Thanks for everyone’s messages, I just haven’t had the chance to check tumblr for a while. My very humble apologies to everyone. You are all so very lovely and caring. I promise, promise, promise I have not abandoned you. By hook or by crook, the story will be finished. I just have very little time to work on this at the moment. Carmilla and Laura are very cross with me as they are stuck with each other in a belltower with nothing to do but stare at each other. You would think they would like that but no. They swear at me daily from the echoing caverns of my poor tired brainz.
No one is interested in the private life* of a reclusive scribbling stranger on the internet but as a matter of fact the reason I have very little time is that one day I upped and ran away. To a different country. I have always wanted to run away to seek my fortune so I did. I have to say it was a bit more stressful than I imagined and I didn’t meet any old lady in disguise on the road who might have given me gifts of a comb, a mirror or a handkerchief to help me on my way.
While not technically homeless right now, I am in search of a home, just a little tiny room of one’s own in this big city of strangers. This is very time consuming and rather disheartening.
I also have a new, though sadly badly paid job I’m trying not to stuff up, as it is the dream of, if not a lifetime, at least of the moment. I am meeting all sorts of odd people.
One day while out walking, I suddenly caught the eye of a quiet, dark-eyed French girl who lives in a tower. She is an artist who does not approve of flighty distractions. She was rather peeved, judging from her furious frowns, but it is not my fault if people insist on throwing their eyeballs out the window from a great height at me. You would think she’d be pleased I didn’t let her eye fall to the ground. Some people, chah! Anyway, she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a French sailor swearing but since then has been sending me drawings in pencil and ink, mostly of birds. What do you suppose that means?
So there you have it, kind strangers of the internet. I am trying to make my way in the world, I am currently between homes, I have a new job, and a weird girl is bothering me.
But as to what you all are really interested in, I am aiming for the end of the month for the update. Please forgive a lowly writer for her tardiness, my conscience weighs most heavily upon me.
* All of this may be nonsensical, but mostly true.
Thank you to all the anonymous and non-anonymous askers who sent me kind greetings and proddings about the fic update and asked whether I am alive. I appreciate your thoughts and am happy to inform you that I am in fact not dead, though I may be undead (tbd).
My estimates are always wildly off so I think I should not raise anyone’s hopes up about when I can post the update - but I am still working on it, it’s just been very slow due to surviving on very little sleep.
A lot of unexpected things happened in life and so I’m currently dealing with Laura Hollis style levels of crazy bewilderment at what is happening here. But that’s not important, I just mean I have very little time these days.
Anyhow, rest assured I am doing my best to update as soon as possible. I send my most humble apologies for the wait and thank you very muchly for thinking of me.
Additional Note: Just wanted to add a thank you again for the messages people have sent. I would love to answer each one because I think it’s polite when people have taken the trouble to write to you! When it’s on anon but seems like a personal note to me I don’t make it public obviously, so I just want you, yes you, to know I read and appreciate it all. You guys are really the best! Thank you for making a little author feel supported. :)
It was well conceived in theory But it doesn’t work in life Comrade has to wonder Is it ever worth the effort?
Well I don’t know but I’ve been told Not to hang on to my hope Well I don’t know but I’ve been told And I’ve been listening all my life
If you’re ever less than certain about the world Please don’t let the worry make its way into your work And if you would stick up for me in the face of some adversity Know that I would only do the same
Cause it was well conceived in theory But it doesn’t work in life And me I will not write it off Not ever having tried
Well I don’t know but I’ve told Not to hang on to my hope Well I don’t know but I’ve told but That these are lies and they get old
So look me in the eyes under expanding winter skies You’ll find a feeling there that never knows the cold Look me in the eyes and the skeptic in me dies The skeptic is a fool We are exceptions to the rule
Cause this is our land This is our land I will cross it holding your hand From Kursk to Moscow we will not be turned away
This is our land This is our land I will cross it holding your hand In crooked streets of Petersburg We are all the same
So if you’re ever less than certain about the world Please don’t let the worry make its way into your work And if you would stick up for me in the face of great adversity Know that I would do the same Know we are the same
If you would stick up for me Speak kindly and poetically You can be my personal ambassador to the world
And if you’re ever less than certain I will be your Iron Curtain I will be your Berlin Wall And I will never fall
I stood inside myself like a dead tree or a tower. I pulled the rope of braided hair and high above me a bell of leaves tolled.
Because my hand stabbed its brother, I said: Make it stone.
