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Old 04-08-2011, 10:54 AM   #1
fr33ks33k
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Ye Olde S33k & Finde

So I decided that I'd be a copycat and make a braindump/idea thread/yet another place to hang out and be aloof in the Lounge. Can't ever have too many of those, right? *Smirks*

In any case, this particular place...*gestures behind himself to a large two story affair. Brick and mortar construction, oaken accents. It is a faded green that may once have been a bright emerald hue. The building is alone on the street, no other structures remain erected for a block in any direction. The fact that it is so aged and still standing is a marvel in itself.*...is just your run of the mill antique shop. Dusty shelves, brass fixtures, peeling paint on the door's sign. *Picks a few chips off the glass pane that bears the store's name, tossing them in the street before opening the creaky door*

The space is quite a bit larger from the inside than you'd think. Costs a bit extra on the rent, but it's worth it. Little treasures are always popping up in unexpected places. Feel free to take a long look around, but do try not to get lost. Even I don't know all the paths through this place.

*His steps lead him through a few shelved rows, trinkets and larger objects strewn about on them in no particular order. They all have small tags in various colors attached in some fashion. His path takes him back to the front of the store; a large oak counter stained with time and what might be blood or oil holds an ancient cash register, ornate pull-knob and ivory keys making it stand out. He steps behind the counter, sitting on a stool and leaning backward, propping his feet up on the counter. His back rests against a mostly-empty shelf, his arms cross his chest. He smiles in a way that could be humor...but it's ambiguous*

Anything that catches your eye is for sale, price negotiable.

Oh, and try to stay out of the shadows...*points out the sky-lighting and the long spots of darkness they create at the fringes of their floods of brightness amidst the rows and rows of shelves*...even I don't lurk here.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-08-2011, 10:55 AM   #2
fr33ks33k
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Excerpt from a leatherbound journal. Row 156, Top Shelf.

Lithe, petite, bruised in various places along her porcelain skin. She is naked; there is no better way for her to be: unable to hide the imperfections she has under the floodlight that halos her head. She is bound with leather and steel; hands aloft and legs apart. Her hair is copper curls slinking over and down just between her shoulder blades. Her eyes are wide open; blue with mercurial green, and they are fearful. She can see me, but she does not know who I am. She can feel my presence, my brown fingers sliding over her goose-pimpled flesh, oh so pretty-pale in contrast. Her mouth is not gagged; there is no need, she is silent in her terror and in her fascination, though her lips quiver, parting every few moments, breaking the succulent strawberry pout her mouth creates naturally.

Her legs are toned and luscious, straining to support her on tip-toe. She has been made to stand this way. Her hips are just voluptuous enough to cover her pelvis, the tips of the bone jutting out nicely in this position. Her stomach is rising erratically; even her lungs feel the fear that is infecting her mind, she cannot help but gasp and moan as my fingers investigate her, voraciously devouring every dip, every rise, every inch.

Her chest is modest, but the peaks of her breasts are bountiful enough to please both the eye and the animal hunger I have. Her nipples are stiff buds, rosy and hard. The air-conditioning in the room has seen to that in addition to her goosebumps.

Her chin is strong, but not chiseled. Her cheekbones are prominent, but not angular. Her nose is regal, but not bird-like. Her beauty is in the subdued nature of her facial structures. She's got a very defiant face, even in the deluge of her desperation. Her eyes find mine as I move before her. Recognition contorts her features from fear to anger. She remembers me now, but it's far too late.

I'm sure that when I'm through, she'll thank me.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...


Last edited by fr33ks33k : 04-08-2011 at 02:00 PM.
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Old 04-08-2011, 11:00 AM   #3
fr33ks33k
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Lithograph, titled Psychadelic. Unknown Artist. Row 732, Second Shelf.



(I actually made this in Photoshop, so if you're gonna use it, give me some credit...or something...)
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...


Last edited by fr33ks33k : 04-08-2011 at 11:03 AM.
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Old 04-08-2011, 01:05 PM   #4
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Excerpt from a botany manual. Scribbled in its index. Row 720, Bottom Shelf.

