Special Collections [Wednesday]
Umbridge knew this section of special collections was bad as soon as she wandered into it. Her upcoming date with the Kool Aid Man had left her restless and worried. Of course, she wasn't worried that she'd do anything wrong. Oh no. She was worried that the Kool Aid Man was too top heavy and he'd fall over, spilling bits of drink everywhere.
Dolores Umbridge didn't much care for stains especially in a place where she'd yet to find a washing machine. Not that she knew how to use a washing machine but she'd learn.
Anyway, the section of special collections she'd wandered in to today was, for all intensive purposes, completely purple. And that's when it all went bad.
You see, Umbridge, with a name as delicate as a freshly laundered peach, was now experiencing the wrath and the undulation of pirates who pillaged, rogues who ravaged, nobles who...nobled and everything in between. There was long hair, whipping in the fierce north wind, tossing trees back and forth like they were merely playthings of those above.
It was, Umbrige thought, awful. But she couldn't escape.
There was Pedro standing there before her, muscles rippling like the strings of a violin, talking to her in that Spanish brogue and making her face scrunch up in a way that, to Pedro, might have indicated interest. Umbridge was just trying to maintain the bile that was rising in the back of her throat. Pedro, his pecs jumping like magic beans, tried to sweep her, literally, off her feet.
Umbridge ran away.
She was still stuck though, stuck in this section of purple, stuck in a place where she could hear the sound of water, gently lapping against a beach like the early morning sunrise over a quiet sleepy town.
Frederico was there, then. A dashing fisherman, his galoshes gleaming yellow like the sun's rays and his boat, the actual boat, rising and falling in the ocean's softly singing current. He promised her a life on the sea, fish, as big as the mountains in the distance and as tasty as...well, fish, every night if she would just come with. Come be a fisherwoman and become one with the sea, watch her wilting heart blossom again under his weathered love.
She refused.
Then, there was Dashiell, a noble man with a pointed nose and cheekbones that were sharp, evoking shardes of symphonies and jutting rocks. The top hat, standing so proud and stiff, distinguished him further. He offered his hand, wanted to take her to croquet matches and wanted to pamper with things as golden as the sun and as soft as a feather pillow. She would become a lady, all fair and pale, and learn to live in his vast English manor on the English countryside with the English people. Dashiell, you see, was very English. His lips curved and the birds sang, the cows cowed and the moon rose over the sky all with that smile.
Umbridge fled.
And kept fleeing until the purple faded and she could just barely hear the waves crashing over rock.
[I have no idea what's wrong with my head, for serious. I might need help. NFB, NFI, OOC welcome.]
Dolores Umbridge didn't much care for stains especially in a place where she'd yet to find a washing machine. Not that she knew how to use a washing machine but she'd learn.
Anyway, the section of special collections she'd wandered in to today was, for all intensive purposes, completely purple. And that's when it all went bad.
You see, Umbridge, with a name as delicate as a freshly laundered peach, was now experiencing the wrath and the undulation of pirates who pillaged, rogues who ravaged, nobles who...nobled and everything in between. There was long hair, whipping in the fierce north wind, tossing trees back and forth like they were merely playthings of those above.
It was, Umbrige thought, awful. But she couldn't escape.
There was Pedro standing there before her, muscles rippling like the strings of a violin, talking to her in that Spanish brogue and making her face scrunch up in a way that, to Pedro, might have indicated interest. Umbridge was just trying to maintain the bile that was rising in the back of her throat. Pedro, his pecs jumping like magic beans, tried to sweep her, literally, off her feet.
Umbridge ran away.
She was still stuck though, stuck in this section of purple, stuck in a place where she could hear the sound of water, gently lapping against a beach like the early morning sunrise over a quiet sleepy town.
Frederico was there, then. A dashing fisherman, his galoshes gleaming yellow like the sun's rays and his boat, the actual boat, rising and falling in the ocean's softly singing current. He promised her a life on the sea, fish, as big as the mountains in the distance and as tasty as...well, fish, every night if she would just come with. Come be a fisherwoman and become one with the sea, watch her wilting heart blossom again under his weathered love.
She refused.
Then, there was Dashiell, a noble man with a pointed nose and cheekbones that were sharp, evoking shardes of symphonies and jutting rocks. The top hat, standing so proud and stiff, distinguished him further. He offered his hand, wanted to take her to croquet matches and wanted to pamper with things as golden as the sun and as soft as a feather pillow. She would become a lady, all fair and pale, and learn to live in his vast English manor on the English countryside with the English people. Dashiell, you see, was very English. His lips curved and the birds sang, the cows cowed and the moon rose over the sky all with that smile.
Umbridge fled.
And kept fleeing until the purple faded and she could just barely hear the waves crashing over rock.
[I have no idea what's wrong with my head, for serious. I might need help. NFB, NFI, OOC welcome.]