Category Archives: Nonsense

Life Management for the Management Impaired

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Hello lovelies!

I thought I’d share some of my time-management stuff. I have a blog about Chittering Acres Studio in the making but it’s not ready yet, and I felt like writing a thing. I don’t know whether it’ll be helpful for anyone else, but my last post (not here) with the simple cross-off-when-done task list was quite unexpectedly popular. So, here’s how I function now that my life has changed considerably. I’m now living at home with family again, and my routine has merged with their routine. Along with that comes my uni work and a need to exert more control over my money and spending habits, since I don’t have the nice cushion of a partner to fall back on.

budget

The first image is my budget. Right now it’s a bit tight because I had to have my beloved cat put down, and vet bills are a pain in the arse. I keep it simple- things I need, things I need to pay off, and things that happen every fortnight like board and putting money aside for food if I’m out of the house. I get paid every two weeks, so I make sure to keep that in mind when working out the numbers- I don’t work out the whole month unless I have something that needs to be worked out specifically, in which case I put that in a sheet to the side. An example of something that spreads out over more than one pay period is the assorted debts. I have their general info in the main section, and then I work out how long it will take me to pay off, and in what increments. If I pay one off before the others (as you can see with the bag) the money I’d have otherwise put towards it goes towards the others instead of slipping back into my spare money pile.

Routine

The other two pictures are of the word documents I use to organise my weekly routine and my uni assignments. The weekly routine one is old because I’m neurotic about strangers knowing my movements. Never upload to the internet the times you plan to be out of the house or otherwise vulnerable, predators will take advantage of it.
My weekly routine is full of things I might not necessarily do in green. As you can see, all of my gym and exercise stuff is in green. I was never sure how many spoons I would have on any given day, so I wrote down all the possible things I might like to do should I have the ability. Other necessary tasks that I couldn’t miss out on are highlighted in purple. If I’d had other non-uni-related weekly happenings, they’d be there in blue, but as it is I’m a bit of a shut in, so the only weekly necessity I have is… Well, uni. I worked out what time of day would be best for these by tracking what times of day I spent alert and on the computer most, and what times left me the least disturbed by other people in the house. As you can see, it’s the same time every day thanks to the weekly routines of my family.

Routine2

The third picture is how I keep track of assignments. When they’re due, what parts to work on when, and when different sections of the semester start and end. I didn’t manage to capture it but I also have “Results Released” elsewhere in the document. Assignments that are yet to be done are in plain text while assignments I’ve completed are scratched out. I also change the colour of the days to grey to show which dates have passed- making it really easy to see any assignments I’ve missed or which are late. I have… More of those than I’d like.

All of these were created in either Microsoft Word or Outlook and are simple enough. I don’t have a great grasp of Outlook and I only use the default settings when making tables in Word.

Try it for yourself, and see how you find it! Good luck. 🙂

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Some Not-Poetry

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Lying on the floor, preparing to push out another 500 words before I let my manuscript rest for the day, in my underwear

In the path of a very pleasant ocean breeze, and music playing

Listening to Liam draw and whistle at the workbench beside me…

 

I myself am tucked neatly under my writing desk, laptop propped against the foot rest,

Watching my toes dance, reflected in the screen while my face remains dark.

I harvested another tomato today. Would have been two, but the caterpillars beat me to one.

 

Ah well. Small victories. This is a good day.

Yield

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At first I am unsettled when she grasps that mop of copper curls and tugs it from her head. What I had thought was her hair had been a wig- Instead she sports a full head of soft, mouse-brown hair, unevenly cut and shaggy towards the ends. Her lips as she swipes the lipstick from them are not bloody red but ashen pink, and her long neon nails come off with a click to reveal chewed stubs. I sit awkwardly alone in her living room as she excuses herself to shower, studying the mismatched pillows and threadbare throw rugs until she returns plain looking but no less intense. Soap removed much of her magic, yet she remains enthralling still, scrubbed clean and softly perfumed. Gone is the dizzy party girl. The woman who stands before me now, wrapped in a silk dressing gown with dripping hair tossed about her shoulders, has a different kind of presence. She is quiet, and strong. She seems to make the room fold about her, instead of simply inhabiting it, and she looks at me as if she knows what I am seeing.

I swallow.