Stop and smell the roses; but they're just ghosts of fragrant flowers, wilted long ago. Those daisies and forget-me-nots have turned to nothing more than faded memories, dust cascading into those old vases. Still, somewhere between the stench of decay and the stink of mold, a perfume wafts untainted through the air. And its that lovely, delicate scent, untouched by the ravages of time's abrasive sands, that catches my attention and keeps me focused enough to not drift deep into the dunes.

Stop and smell the roses; but they're just whispers of forgotten beauty, vanished long ago. And all that's left for me at the tips of these broken stems are butterfly kisses and glimpses from the corners of my eyes.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...


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Old 04-08-2011, 01:56 PM   #5
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Found in an old tacklebox. Row 314, Third Shelf.

"Mermaids do exist. I've seen one.

She was beautiful and terrifying and irresistible. If not for the faith and strength of my crew, I would be a drowned man.

At first glance, you'd think it to be some twisted amalgamation, an abomination of two things not meant to live in harmony. Upon closer inspection, you'd realize you were oh so wrong. The harmony, the smooth transition is impeccable. Scale becomes flesh in a way that leaves you wondering which is melting into which.

Knowing what I know now, I feel that I must save all sailors who would follow the path I have mapped.

I must capture this creature, ensure that she cannot tempt others to their doom.

We set sail at first light tomorrow. May God save our souls if we cannot persevere.

-Capt. Thaddeus Aaron Merriwether
"

(This is based on a few thoughts I'd had about one of Zydrate's post-it notes. I'm still kicking around ideas, but it could be a fun little adventure.)
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-08-2011, 10:20 PM   #6
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The first thing that caught her eye was the building. It was the only one around as far as she could see. How strange and yet, so enticing. Curiosity killed the cat? Did that apply to petite red-heads too? She stepped closer to the building, her eyes roaming over the façade. It was appealing in its own quaint way. Time had worn the paint. She would hazard a guess that at one time, the color had been an emerald green. Her favorite color. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Her hand went to the handle on the door and gently turned it, pushing the door open. The door creaked, in protest or warning, as she did so. She paid it little mind as she stepped over the threshold, glancing around the interior. Turning slightly, she closed the door behind her before turning back to the room and advanced into it a few more steps.

“Hello?” Her voice held a friendly, curious note. Not waiting for an answer, she stepped carefully around various objects, making her way to a bookshelf that rested under sufficient lighting for her to silently read the titles of the books. Such lovelies. Everything in this shop had a story to tell. Maybe she was being fanciful as her fingertips delicately trailed across the spines of books, but she would swear she could hear everything whispering to her. She stood still, eyes closed with her fingertips poised on a book. Seductive, those whispers. A slight smile played across her lips. Opening her eyes, she tipped a book and gently took it from its resting place. It was far too tempting to resist…..
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Old 04-09-2011, 12:01 AM   #7
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*He watched her enter from his post behind the counter. Her salutation was met with silence; he wanted the old mystique of the store to keep its hold on her, and it seemed to be working. She was drawn to a particular shelf as though by a Siren, caressing the spines of books.

He leaned forward, the stool creaking a bit. He stood and came around to the front of the counter, leaning against it. Another creak. I get it, things are old here...geeze he thought to himself as he cleared his throat to catch her attention*

Hello there. Quite an interesting collection, eh? I'm rather fond of the ones on the very top shelves.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-09-2011, 07:53 AM   #8
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She spun around on her toes, eyes wide with surprise and clutching the book to her chest. Her hair, a dark rich auburn, fanned out behind her as she whirled about before resettling over her shoulders. Her eyes sought the man who had spoken. How had she not spotted him when she came in? There, leaning against the counter. Her heart, at the initial fright, had pounded against her chest wall. The sound was still quite loud to her ears. Her chest, covered by an emerald green vee cut sweater, rose and fell with her accelerated breathing. Still clutching the book to her, she studied him for a few seconds with eyes that were the same color as her sweater. Her chin notched upward a bit and she offered him a smile.

“Hello. You startled me. I didn’t see you when I came in.” She glanced over her shoulder at the shelf behind her, “What’s so special about those books up there?”

