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Bliss Chain

A Surprise Teaser: When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun, Ch 12, Scene 1

porchwood:

Hey chickadees. <3 I’ve been feeling especially glum of late and I know several of you have as well, and in light of your wonderfully unexpected outpouring of sweetness at yesterday’s writing check-in, I thought it might make a nice treat to share the whole first scene of Chapter 12 (about 4200 words, or a normal-sized chapter of most other fics ;D).

After this things get really spoilery, mind, so this is the only lengthy excerpt you’ll get before the chapter comes out, though I’ll still do check-ins and all in the interim. :D

Enjoy!

***

I sit in bed for a long while, turning the precious orange over and over in my hands and letting its red satin tails slip between my fingers. As I learned last night, everyone in this house knows what red ribbons mean. My companion has given me a sweetheart’s token; tucked it into my hand, even, so I would discover it as soon as I woke.

Between the red ribbon and the tear-dampened kisses that my companion pressed to my hair last night, I can rule out Lavinia…but then, I’ve always known, deep down, that it wasn’t her. For one, my bed partner is simply too heavy – and heavy-footed. I’ve shared a house with Lavinia and a bed with them for a month now; I know the sound and rhythm of steps, as any hunter should, and how much the mattress gives at their weight, even when I’m two arm-lengths away from my companion’s body. Also, Lavinia’s response to the wintergreen sprig – it’s about time – made it clear that, while she may be aware of my companion’s presence, as I’ve long suspected, she’s not that companion herself.

Not to mention, if Lavinia truly wanted to share my bed, she would never have bothered with secrecy. She would have crawled beneath the covers, as casually as Prim does, and pressed a kiss to my cheek before curling up behind me like a kitten and, likelier than not, burrowing cold toes against my calves.

No, my companion is not Lavinia and, more to the point, it’s not a girl. For the past month, I’ve shared this bed of fur and deerskin with a man.

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booksandwildthings:

swagbat:

how game of thrones should end

#khal drogo just #descends from the heavens #on a flaming stallion #punches everyone in the face #and sits his fine dothraki ass down on the iron throne #until daenerys shows up #then he stands #dusts the seat off a bit #and steps aside for his khalessi

burdge:

but you are here. i’m holding on with every breath. 

-release the sunbird

putyouinabettermood:

putyouinabettermood.com via http://ift.tt/1qnOXQn

susan-ee:

Be nice to your local artist and s/he’ll be nice to you :)
I was strolling through Central Park in NY and saw a line of men sitting on camp chairs with their wares for sale. They looked like lots of other middle-aged, Asian street vendors with their weathered faces huddled beneath caps and swaddled in their flea-market jackets. The thing that caught my eye was that these men were selling their own artistic skills. The portraits they had on display were excellent.
 
I’m so used to imagining artists as young, hip, and stylish. I guess I also tend to think of them as caucasian because it was really noticeable to me that these guys looked like my dad.
 
I’ve never sat for a portrait before, but it killed me that such talented artists had no customers. So I sat down.
 
My artist’s name was Wei Chen. He told me in broken english that he used to be an art professor in China. He loves to sculpt, but the materials are too expensive, and he can’t make a living at it. So he draws portraits in Central Park. This is the portrait he drew of me.
 
If you ever get the chance to visit Central Park, consider sitting down for a portrait from one of these excellent artists. And if you pick Wei Chen, tell him I said thanks and hello.

susan-ee:

Be nice to your local artist and s/he’ll be nice to you :)

I was strolling through Central Park in NY and saw a line of men sitting on camp chairs with their wares for sale. They looked like lots of other middle-aged, Asian street vendors with their weathered faces huddled beneath caps and swaddled in their flea-market jackets. The thing that caught my eye was that these men were selling their own artistic skills. The portraits they had on display were excellent.

 
I’m so used to imagining artists as young, hip, and stylish. I guess I also tend to think of them as caucasian because it was really noticeable to me that these guys looked like my dad.
 
I’ve never sat for a portrait before, but it killed me that such talented artists had no customers. So I sat down.
 
My artist’s name was Wei Chen. He told me in broken english that he used to be an art professor in China. He loves to sculpt, but the materials are too expensive, and he can’t make a living at it. So he draws portraits in Central Park. This is the portrait he drew of me.
 
If you ever get the chance to visit Central Park, consider sitting down for a portrait from one of these excellent artists. And if you pick Wei Chen, tell him I said thanks and hello.