She makes us tea, and we sit and drink in silence, observing each other. Her possessive gaze unsettles me and I avoid eye contact, peering about myself at her tiny, lavish house. The glasses are small and intricate. “My father bought them in Azerbaijan,” She whispers, reverentially, as she peers into the depths of hers. “I have never been, but I am told their tea is legendary.”

I nod silently in agreement, as if Azerbaijani tea is something I know much about. She doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she simply doesn’t care. The tea is bittersweet.

When the cups are empty we leave them to cool on the table top, reflecting the faux-firelight in gold and cherry-red.  I lean forward to admire them but she wastes no time, catching hold of my shoulders and planting kisses beneath my throat. We fall wordlessly against each other, stripping, exploring, kissing and gasping. We make love on the floor for hours, catching our breaths on orgasms, writhing and rolling, feline in our ministrations. Her tongue is pointed; my fingers are wet. When we are exhausted we curl around each other and stare, still silent, preserving the sanctity of what we had just done.

I am hypnotised by her. Hours could pass; Days, weeks, months could pass, and I would lie there, unknowing, uncaring, lost in her. I can’t read her face, her eyes half-lidded but attentive. After a moment she shifts, burrowing her face against my knee.

Kisses punctuate her ascent along my leg and she pushes me gently until I unfold beneath her, stretched sanguine. She breathes against my breasts; her hair tickles my sides.

“I want to paint you.” Lifting her head, those heated green eyes catching mine and holding them, she murmurs with inescapable authority. “I am going to paint you.”

Far from the fire she leads me, into the cooler parts of the house, along winding limb-like hallways and past coloured doors with mismatched handles.

I am shivering when she topples me into the studio with more kisses, impatient kisses, and closes the door.

Sorry for the silence- Notebook Tidbits

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Let me get inside your head,

Let me introduce you to want, to lust,

To the grotesque and the carnival,

To the blood and the hunger and the flesh.

Let me give you the taboo,

The safety in indulgence, in risk;

Here in words everything is sacred,

Everything is true and honest and

You will not be judged.

Let me lead you where you will not go,

But have always wondered,

“What if?”

My mouth is full of snakes.

I would throw myself to the tracks beside but it would take one half of me, and harmonic though my ribs may be I feel that is too harsh a price. With ropes upon the earth I hold my tongue and wait; bright green-yellows and gentle whites guide the eyes and hold them stable herein without and basic… Still they watch, they wait for this chassis to break, crack open and spill the world ultraviolet.

Silence descends. I will find my way back.

They exchanged “I love you” against each other’s lips, catching the words with tongues and pulling them back into their mouths to be inhaled like smoke.

It infuriates me, the way she breaks me open like a lotus, a rose. Every night she stifles my complaints with kisses, and with her touch bids me forget, lost beneath her gaze. Always the same routine; the sex, the paint, sleep and then she is gone in the morning.

A water box in a glass box with a fish in it, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to go in!

A fish tank is a vivid warning in my dissociated state and crossing from the park outside to the park inside brings me to a one-way vacuum door. How cruel it is to show us freedom, a world outside without the bars, the noise, the nurses, the beds without heads and doors without doorknobs.

“It’s only a follow-up.” He soothes and clutches my agitating hands to his chest, gentle though I know he clenches his teeth because I have scratched him again.

Have I been speaking out loud, how does he know? Will he leave me here- oh god the doors are open and in this tiny room the air is stale and sterile- will he come back when it’s all over? I cling, and breathe, and bite my tongue. He understands.

We have to wait for the door to open again, nurses, beds, and hospital gowns down the walkway behind the walls. My fishtank breaks open with a whoosh and he leads me forward, gently smiling, a shine in his eye, reassurances that are yet to fade.

I glance back and the door slips closed, nary a fish within the box now that it is within the bowl.

Harlequin and Columbine

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I’m awake.

In the mauve haze of summer humidity it’s difficult to sleep, and so I lie there, speculating on the time: is it one am? Two am? Perhaps earlier. Your body heat makes the bed insufferably warm, but I won’t kick off the blanket, even though I feel as though I’m about to combust. A breeze from outside wafts humidity and exhaust fumes with the smell of night blooming jasmine- your favourite plant- and does little to cool the room. Sounds of the city seem far off here, in this concrete box. I think it’s the white noise of civilisation that keeps me conscious. That, or the feel of your skin so close to mine.