Because my tongue spoke harshly, I said: Make it dust. And yet it was not death, but her body in its green dress I longed for. That’s why I stood for days in the field until the grass turned black and the rain came.
Carmilla was silently reading some old book, a slight frown creasing her forehead, her slender fingers frozen with the cold. Her breath wafted out in gentle clouds in the frosty air and her usually pale cheeks had a slight rose tinge. Long, dark lashes lay curled against pale skin as she looked down at her book, concentrating hard.
Laura’s own breath caught at the sight of her. To say she was beautiful was so inadequate. But there was nothing to be said in its place. The same tired words had to be used over and over until they were meaningless and worn out. She was loveliness itself, though what lay below the surface was troubling. If only Laura could remember everything, and snatch at all their little moments, and protect them from fading like the full-blown rose whose day was over. Beautiful, but soon to disappear.
More than just her looks, there was the deeper sense of furious loneliness Laura felt in her. She was someone remote and unloveable, who needed to be loved. Such a thing was apt to tangle her heartstrings together into one hard, painful knot if she thought about it too much. Because Laura was lonely herself, and perhaps if she searched too deeply, it would turn out that selfishly, it was really herself she felt sorry for.
Carmilla, unaware she was being observed, frowned hard as she sunk into the book. Laura’s lips parted as she stared. She could see her own warm breath leave her, an indication of the growing warmth she felt inside.
Well, she wasn’t brave enough to bend down and kiss away that furrowed brow for her, so she did the next best thing.
She lobbed a snowball at Carmilla’s face.
It thudded against her wool coat shoulder and broke apart in a storm of snowflakes. What was left of it plopped into Carmilla’s hot chocolate, just as she was lifting it to her lips.
Carmilla was startled. She narrowed her eyes. She looked up at Laura, who smiled back cheekily with a mock guilty expression. Slowly and deliberately, Carmilla put down her cup of ruined hot chocolate, she put down her precious book.
“You are such a child,” she said witheringly.
“You wanna make something of it?” smiled Laura, low and laughing, biting her bottom lip with a cheeky grin. She hadn’t intended for it to come out sounding so flirty, and when Carmilla raised her eyebrow into a finely brushed arch, Laura blushed, shifting her eyes away.
Carmilla, with calm, precise movements, drew a pair of soft leather gloves from her coat pocket, dark brown for a change, rather than her usual black. She put them on carefully, as Laura watched, each finger stretching the leather tight. Laura swallowed hard.
Her stiff wool collar turned up against the wind, her dark hair framing her face, she bent down for snow and studiously formed it into a snowball. She kept her face expressionless. Laura suppressed a laugh as the tension rose.
“Run,” Carmilla said in a low, dangerous voice, staring at Laura intently.
Laura burst out into a sudden, joyful laugh as she sped across the snow, away from Carmilla, down the gentle slope of the hillside towards a stand of trees and shrubbery. She expected to have the snowball flung at her back as she bent down and hastily patted together a revenge snowball, but when she lifted her head up, Carmilla was right there, entirely too close, her eyes glittering. Laura lost the ability to breathe.
Until Carmilla quickly reached out and dropped the snowball behind her neck, smiling widely, almost like a delighted child. She stuck the tip of her rosy tongue out between her white teeth as she smiled.
“Ugh,” Laura yelped with the sudden cold, doing a weird dance to get the snow off her, “No fair! You can’t use your powers!” She pushed her half-formed snowball into Carmilla’s smirking face. “Cheater!”
“Panther actually,” laughed Carmilla, spluttering with a face full of snow, “oh no?” And she dumped a pile of snow on Laura’s head.
“You’ll pay for this - vampire!” Laura was just flinging powdery snow now at Carmilla in an imitation of a blizzard, unable to help shrieking with a gurgling laughter as they danced around each other.
“Ooh, brave words from such a small human.” Carmilla threw more snow, zipping behind her quickly every way she turned, until Laura slipped and fell face forward in trying to escape. Carmilla pulled her up quickly, more efficient than gentle. Laura’s entire front had a fine dusting of white snow, she resembled a tiny, walking snowman. Carmilla’s gloved hand grabbed Laura’s woollen mittened hand as she dusted her face off with the other. “Sorry, snow girl.” She suppressed an amused smile.
“Let go of me, you beast!” Laura gave a mock scream as she pulled away and ran towards the trees.
“Revenge is mine, sunshine,” smirked Carmilla, running after her easily.
Laura ducked under a small evergreen tree, whose branches arched their way to the ground. Inside, it was a makeshift shelter, with a carpet of fallen pine needles, almost snowless and dry, but Laura saw too late there was no way out except the way she came.
