"My lover's arms, well they beg me to stay. But I know the stars, they will sweep me away."
I went shopping yesterday for a few hours to round out my late Christmas packages -- and, trufax, I love Restoration Hardware Gizmos. They are just the coolest things ever: little tiny survival Burts Bees Wax kits for Surviving the Great Outdoors, First Aid Kits in a Can, Emergency Coffee!!!
The problem is that being around survival stuff makes me paranoid as all get out. I'm the kind of person who loves survival oriented preparedness -- do you know how HARD it was to talk myself out of buying the Swiss Fire Starter (It was flint! OMG, FLINT -- strike against the attached steal for a spark of 5500F spark!!) to add to the emergency bag I'm making for my car? They also had a survival kit in a sardine can. And this nifty solar powered flashlight! Walking out of there without purchasing anything like this involved tremendous amounts of self-control, and I am very proud, if now still longing after that fire starter...
And for those of you keeping score at home; my grandmother survived getting a shunt put in her head, and yesterday my grandfather was admitted to the ER for heart problems. He has a history of a heart condition, and what with the added stress of my grandmother... at least they are currently both in the same hospital.
Now that that's out of the way, the Dictionary.com word of the day is electec. Eclectic: varying in style.
*sigh* I do much better with verbs as prompts. Let's see what I can come up with.
It wasn't a bell that jangled when he opened the door. Whatever it was clapped together as he pushed the door open and then whistled when he stepped over the threshhold. Closing the door behind him allowed for further inspection, and revealed a wind chime made up of hollowed bone, bits of uncut rock, and feathers. One of the bones was vibrating more quickly than the others, and he determined that it was the one which was whistling through the small hole bored into its side.
The shop was an assault on Thomas' senses before he had even turned to face it, the fragrances from a thousand different places assaulted him. Moth balls and freshly cut basil, garlic and unknown spices, the smell of wood, old paper, and underneath it all was a deep and dark musk. On his left was a stack of woven carpets, the bright colors and vivid patterns enticing even in their chaos. On his right hung bolts of fabric.
Beyond that, beyond the open drawers bolted to the wall, the herbs hanging from the roof, was the most the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, sitting behind a table.
"Welcome," she said.
The bone behind him stopped whistling.
The problem is that being around survival stuff makes me paranoid as all get out. I'm the kind of person who loves survival oriented preparedness -- do you know how HARD it was to talk myself out of buying the Swiss Fire Starter (It was flint! OMG, FLINT -- strike against the attached steal for a spark of 5500F spark!!) to add to the emergency bag I'm making for my car? They also had a survival kit in a sardine can. And this nifty solar powered flashlight! Walking out of there without purchasing anything like this involved tremendous amounts of self-control, and I am very proud, if now still longing after that fire starter...
And for those of you keeping score at home; my grandmother survived getting a shunt put in her head, and yesterday my grandfather was admitted to the ER for heart problems. He has a history of a heart condition, and what with the added stress of my grandmother... at least they are currently both in the same hospital.
Now that that's out of the way, the Dictionary.com word of the day is electec. Eclectic: varying in style.
*sigh* I do much better with verbs as prompts. Let's see what I can come up with.
It wasn't a bell that jangled when he opened the door. Whatever it was clapped together as he pushed the door open and then whistled when he stepped over the threshhold. Closing the door behind him allowed for further inspection, and revealed a wind chime made up of hollowed bone, bits of uncut rock, and feathers. One of the bones was vibrating more quickly than the others, and he determined that it was the one which was whistling through the small hole bored into its side.
The shop was an assault on Thomas' senses before he had even turned to face it, the fragrances from a thousand different places assaulted him. Moth balls and freshly cut basil, garlic and unknown spices, the smell of wood, old paper, and underneath it all was a deep and dark musk. On his left was a stack of woven carpets, the bright colors and vivid patterns enticing even in their chaos. On his right hung bolts of fabric.
Beyond that, beyond the open drawers bolted to the wall, the herbs hanging from the roof, was the most the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, sitting behind a table.
"Welcome," she said.
The bone behind him stopped whistling.