I know you’re awake.

If I rolled over now, would you be looking at me? Would your eyes paint the canvas of my face, the threaded angles of my hips? Perhaps your lips would remember that dusty smile I fell in love with, that dusty smile like a phantom now, a ghost beneath your sad blue eyes.

No, you would be watching the ceiling, if your eyes were even open. You know I’m restless and you pretend to sleep. I know the sound of your breathing when you sleep, love, I know when you are tricking me. Trickster, my carnival clown, my harlequin. Pin your heart to my door, Harlequin. Am I your Columbine?

I turn the words over in my mouth and my body follows suit, twisting me, twirling me in the sweat-slick that was once your bed. I find myself facing you. I find myself dreaming of kissing you; kissing you, your scarred shoulders, your hidden collarbones, tracing silver stretch-marks and olivine tan lines. In my dream I find your skin clammy and cold, hot beneath the blanket, wet with sweat. I slide against you like a fish, my hand skating across the expanse of your belly, latching beneath your far hip to pull myself close despite the stagnant heat. I rest my head on your chest and feel the weight of your hand settle on my head. I hear your heartbeat! It still beats for me, relentless, inexhaustible.

“My Harlequin.” I whisper before I can catch the worlds, tumbling from me like jumbled confessions. I love you, they sing, I love you, I love you. You read my voice and I feel your hesitation through your fingertips in my hair.

“My Columbine.” Mechanical. The response comes so swiftly and so naturally that the words should shine, polished with constant use. Instead they fall dull, slabs of fat slipping from the lips of a glutton. I clutch to you and feel you slipping away, never moving. Black dog, they call it. The deepening dark. Come death or dark water, we used to say in secret behind cupboard doors and backyard bushes. To the end of time, forever and ever. This the dark water, your wretchedness and mine.

The dream breaks. I’m on my side still, hands tucked close. I have become my own cocoon. You gaze at the ceiling unaware that I watch you, your fingers scratching unconsciously at the blanket above your breast. You seem so sad.

I want to tell you how today the Earth pounded with billions of feet, dancing to a rhythm we can’t quite feel. A billion voices cried out in song, a billion hearts beat a bloody beat like a billion meaty drums. Within a billion chests, behind a billion ribs, between a billion lungs blossomed life and memory and old quiet joy. Here bloomed humankind, flowers at once brilliant and beautiful and excellently lethal. Here groaned the weight of time, the airy pull of the future. Here, a string to tug you from your shade, as if that could return you to me, bring you to me.

I hear you blinking.

“I don’t think this is ever going to end.” Your voice startles me and for a moment I want to shuffle closer, feeling an unexpected agony. The finality in your voice echoes with defeat, a desire to give up. It’s the worst thing of all about the darkness. A disease came one day and took your joy and left you empty. I find most days that I miss you, even in your company.

Your hand slithers from the blanket to touch my fringe. You stroke my hair- once, twice- and tilt your face to the lavender light seeping through the curtains, your own hair mussed and unwashed upon a flat pillow. I half expect you to say something more, as if that fragment of conversation weren’t all you could offer up. Your body slumps in exhaustion just with that one confession. I’m left drifting. Unbidden, a torrent of thoughts cascade through my mind: a funeral, stumbling across your body hanging purple-faced from your bedroom cupboard, the feeling of living a life where I don’t wake to you every morning and fall asleep to your breath every night. This life, this life forever. Waking one day too late to tell you the truth, my truth. Terror takes the place of dull longing for a moment and you remain silent, unknowing.

It has to end. It has to. “It has to end.” I don’t know if I’m saying the words for you or for me, but I say them anyway, whispering them against your palm like a mantra. “You’ll come out the other side, my love.”

You give a short, curt nod and close your eyes.

How many times have I dreamt of kissing you? Of sleeping in this bed, waking to you, lying drowsy beside you on a Saturday morning, avoiding your cold feet and your hands smelling like rosemary. I’d like to help you with your braid every night and to kiss your forehead before our morning coffee.

Children. I’d like to have children. With you.