It was one of her failings. Being short, she seldom looked up at anything on a top shelf if it was taller than she was. Her eyes studied the books on the top row as far as she could see. They didn’t look any different from the others.
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Old 04-09-2011, 11:19 AM   #9
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It's ok. I'm a quiet sort, so going unnoticed isn't unusual.

*He pushed off of the counter, moving closer to her, smiling all the while. She'd found a book that had called particularly strongly to her, and she held it like a precious gift. He couldn't see the title, her arms obscured it as they crossed over her chest. Her eyes reminded him of the way the building used to look; verdant and vibrant.*

Well, it's usually the top shelves...or the bottom ones, that hold the secretive works. The ones people didn't want others to see unless they were truly curious sorts.

*His arm stretched out, taking hold of one of the books on the top shelf. Being 6 feet tall had it's advantages. Pulling the book down and turning the cover to face her, he continued to explain*

This one for instance. It's the journal of a man from England. He calls himself Jack. No, not that Jack. But his stories and secrets are still quite interesting. What's the one you've got clutched to your chest there? Must've been quite enthralling for you to hold it that way...

*He chuckled softly, a small smile remaining at the corners of his lips*
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-09-2011, 01:31 PM   #10
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She watched him as he pushed off the counter and came closer. She didn’t move when he reached past her for a book from the top shelf. The quiet ones were always the most interesting ones. People tend to overlook them. They didn’t need to draw attention to themselves. Some were shy or some were simply endowed with that bloody self confidence that made her grit her teeth yet, deep down, admired. Which was he? Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she realized he was speaking and refocused her attention. She blinked glancing down at the book she only now became conscious was clutched against her chest.

“What? Oh! This one. I---I don’t know. They’re all so enticing,” she smiled softly as she looked up again, straight into his eyes. It donned on her that he was watching her. Her eyes dropped from his and returned to the book in question, “ My fingers just sort of stopped on one and I drew it out. I was just thinking of browsing through it a little. I’m rather hoping for a bit of intensity, a taste of danger, a certain edge, you know?” She laughed, “I know. I know. I must sound like a freak.” Discomfort set in. He was a complete stranger. She looked at the book he held in his hands.

“The book you’re holding sounds interesting. I gather you’ve already read it. May I?” She loosened her hold on the book she held, shifting it to lay cradled in the crook of one arm and held out her hand.
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Old 04-10-2011, 11:31 PM   #11
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*He smiled and handed over Jack's journal. Their fingers grazed each other as the exchange occurred, and he felt a small jolt. Static electricity, or perhaps some other force discharging from the touch*

I've read most of it, but there are some pages written in an odd jibberish that seems to be a combination of shorthand and cockney. I'm not entirely sure what it's supposed to be. Perhaps you might be able to decipher it.

*He cleared his throat, remembering his apparent loss of politesse*

Also, I believe we should trade introductions. I am Fr33k.

*His smile flashed a hint of serpentine nature as he recalled her earlier mention of the word "freak"*

I answer to other names, but for now that will do. And what name do you answer to, my dear?
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 12:19 AM   #12
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As he handed her the book she felt a tingle that shot up her arm, slid over her shoulder and settled somewhere in her lower back. She hurriedly looked down at the book he handed her, her fingertips were rubbing idle circles on the cover. She briefly wondered if he had felt it too or if it was all her. She cleared her throat and glanced up again.

“Aislin. Aislin Kelley. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, Fr33k. I don’t believe I can decipher it. I’m not too familiar with either shorthand or cockney. Now, if it had been written in Gaelic, perhaps so, but I’d love to give it a look over. Can you tell me about Jack?”
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Old 04-11-2011, 12:29 AM   #13
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A pleasure for both of us, Aislin. Hrm....from what I've read, Jack was your run of the mill tailor and barber. Daily life was mundane as all Hell.....but his nightly activities were very...dark. He was in the habit of hiring ladies of the night to sate his sadistic and lascivious hungers. He detailed the encounters with very verbose entries in that journal. He never mentions a family, nor any other associates or lovers, save the women he bought. Oftentimes he left the entries with cryptic closings....I'm not sure if that was due to a session ending poorly, or if he was doing more than he felt comfortable writing about....