She collided hard with Carmilla on the way out, whose arms reached out for her automatically, as the momentum cracked their heads together painfully.
“Ow,” groaned Carmilla, who had broken Laura’s fall to the ground. They’d fallen gracefully, because it was Carmilla and she didn’t know how to fall any other way. Laura was hardly winded. “My head - you really like to play rough.” She rubbed her head, her fine dark hair falling into her eyes.
“You’re the cheating cheater!” Laura protested, rubbing her own sore head, wriggling awkwardly as she tried to balance herself, trying to ignore how stunning Carmilla was looking. Literally stunning in this case. Carmilla steadied her with her hands around her, as Laura poked her with her elbow.
“Oof! Do you mind getting off me, cupcake? You’re kind of the abominable snowbrat right now,” Carmilla said lazily, not bothering to release her arms around Laura’s body. Their eyes locked onto each other. It was Laura’s gaze that eventually broke and dropped down to Carmilla’s lips. Carmilla’s arms tightened.
“Why don’t you make me,” Laura said softly, not intending to sound so breathless and shy. She bit her lip without thinking, her heart beating fast. Carmilla stared, letting out a deep breath.
“Two can play at this game,” she murmured, before flipping Laura on her back without effort. The ground was cold and hard underneath her back, but she was burning up where Carmilla pressed up against her. Carmilla’s winter coat had flown open, covering them, and Carmilla’s hair fell over Laura’s face, tickling her neck. She shivered.
“Cold?” asked Carmilla lightly. Laura shook her head shyly, staring deep. She was so beautiful. Carmilla shifted slightly on top of Laura, pulling off her glove over her head, and Laura let out a breath.
“How about now?” she smiled cheekily, running a cold fingertip down Laura’s exposed neck.
“Ahh!” Laura gasped loudly, shivering and lifting her head up with the shock of the cold, “You -!”
But her words were cut off as Carmilla kissed her deeply, soft, warm lips against her own, fitting perfectly. Carmilla’s breath was warm against her face as she kissed back, both of them hungry for each other. Laura’s head lay back, cradled by Carmilla’s gloved hand, as Carmilla pressed her into the earth. Her cold fingers caressed her face, pushing back her hair, her cap falling off unnoticed.
Carmilla pressed gentle kisses all over her cold face and Laura shivered uncontrollably. Carmilla bent down and licked Laura’s cold earlobe into her warm, wet mouth, sucking gently and tugging. Laura trembled and let out a shuddering breath.
“What - are you do- doing?” Laura asked, forgetting how to coordinate her breathing with her speaking. Carmilla looked at her seriously for a moment.
“I’m warming you up,” she smiled, tilting her head fondly. Laura wanted nothing more than Carmilla just at that moment. She wanted her furiously and forever. It showed in her eyes, and she hoped Carmilla would know how to read it. Her eyes broke away, half lidded and dazed.
“Just as well,” Laura said, faking a nonchalance she did not feel, “since your idea of playing in the snow leaves me cold. Cheater.” She whispered finally, licking her cold lips slowly.
“Oh ha ha,” murmured Carmilla, kissing her neck, “Are you telling me you don’t like what’s happening - right now?” Her voice was low and hoarse, the only sign that she might be finding it hard to control herself.
Carmilla kissed a warm, wet trail up to her lips and for a while they kissed, their tongues slipping in shyly and teasing their way into warm mouths. Carmilla pulled her head closer, kissing her passionately, just on the edge of roughness. It was an indescribable feeling, that electric spark that sped through her body, sending off a shower of sparks, finally showing on Laura’s face as she blushed furiously. She clung to Carmilla, pulling her in impossibly closer. She wanted Carmilla everywhere. It wouldn’t do to let Carmilla get too smug though. Laura sucked Carmilla’s bottom lip into her mouth and tugged cheekily.
“I suppose I can learn to tolerate it,” Laura smiled a wide smile, slipping her hands around Carmilla’s back, under the heavy cover of her winter coat. She quickly pulled her mittens off and suddenly slid her cold hands under her clothes, against the warm, bare skin of Carmilla’s back.
“Ahh!” Carmilla gasped loudly, jerking her head up, her back curved. Her hips jerked down at the same time, her leg pushing down against Laura. The sudden, molten jolt that pushed out from the centre of her body sent warm waves spreading throughout every nerve. She was dizzy and drunk on it, and felt so warm she wanted to melt.