The night drags on in silence and sleep doesn’t come. You are finally heavy and still, truly sleeping. I can prop myself up on one elbow and watch you, like protagonists in cliché romance movies do: eyeing lustfully the faces of their desired in the half-light, the twilight of an unknown hour. Is there an hour, a specific hour, for romance? This could be it! An hour of unexpected courage. An hour of foolish courage. I can almost see it! If I lean here and kiss you while you sleep, our worlds will change. Your eyes flutter open as you are, I’m sure, a light sleeper; however, I daren’t guess your thoughts. You grow pink, your lips will fill and shift beneath mine to form a kiss or a curse. We stay awake through sunrise and birdsong. I confess my love, a heavy burden finally set upon another’s shoulders. You whisper to me of confusion. Whore! You spit. Freak! You scream. You chase me from the sheets, you throw me against a wall, you kiss me with the passion of the horrified and the joyous.

You love me too. You sing it beneath the cries of I hate you and how could you.
Your rage abates. We curl together, new, gentled, loving. I hold your hands in mine and breathe against your fingertips. Your dusty smile returns and the rising dark finally breaks, leaving you forever.
We live happily ever after.
It is a nice dream. I could make it happen. I could act on it now and bring our fairytale to light! My heart skips a beat at the thought. Oh, to kiss you, to have you as mine! It seems almost too good to be true.
My courage falters. What if it is too good to be true?
What if your cries of hatred and disgust are genuine?
I must take a chance. I must! Your life could be at stake. If I find one day that the world is without the glory of you because of a lack of love, I could never forgive myself. The world would be worse for wear in your absence. I must tell you! I must give you this gift, if not for your sake then for the continued health of our little planet.
Nerves steeled and trembling, I slide closer to you. I daren’t breathe. Your face is lavender in the filtered light of the moon, your lips a darker purple, your eyelashes like ash upon your cheeks. Beneath your eyelids tiny mounds shiver and twitch- you dream! I think of how I will tell you that I watched you dreaming, or perhaps I won’t, perhaps I will allow the kiss to be the center of attention for tonight.
I hover for a moment, doubting. I take a breath.
I deliver my one, perfect kiss to your sleeping mouth. Your lips are cold and your teeth are hard behind them. Oh Harlequin, my beautiful Harlequin.
Your brows furrow and I withdraw, awaiting your awakening, awaiting your delighted recognition of my love.

You sigh.
You rub your eyes.
You roll over, and continue to sleep.

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We’ve got a black underworld rising here,
and it will follow the moon and her shroud of the night,
while we fill your soul as the sky darkens.

Power feels good when it takes over, it makes you shiver and moan…

It’s so much better than sex,
just like the hunt,
the bite,
until it falls still,
and you’re left shivering in the dark
with all the deadly pleasure nerves can give you.

It’s like seeing the world in twenty-four dimensions.

It’s like hearing your lover whimper your name
with their flesh pressed against yours.

Or hearing them scream.
In pain or pleasure, it doesn’t matter, it’s animal.

It’s like knowing you’re the one and only,
the last one there,
and you can rule the world,
if you just ask for it.

It’s a simple thing to get and a simple thing to have,
but when it destroys you,
it’s so hard to get rid of.

You can fight it and it’ll always be there in the morning,
the pounding headache
and the deep seated self-hatred,
and the body lying beside you, shuddering with heartbroken sobs.

You learn not to remember their names.

You eventually stop counting.

And then,
regret.

 

 

 

Old Poem

Classroom Scribbles – Word Dump

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Bored in class I end up writing things. I’m not even sure if it’s poetry, but I’m fond of these ones, even if they’re awful.

There’s a burning in my head,
and a turning in my bed,
a churning, a whirling,
a visceral madness of flesh.
I feel this heat within me,
a fleeting need beneath me-
It’s bleeding, seething,
a hunger deep inside my Earth.
I want to feel you pressed,
dressed in silk, distressed, impressed,
pleasantly intense, a hand on my chest,
a universe in two souls.

And somehow here
beneath the light we
in velvet swaddled lie;
breathing lightly, held
‘gainst heaving breast and
furrowed brow,
howling to find our patience bare
midst naked trees and morning frost…
Bent as lovers when love is lost.

Do I fancy myself a writer? I ask,
as I nurse my airline wine,
and crunch my airline ice.

She comes for the trains.
The harmonic roar as they hurtle
along their rails;
The culminating and pillow-soft
silence
as they reach their peak.

