hello.
Er, it is me, alohi, also known as carne_vale, also known as youneverknow, etc.
*creeps up to 'bri* just read the birthday wishes. Thank you muchly for remembering and caring. :)) I actually wrote you a whole longhand letter and put it in a stamped envelope and enclosed shells from my trip to Langkawi. But I didn't have the nerve to send it. I missed you evereverever so much and while I do not understand the rp talk and the naruto in your recent entries, I still want you to friend me back. please?
I have been away for a long time, and am in the middle of Traumatic College Life and university applications to Cambridge. Trust me, of course, to pick this particular time to start being obsessive about the internet again. Really, I've missed reading all your entries, though.
Reposted this for 'bri because of her last post (in case you are still interested in reading it).
The Carlisle witches seemed to have known that Cole and the Palmers were looking for them, even before they found the house in Gardendale that was hidden behind a woody hedge of Tom Thumb roses. When Troy asked them about it, Miryam said, ‘We’d only known about it for a very little while before you came.’
Winter told them not to be ridiculous and gave them each a cup of tea and some toast and honey. Barney found himself staring at her with a sort of horrified fascination. She was exactly what he’d imagined a witch should look like. Not like Troy, who was young and had too much black hair. Neither of the witches looked at him at all. Their bright sharp eyes examined Troy and Cole from head to toe, and somehow, Barney thought, inside and out, without the slightest embarrassment.
They sat, knees together, on an embroidered sofa in a large, bright room with polished floors and woven rugs and walls covered with interesting pictures: Troy, twenty-two, tall and beautiful now, the teacup almost swallowed up in her long angular hands; Cole, who even now looked too much like an older version of Barney for comfort; and Barney, who was still the brown, friendly boy that Tabitha had described, made more shy and awkward than ever by the onset of his seventeenth year.
The house was the most beautiful he had ever seen, with carpets and rugs and paintings of smiling monsters and owl-men; and in and around it he could feel the electricity of the Carlisle witches, golden and crackling with heat and power. Their magic was different, more ancient and clever than Troy’s, and underneath it he could feel another thread, which was not golden and powerful but green and emergent.
‘We’re interested that you were able to find us at all,’ said Miryam. ‘We thought we’d concealed ourselves rather well.’
‘Troy has a nose for magic,’ said Cole.
Barney didn’t say anything, but felt slightly insulted. He had just as good a nose for magic as Troy now; he’d grown more and more sensitive as he got older, and all through Gardendale he’d been able to help Troy direct Cole through the streets towards the heart of the suburb.
The toast and honey was oddly addictive. Barney reached out sheepishly for another slice, and, as the conversation went on, another, and another. Troy gave him a not-so-subtle kick that did not go unnoticed by Miryam and Winter.
‘We have a boy about Barnaby’s age,’ said Winter. ‘Sorensen. A witch.’
‘We had some trouble with Sorry when he was younger,’ said Miryam. ‘It’s a very long story… he was away from us for a while, as a child, and his experiences in that home were… well, recently a psychologist in Sydney diagnosed him as severely alienated.’
The door opened; Miryam looked up guiltily as a boy entered the quiet sitting-room. Barney smelt motorcycle oil before he noticed the electric prickles of magic that entered also. This, then, was the third source of the golden energy that lined the beautiful carpets and mirrors of the Carlisle home: the young, uneasy magic that he'd picked up earlier, underlying the confident strength of Miryam and Winter Carlisle.
'What's going on?' said Sorensen Carlisle, sounding only mildly surprised. 'Miryam, you didn't tell me we were expecting visitors.' He had a white motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm like a spare head. 'Especially such magical ones!' he added lightly, but he was looking at Barney, as though it was strange to see someone so plain and ordinary in a room that was crackling with magic.
Barney stared at his hands. Under the tang of motorcycle oil, Sorry smelt like autumn and saltwater, and his hair was bizarrely and rakishly mussed from the helmet. If not for the insistent prickling of Barney's thumbs, Sorry could have been one of the boys that Tabitha sometimes brought home. She liked boys who were mysterious and wore black and rode motorcycles.
'This is Sorensen, my grandson,' said Winter. 'They're interested in you, Sorensen, believe it or not. Troy and Barnaby Palmer, and Mr. Scholar.'
'Cole,' said Barney's uncle immediately.
'You're interested in me?' Sorry said, shaking Troy's hand. 'Well, I'm delighted. Not many girls are, you know, at least not right off.'
'Excuse him, Troy,' said Miryam, 'he can be so inept at the most unlikely of times.'
Barney looked down at his pricking thumbs and pressed them together firmly. Of course they were asked, very politely, whether they would like to stay for a few days, and Troy accepted very delightedly (they had brought a large suitcase along in the trunk of the car, for exactly this purpose). They put Troy in what they called ‘Laura’s old room’, although there was no sign of a Laura, and Cole and Barney in Sorry’s room.
It was full of that same green, emergent feeling that Barney had noticed in Sorry, and Cole remarked dryly that sleeping in his room was like being a teenager all over again. Barney said nothing, but that night had dreams that were awkward and uneasy and sad. He woke up thinking that Sorry was the same as he was in many ways, and that perhaps they might like each other.