*His eyes took in the details of Aislin more closely, her mention of the Gaelic language a trigger for his revelation. The ruddy richness of her mane of hair and her fair skin denoted it as well. He caught himself staring and averted his gaze, the smile still playing idly at the corners of his mouth*
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 01:59 AM   #14
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“I wonder,” she pondered idly, “exactly what kind of hungers and why. What drives a man to such things? From what you say, it sounds like he cut himself off from everyone except the women he buys and uses to sate these desires upon.” She frowned, standing there, thinking about Jack.

“What drives a man to such edges? And these women, how did they feel about it? Did they even care what he did to their bodies? He bought their time. But did he, in the end, rouse something more? Did he sharpen their fear? Did he make them feel something locked as they were in their jaded lives? Did he feel anything while he indulged in these cravings of his?” She shook her head, coming out of her musings, giving Fr33k a rueful, apologetic smile. “There are times I wish I could go back in time and study someone like him…. I’m sorry, I must sound like a rambling idiot.”

She grew silent thinking about the kinds of things he would have done to these women and a shiver slid down her spine. What would it feel li---

“I’ll take both these books, Fr33k.” She hurriedly spoke, intent on making her way toward the front counter.
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Old 04-11-2011, 03:26 PM   #15
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*He nodded and listened intently to her musings on the subject of Jack and his journal. The shudder she felt was almost imperceptible, but from this distance he managed to spot it. His smile grew fractionally.*

Not at all, my dear. It is intriguing, the human mind's capacities. We have not begun to grasp all that we are inherently able of. In the case of Jack, I can only conjecture. I'd be interested to hear how you feel after reading the journal.

*As she moved toward the counter, he strode over and around it, settling into the stool with a creak as it accommodated his weight begrudgingly. His hands reached out, palms up, across the oak slab*

Let me see what they'll cost you...

*His eyes moved over the tags attached to the books absently, raking upward to meet Aislin's gaze*
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 03:47 PM   #16
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She bit her bottom lip as she waited, part of her thoughts were still on Jack and wondering just what she would find in his journal. At the sound of Fr33k's voice, her eyes remained glued to his and something in his….. She was being fanciful, wasn’t she? All this talk about Jack and his night time activities. Her imagination was simply in overdrive, wasn’t it? Her lips parted slightly as she waited, feeling, for some reason, an edge of anxiousness.

“Yes Fr33k? What will they cost me?” Her voice came out slightly lower than it had before. Again, she felt that tingling as she strove to keep that anxious feeling from showing.
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Old 04-11-2011, 04:02 PM   #17
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*He accepted the offered tomes, turning them over in his hands. The book Aislin had first taken down was a book of poetry, titled Dictum Aurum. It had a blue tag hanging from the spine.*

This will cost you one secret. It need not be a large secret, but it must be a personal one.

I suppose I should have mentioned that I don't deal in strict monetary terms. Some things are worth more than others, of course.

*He turned the journal over in his hands, looking for the tag that should be strung in a similar fashion. He found it after looking twice; a bright red tag with a silver star at the edge.*

Hmm....I'd thought it would be this one. This particular tag is a negotiation tag. You make an offer, and I will barter with you over it. So, Aislin...what do you think this journal is worth?
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 04:30 PM   #18
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With eyes that had widened considerably and a mouth that suddenly went dry, she considered his words. “Some shop you run here, Fr33k.” Her discomfort level notched up. Secrets weren’t secrets if you shared them, especially personal ones.

Her eyes went to the journal. Negotiate. What did she have to negotiate with? Internally she was squirming. Were these books worth what he was asking? Her gaze slid from the journal and back to his face. The tip of her tongue slid across her bottom lip nervously. She supposed the book of poetry would be easy.

“Very well then. For this one,” pointing at the book of poetry, a brief hesitation, then, “I have a small Celtic knot tattoo with a wee dragon at the top. Will that suffice?” As for the other… she was still wracking her brains trying to figure out what she could bargain with.

“For the journal, could we bargain a monetary price? Because otherwise, I have no idea what to bargain with.”
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Old 04-11-2011, 04:45 PM   #19
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Hmm...an interesting concept for a tattoo...the real secret, though, would be its location. That would be worthy secret.