Pity about the truck.
I was really looking forward
to my wedding cake.

Somewhere else
and held here safe
stifled, whole, and hungering.
A thing of grief, melancholy,
This a thing that’s holy,
A life, a time in liminal space.

She wore a
stag’s head
around her
neck
and
her hair
was
perpetually
gloriously messy.

Calling crows, or ravens really,
I find myself confused by them, nearly
at the gallow’s gate where they hold court.
But then the corvids need a name
as therein lies their call to fame,
for a murder (or assassination?)
Here gathered for a short drop
and a sudden stop.

Marx looks like a man who
knew most people were stupid,
but laughed easily and
took great pleasure in intelligent
company.

Holding words between our teeth…
Kiss me and we shall shake the universe.

Held halfway between all the nowhere places, hazy, blind and unknowing;
Faceless, like all things, neither here nor there
in time and space.
In flux, liminal, and lost.
Hoping.

I would devour you whole.
I would suck the sun from your lips.

Tidbit: Circe

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Zero

Directed to the couch I swaddle myself in velvet and recline awkwardly.

I can hear my heart in my chest. Thud-thud thud-thud, it tells me. Thud-thud thud-thud.

One Hour

A spotlight shines from behind her. It illuminates her shadow on the canvas and forms a wall between us through which I can see faint outlines of paint and oil pastel. Thick phthalo blues and glowing desert oranges seep, faded, through the dusty cream of raw canvas. I want to stretch out on the couch. She scolds me if I move. I lie still. Still as the dead. The velvet smells like the elderly, and yet I lie still.

Two Hours

I think about her voice and how I haven’t heard it for an eternity now. The scolding would be worth it. I think instead about what I could say, what could prompt her from her reverie. Silhouettes of her arms move in a jagged dance across nowhere space. The canvas wobbles in an uneven bass beat and enhances my trance-like state. It’s nice, but not perfect.

If I spoke, the situation could change. It could go like this:

Me: You look like you’re dancing.

Her: It feels like dancing.

(That accent, the gentle vowels and clipped consonants  of the northern countries, distracts me more than her movements. In my thoughts she speaks slower than usual, drunkenly, purposefully. Her eyes are heavy-lidded.)

Me: Is it nice?

Her: It is frustrating.

But I don’t speak. I don’t dare.

I lie still, and I lend her my silence.

Three Hours

Something has changed. The scratching of the brush has ceased for a moment as she peers from behind the easel, kicking out her hip, a scowl of irritation lending her an almost Pre-Raphaelite appearance. Her hair has come undone and harsh halogen light dribbles over her shoulders in knotted, greasy curls. For a moment she looks like Circe, cruel and beautiful. The witch of Aeaea. I am helplessly enchanted and dozing on the couch, beneath her glare, I wait for her to speak.

Muses (WiP) Update

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8 hours worth of painting yielded this:

 

This was after about 3 hours.

Also, look at my half of the studio. Isn’t it awesome? :3

End result for the Honey Muse. She’s tempermental and difficult to paint, so I have a looooong way to go with her.

And my camera apparently can’t deal with glare.

“Muses” oil on board.

I Swore To Myself I’d Never Do A Harry Potter Roleplay…

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Oberon poked a finger through the cage of his hyperactive owl, ignoring the people milling about him to brush his fingers through his feathers. The little black-eyed tawny owl fluffed itself and peered around it with the wild curiousity Oberon didn’t seem to possess. It had occurred to him that perhaps he should feel something- excitement, perhaps, or nervousness- but he still felt numb, in shock. His sister did all the organising when their parents weren’t there, fluttering in confusion. He felt almost sorry for them. Discovering that their children were different, were other, had been an unpleasant shock for them. They had tried to be proud of the twins, but since Heaven collapsed on the kitchen floor, their concerns for the twins’ welfare had only deepened. They felt helpless. Their helplessness made Oberon feel guilty, like he and Heaven had been some sort of curse, while Heaven herself drifted along in her own world.