*creeps up to 'bri* just read the birthday wishes. Thank you muchly for remembering and caring. :)) I actually wrote you a whole longhand letter and put it in a stamped envelope and enclosed shells from my trip to Langkawi. But I didn't have the nerve to send it. I missed you evereverever so much and while I do not understand the rp talk and the naruto in your recent entries, I still want you to friend me back. please?
I have been away for a long time, and am in the middle of Traumatic College Life and university applications to Cambridge. Trust me, of course, to pick this particular time to start being obsessive about the internet again. Really, I've missed reading all your entries, though.
Reposted this for 'bri because of her last post (in case you are still interested in reading it).
The Carlisle witches seemed to have known that Cole and the Palmers were looking for them, even before they found the house in Gardendale that was hidden behind a woody hedge of Tom Thumb roses. When Troy asked them about it, Miryam said, ‘We’d only known about it for a very little while before you came.’
Winter told them not to be ridiculous and gave them each a cup of tea and some toast and honey. Barney found himself staring at her with a sort of horrified fascination. She was exactly what he’d imagined a witch should look like. Not like Troy, who was young and had too much black hair. Neither of the witches looked at him at all. Their bright sharp eyes examined Troy and Cole from head to toe, and somehow, Barney thought, inside and out, without the slightest embarrassment.
They sat, knees together, on an embroidered sofa in a large, bright room with polished floors and woven rugs and walls covered with interesting pictures: Troy, twenty-two, tall and beautiful now, the teacup almost swallowed up in her long angular hands; Cole, who even now looked too much like an older version of Barney for comfort; and Barney, who was still the brown, friendly boy that Tabitha had described, made more shy and awkward than ever by the onset of his seventeenth year.
The house was the most beautiful he had ever seen, with carpets and rugs and paintings of smiling monsters and owl-men; and in and around it he could feel the electricity of the Carlisle witches, golden and crackling with heat and power. Their magic was different, more ancient and clever than Troy’s, and underneath it he could feel another thread, which was not golden and powerful but green and emergent.
‘We’re interested that you were able to find us at all,’ said Miryam. ‘We thought we’d concealed ourselves rather well.’
‘Troy has a nose for magic,’ said Cole.
Barney didn’t say anything, but felt slightly insulted. He had just as good a nose for magic as Troy now; he’d grown more and more sensitive as he got older, and all through Gardendale he’d been able to help Troy direct Cole through the streets towards the heart of the suburb.
The toast and honey was oddly addictive. Barney reached out sheepishly for another slice, and, as the conversation went on, another, and another. Troy gave him a not-so-subtle kick that did not go unnoticed by Miryam and Winter.
‘We have a boy about Barnaby’s age,’ said Winter. ‘Sorensen. A witch.’
‘We had some trouble with Sorry when he was younger,’ said Miryam. ‘It’s a very long story… he was away from us for a while, as a child, and his experiences in that home were… well, recently a psychologist in Sydney diagnosed him as severely alienated.’
The door opened; Miryam looked up guiltily as a boy entered the quiet sitting-room. Barney smelt motorcycle oil before he noticed the electric prickles of magic that entered also. This, then, was the third source of the golden energy that lined the beautiful carpets and mirrors of the Carlisle home: the young, uneasy magic that he'd picked up earlier, underlying the confident strength of Miryam and Winter Carlisle.
'What's going on?' said Sorensen Carlisle, sounding only mildly surprised. 'Miryam, you didn't tell me we were expecting visitors.' He had a white motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm like a spare head. 'Especially such magical ones!' he added lightly, but he was looking at Barney, as though it was strange to see someone so plain and ordinary in a room that was crackling with magic.
Barney stared at his hands. Under the tang of motorcycle oil, Sorry smelt like autumn and saltwater, and his hair was bizarrely and rakishly mussed from the helmet. If not for the insistent prickling of Barney's thumbs, Sorry could have been one of the boys that Tabitha sometimes brought home. She liked boys who were mysterious and wore black and rode motorcycles.
'This is Sorensen, my grandson,' said Winter. 'They're interested in you, Sorensen, believe it or not. Troy and Barnaby Palmer, and Mr. Scholar.'
'Cole,' said Barney's uncle immediately.
'You're interested in me?' Sorry said, shaking Troy's hand. 'Well, I'm delighted. Not many girls are, you know, at least not right off.'
'Excuse him, Troy,' said Miryam, 'he can be so inept at the most unlikely of times.'
Barney looked down at his pricking thumbs and pressed them together firmly. Of course they were asked, very politely, whether they would like to stay for a few days, and Troy accepted very delightedly (they had brought a large suitcase along in the trunk of the car, for exactly this purpose). They put Troy in what they called ‘Laura’s old room’, although there was no sign of a Laura, and Cole and Barney in Sorry’s room.
It was full of that same green, emergent feeling that Barney had noticed in Sorry, and Cole remarked dryly that sleeping in his room was like being a teenager all over again. Barney said nothing, but that night had dreams that were awkward and uneasy and sad. He woke up thinking that Sorry was the same as he was in many ways, and that perhaps they might like each other.