*He saw her nervousness, smiling at it in a way that could've been consolation or conceit. He placed a hand on top of Dictum Aurum as well as the journal*

Aislin, one always has at least three things to bargain with, even if their pockets are empty....

*His smile widened briefly before a mask of seriousness covered his visage*

Alas, if you wish to speak money, give me an offer. If I find it sufficient, the journal is yours. If not, you may have to dig deeper into your purse...

*A soft chuckle floated on the air, his eyes fixed on her*
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 04:55 PM   #20
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She sighed and had been hoping to avoid having to say where exactly her tat was. Apparently he wasn’t going to let her off so easily, “Fine,” She pointed to her jean clad, lower right pelvic region, close to her pelvic bone, “It’s inked right here.”

Curiosity killed the cat; satisfaction brought it back. Well if she were a cat, she had at least seven lives left. “What three things?” As a general rule she never asked a question she wasn’t ready to hear the answer to. Sometimes, curiosity was simply overwhelming.
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Old 04-11-2011, 05:00 PM   #21
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*His eyes followed her finger, and for a moment it seemed as though he was actually staring through her jeans and observing the tattoo. That was absurd, of course. X-ray vision was pure science-fiction. Still, his smile returned as she told him her secret. He slid the poetry book to her, removing his hand from it*

The three things are: your body, your mind, and your soul. Some would add the heart, but I find that they are not easily bought nor sold.

*His right hand remained on the journal, fingers drumming lightly. Not agitation, but anticipation stirred his motions*
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 05:07 PM   #22
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She left the book on the counter as she contemplated his words, her eyes on the journal. Her body, her mind or her soul. Were any of those worth the price of a book? She really wanted the journal. Her chin lifted. She wasn’t carrying a lot of cash and she never used a credit card these days.

“My mind then. What would you have from me?”
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Old 04-11-2011, 05:18 PM   #23
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A very bold choice, Aislin. There are many things I would have from your mind.

*His thoughts wandered to what he'd have from her body and soul as well, but he kept them safely at bay.*

Perhaps a favored memory, or a darker sort of secret....I know!

*His eyes narrowed a bit, fingers no longer drumming on the journal. He smiled again, that ambiguous gesture playing on his features*

I will give you a choice, as I am rather fond of multiple possibilities. From your mind, I would have either your greatest fear or your most wanton fantasy.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 04-11-2011, 05:35 PM   #24
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The narrowing of his eyes should have warned her. It hadn’t. She wasn’t prepared for what he asked of her. Now she did need to sit down and think about this. Looking about she found another stool and sat down, her head lowered as she thought. Her hair hung down over her shoulders, obscuring his view of her face. Her greatest fear or her most wanton fantasy. Neither were things she wanted to talk about, let alone to a stranger. She supposed she could simply walk out of there without the journal. The desire to own it was great. If truth be told, it was more than that. She just wasn’t sure what it was that held her there, yet.

Now, the most difficult of tasks, telling someone else of things she held deep inside her, in a place no one else intruded upon. What was the harm really? They were just mere words, right? Now, which to choose?

“My greatest fear is never finding someone to truly belong to,” she whispered, still looking at the floor. Men had come and gone from her life. Not a lot, but some. It always ended up the same way, they left. Sooner or later the fights came.

That was truly her deepest fear. No one wanted to end up alone. Unwanted. Uncared for. Most people compromised, she refused to.
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Old 04-11-2011, 05:42 PM   #25
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*The way her tresses fell over her shoulder brought a waterfall to mind, spilling down only to curl away at the end of their length. She'd had to seat herself to handle the sudden gravity of his query. That made him smile in a more genuine fashion. It was enjoyable to see the thoughts run through a person's mind, playing in their faces as they traveled, coalescing in the eyes. Hers were full of conviction as she raised her head and voiced her greatest fear. His hand left the book immediately, interlocking with his other as they lay before him on the counter*

A fear that many share; one that debilitates more often than not. There are those who say that you only find what you seek after you stop searching for it. I myself cannot ignore the thrill of the chase....

*His smile remained genuine as he gestured to the journal*

It's yours now, Aislin. Feel free to continue perusing the shelves, though. If not now, perhaps another time. It is nice to have conversation, recall old items and their associated stories.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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