Thinking of her, he glanced up, his gut jumping to his throat in the moments where he couldn’t see her. Her name forced itself up his throat but got caught behind his teeth, which he clenched when he finally spotted her chatting to a robust, talkative old lady. Heaven didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what the woman was saying; the woman didn’t seem to be paying much attention to Heaven. Instead she talked endlessly with grand gestures, smiling to disguise glazed eyes filled with forced cheerfulness. People like that annoyed Oberon. They reminded him a little too much of a defective nanny.
Rasputin squaked as someone bumped his luggage trolley and Obe twisted to shout out to the offender… But a hostile glare from the sharp-faced boy silenced him. As a ten-year-old, Oberon wasn’t yet aware that a face like that belonged to cruelty. He only saw an ugly curl to the lip, a squint to the eyes, some kind of passive anger that had nothing to do with him.

“Brother?”

Heaven was calling.

Struggling with the sideways drift of the luggage cart, Oberon made his way over to his sister, tugging his beanie down to his eyebrows. Heaven was looking about with incredulity, seeming almost affronted with whatever information the lady had provided her with. He responded with the sluggish glance of a boy who really, really didn’t want to be standing in the middle of a crowded train station with a crazy sibling and assorted animals. He glanced around for the sharp-faced boy, but he was nowhere to be found. Something uncoiled in his belly. Oberon hadn’t realised it, but he’d been on guard since the collision.

“Did she just tell us to run ourselves, our pets and our trollies straight into that brick wall? That very sturdy and painful looking brick wall? Do you think she’s mad?”

Oberon frowned. His sister threw him a glance to tell him a facial expression was not an adequate response. Expressing just how much attention he had paid to his parents efforts to teach elecution and poise, he added, “I dunno?”

The brick pillar in question seemed quite solid. A little too clean for a packed station, but it could be clean for any number of reasons. He was sure that if he threw paint at it, the paint would stick. Or chewing gum. Or soot. All things he didn’t have in his possession. Heaven’s expression was beginning to flicker with the uncertain panic she picked up in new or unexpected situations. Soon she would either burst into tears or into an anxiety attack, or both, and the last thing Oberon wanted was a scene. He could just imagine having to explain it to a police officer: “I’m sorry sir, see, my parents just dropped us here… Yes, yes, even though we are under the legal age limit to be alone… and we are trying to get to a station that doesn’t apparently exist so we can go to a magical school where they teach us, well, magic, and my sister couldn’t figure out how we should walk through that pillar over there so she freaked out. Oh, and she is a bit weird in the head. A bit of a spaz. Would you mind directing us to platform nine and three quarters so all this can be sorted?”

No.
That wouldn’t go down well at all.
It couldn’t be the case anyway. He had already invested too much hope into this. To find out it was all fake would be heartbreaking to he and Heaven both. They had taken this as a sign that they weren’t evil or insane or some kind of mutant. There were others like them. Others like them who could teach them how to make it stop.
A place where Heaven wouldn’t be a freak anymore.
A place where Oberon wouldn’t be the freak’s weirdly-named brother.

He couldn’t give up on that.

“Hev, I don’t think…” He twisted his trolley around until it faced the aburdly clean pillar. “This is supposed to be a school of magic, right? We’ve come this far.”

Just in case, he tugged an apple from his pocked and tossed it between his hands before lobbing it at the pillar. It flew cleanly through the air before colliding messily with the bricks, transforming smoothly from apple to apple puree and splattering nearby passengers with yellow sludge.

Oberon hadn’t expected that.

“…”

Heaven’s lower lip began to quiver imperceptibly.

No. I’m not giving up this easily. His stomach churned at the thought. He was the brother. He was older, if only by a couple of minutes.
It was his job to look after her. One more glance at that confused, fragile face and he knew what he was going to do, with a child’s foolish determination.

Oberon lifted Rasputin’s cage with a grunt (he was an awfully heavy bird) and plonked it atop Heaven’s luggage, just in case this went exactly as he expected it to. School had introduced him to any number of bruises and he hoped that maybe this time wouldn’t be too different.

Screwing up his face and shutting his eyes, guiding the trolley with one hand and an elbow as he held his glasses to his face, he launched himself forward. There was enough distance between himself and the brick for him to build up some speed. Soon he was running, hearing the pillar come ever closer, closer, closer- and expecting that crash, he braced himself…. and kept on running.

Oberon opened his eyes and immediately fell over, losing his grip on the trolley, watching stunned as it drifted away from him at speed down the platform, eventually drifting to the left and smashing into the side of a fire-engine red steam train.

No way…”

Wizards still used steam engines?