They sighed in unison, and stared at each other, breathing heavily in great rasping breaths. Laura rubbed Carmilla’s back in gentle circles, pressing her closer each time, her hands warming up rapidly. She could feel the slight ripple of muscle under the soft skin as Carmilla shifted her body. She drew her hands up Carmilla’s back until they reached her shoulders, before dragging her fingers lightly down again.
Carmilla breathed on her fingertips over and over, her deep, dark eyes never leaving Laura’s. It was silent under the cover of the trees, with the soft hush of the snow all around them. Laura looked back at her. Still, Carmilla breathed on her slender fingers. The gaze was on the cusp of being too deep, too intimate.
“What are you doing?” Laura breathed quietly, her body trembling with a heady, dizzying delight.
As far as I could tell, this book of poetry was just filled with pictures of grumpy babies, but after some research I discovered there was a little bit more to it.
Furthering my desire to learn German, I found this book while I was going through our shelves and the heavily gilded cover immediately caught my eye. Das Lied von der Glocke translates to Song of the Bell in English, and is one of the longest, and most famous, poems in German history. This copy was published in 1879, but the earliest version was published in 1798.
-Kelly
Schiller, Friedrich. Das Lied von der Glocke. Illustrirt in 32 Compositionen von Alexander Liezen Mayer; mit 43 ornamentalen Zeichnungen von Rudolf Seitz. München, T. Ströfer [1879]
Oddly enough, I only reblogged it for the cover, I didn’t pay attention to the owners name or read the description of the book until now. strangeandsombre at first, I thought I had reblogged this from you…
Wonderful! I hadn’t heard of this, so thank you for introducing me to a new work. This seems so apt. (Also grumpy babies forever. :) ).
Woe! When in fiery torrents flowing, The ore itself seeks liberty! In blindest rage with thundrous roaring, The bursting house it rushes through, As if the jaws of hell were pouring The flames that death and horror spew. Where raw wild forces rage and blight, Men can create no form aright; And no true welfare can there be, When mobs are by themselves set free. Woe, when the tinder-heap is swelling In hearts of cities, in the night, The masses tear their chains, rebelling, And free themselves with fury’s might! Then riot, to the bell-ropes clinging, Pulls till the bell begins to howl; Devoted once to peaceful ringing, She gives the sign for outrage foul.
Robert Barret’s (fl.1586?-1607) The Theorike and Practike of Moderne Warres (1598) is an excellent example of late 16th-century English book production. The limp vellum cover with ties exemplifies one of the most common binding styles. The front paste down has split allowing us to see the sewing structure underneath: five alum tawed supports with kettle stitches at the head and tail. Curiously, one previous owner chose to write notes upside and on the back cover paste down. This 1598 book also displays how quickly printing evolved over the century from heavy black letter type to sophisticated woodcut diagrams and a more readable Roman type.
Barret was a well-know military man and remarks in his preface that he “spent the most part of [his] time in the profession of Armes.” The book is structured as a dialogue between a gentleman and captain. A fitting format given that this book was written to teach the second dedicatee, William, Lord Harbert, the mathematical stratagems of war. Barret later wrote a long elegiac poem “The Sacred Warr” which chronicles wars in the Holy Land. It was never published and exists as a 1200 page manuscript!
This woman is the subject of a creepy, creepy poem by Robert Browning. It is in the form of a monologue by someone who is probably Alfonso II d'Este, the fifth Duke of Ferrara, to the emissary of the family of his prospective new wife. That’s right, he’s talking about his former now-dead wife to the people he’s trying to convince should give him their daughter. Continue reading
“I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together.”
1. Just realized I’d better get a move on and finish this story before Season 2 steals my thunder - fire tipped arrows? Summer Society wants a word. Men in black? Someone call General Spielsdorf, his men are missing! Guess I’m not as original as I think!
2. Since I’ve been on hiatus I’ve been rereading the entire story to remind myself and getting super distracted with how poor the opening chapters are. *shudders*. So sorry, new readers and followers. If I have time I’ll do my best to edit it into better shape once I’m done with this beast of a story. My only excuse was I was trying to avoid the work which got me to where I am today.
3. I’m working on the update this week! I promise, gentle readers!
4. I recommend no one become an intern ever. Let this be a lesson to you. The things I’ve been asked to carry up and down stairs, honestly.
These anchor shaped book clasps on our 1893 copy of Christopher Columbus, His Own Book of Privileges, fits in nicely with the book’s topic. Ahoy! [Ranney fB C726S] #uiowa #specialcollections #libraries #anchors #bookclasps #seavoyages #christophercolumbus #19thcentury #beautifulbookclasps
