of the riots the night she hadn't come back. It would, unfortunately, make sense. What if she'd been trampled, or shot, or burnt in the chaos? Ania swallowed. She pushed those thoughts from her mind, and started to continue the story, but Karina was already asleep.

Little One

I wish I could say
That you're safe, that I'll stay
By your side every step of the way

I wish I could know
That you're safe when you go
From storm-winds that scream as they blow

I wish I could sleep

While you're safe, but I keep

In my mind, finding words buried deep

I wish I could dream

That you're safe, but tears steam

From my face, and you can't hear my scream

I wish I could tell
That you're safe, cast a spell
That would make it all somehow end well

Computer Poem

This poem is based off the earlier discussions about reality.

It's written in Python, which in this case is a computer code, not a snake. In case that wasn't clear. :-P

Thanks to Nelnah-Fish, my amazing sister, for helping me write in a language I don't speak. :-)

Hopefully the image works. If not, let me know.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Downside Up

.......Bef
Of words..o
Skyscraper..r
I build this.....e
How high can...i
Far I can climb...t
I wonder how.......f
Their homes..........a
Come back to..........l
Away and don't........l
Why people go........s
I wonder things........t
World of ideas.........o
On this crazy............t
Another angle...........h
Or to look from..........e
To be weightless.......g
What is it like.............r
Why aren't you..........o
Why am I me.............u
Wonder things...........n
Sometimes I.............d

Ship Songs I

Harralie

Whoa, whoa, there's a ship
Perfect and supreme
Harralie, Harralie, Harralie, Harralie
I hope it's not a dream

Steak/Ghanith

When the rain is blowin' in your face
And the whole world is on your chase
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.

When there's a remnant and you disappear
There is no one there to dry my tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.

I know you're still a remnant, I can't fix that yet
But once you said, "with steak you can't go wrong"
I know you're still with Sanguine, I just can't forget
With not him, but me is where you belong

I'll wear Elder robes that make me look weird
I'll find a way to bring you back, my dear
If it takes me half a million years
To make you feel my love.


Ezter
Whoa, oh, oh
Toa-oh-sters
Whoa, oh, oh
Whoa

Ezter is what they should call us
We're not a ship, Hunter, shut up
But if it's a ship, Ezter is the name

[Exasperated sigh]

I'm teleporting, standing up, then looking around for my imaginary friend Bob
This is it, the apocalypse
What?

Hello, we are Ez and Hunter
Don't abbreviate as Ezter
Welcome to the new age, with lightsabres
What is your opinion of erasers?
Whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes
Radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes, whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes
Radioactive, radioactive

I raise my laser, look at those
It's a yellow shower curtain, I suppose
We'll paint it blue to fit right in
Whoa

Hey Ez, I found out how to shunt
Want to try it? Sure, I'll come
This is it, the apocalypse
What?

Hello, we are Ez and Hunter
Don't abbreviate as Ezter
Welcome to the new age, with lightsabres
What is your opinion of erasers?
Whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes
Radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes, whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes
Radioactive, radioactive

New dimension, go, Hunter's gonna die
Ez is stuck here too, tangled up in time

RedRays can heal all our broken bones
It hurts like torture, oh, we know
Welcome to the new age, with lightsabres
What is your opinion of erasers?
Whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes
Radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes, whoa, oh, oh, milkshakes
Radioactive, radioactive

Purple Carrots

So, in case you hadn't noticed, I really like purple carrots. This post sort of explains why and gives some background, hopefully.

For starters, they aren't figments of my imagination. Purple carrots actually exist, though they are not as popular as their orange counterparts. I first came across them at the local farmer's market, when my Dad randomly brought some home. They were good. And purple is my favorite color, so...

Later, I did some research on carrot history and discovered that carrots weren't orange until the 16th century or so. The original carrots, cultivated in the middle east, were mainly purple and yellow, with occasional other varieties of red, white and even black. Orange carrots were bred much later by Dutch scientists and rose to popularity as a national symbol. These are the kind you see in the grocery  stores today.

The analogy my brain can't seem to let go of is orange carrots representing the popular people that get recognized and such, while the purple carrots are the creative individuals who are seldom paid attention to and thought of as weird. So when I give you a purple carrot, it means that you're special.

And if I don't, then you're still special because you're still you and that's all that matters.

Sometimes the purple carrot analogy is so strong, I start to cry when someone hasn't heard of them or thinks they're dangerous or bad or something. I understand, though, that I live in a really great area and not everyone has the same privilege of locally-grown produce, so I guess I'm not offended.

You always have a place here, please remember that.