girlofprey | Chocolate, Eddie Izzard, Amelie, fic (these are a few of my favourite...)

Things I have learned about chocolate:

If you give it up for a week, and settled into an agreeable life without it, do not suddenly eat as much or more as you would have before. You will feel sick.
Lindt chocolate truffles are indeed tasty, but so rich that if you eat more than one, you will feel sick (see above).
Either my Mark's and Spencer's 'mosaic' had been in the shop for a long time before last night, and went all hard and yucky, or M&S are just not so good at the Belgian-style chocolate (though the 'Swiss' is quite tasty. Yes). Also, when eating good, Belgian-style chocolate, dark is better than light. Particularly when that light is white, which should never EVER be eaten. Ever.

So no, the chocolate part of last night did not go so well. But it was still good, because I rented wonderful DVDs - Eddie Izzard and Amelie, mmm. And four for a fiver - still not sure how I managed that. 'Glorious' is hilarious, though bits did not make me laugh, which was disappointing, but possibly mostly due to heightened expectations. But...evil giraffes! Noah in a speeboat! The Mystery of Hopscotch! 'Let us kiss with tongues'!! Omg ::falls down::. (Thing I have learned about Eddie Izzard shows: do not attempt to eat during them. Anything. Ever.)

And then Amelie, which is colourful and lovely and sweet, yes. Very good. I was so rooting for Nino! He is so sweet! They so belong together! Despite the het! Although, when Dominique(2) came out on the landing and started offering Amelie drinks, was anyone else thinking 'omg, lesbian encounter!'? No? Just me then. Also, French people have the prettiest names ever! If I have a son, he will so be called Lucien. Or Adrien. And Odette for a girl. And possibly Joan, after the arc-type lady, if people promised to pronounce it in the spiffy 'Jean' style way. Eeee!

But though it was good, not a wrong note anywhere, it was not particularly life-changing, which was disappointing. It felt a little bit too much like a cartoon sometimes, and though I identified with 'does not play well with others', shy Amelie, with her boy problems, she always somehow turned around and was a machiavellian genius, which was confusing. Hmm. Still, it made me want to go see Paris. And learn how to make plum pudding. And live a prettiful, colourful life of risks, which led to my going upstairs and finally finishing the tiny, original(ish) pieces I wanted to submit to the uni creative writing magazine, which I will post here too, for perusal. Enjoy.

It was about two weeks into her imprisonment that she realised her tower-length hair would do for a rope. She cut it off with her sewing scissors. Plaited it. The frame of her loom served for something to tie it to, and she nailed it to the windowsill with her knitting needles. She banged them in with her mother’s bible.

She grazed her knees a little on the way down, but nothing that wouldn’t heal, and then she was free. The hair was not hard to leave behind.

The tower, it turned out, was in a forest. There were no roads, so she just started walking, through the trees, as straight as she could. She passed a thick, dark tangle of rosebushes on one side, where a girl was slowly but steadily tearing her way out. She passed a girl going the other way, wearing a red cloak and carrying an axe.

She kept walking.

She walked till it got dark, and then till it got light again. The forests don’t last forever, and if she just kept walking, eventually she’d be free. She could already see the light through the trees, the wide open spaces beyond.

She was almost there.

She’s beautiful, certainly, but not asleep. She wanders the cold, empty hallways in her bare feet. She peers through the windows, scrubbing holes in the dust, squinting through the dark tangled branches.

No-one is coming.

No-one knows she’s there. And it’s her own fault, she knows. She saw the branches when they first started poking out of the soil, brittle and frail, but the thorns still razor-sharp, even then. There’s no inch of the castle she doesn’t know like the back of her hand, of course she saw them. But she hadn’t minded them then. In fact, they were almost a relief.

“ Keep the riff-raff out, ” her mother had said wisely, nodding in satisfaction.

‘ Keep them all out, ’ she’d thought, secretly. ‘ Make them wait. Till I’m ready. ’

She’s ready now.

She tries to amuse herself with the old relics. Things from her childhood. Things she loved. The old dresses still fit, a little, though the tiara’s much too small. The puzzles are missing a few pieces, and the books are slightly faded. The toys a little broken, or rusty. Stiff.

It’s only so long before her eyes turn back to the windows.

She’s getting old. There are lines on her hands. More every day.

She will get out, if it takes her months. Years. It hurt more at first, but a little less every time, and every time, there’s a little more light. She’s slow, but she’s steady. She won’t stop.

Her dress is turning red, bit by bit. She has to wipe her hands, or they slip on the branches. And she’s wasted enough time.

She reaches for another branch, aiming for the light. It’s time to wake up.

Blood, at least, she has to spare.

I have submitted them already, so don't worry about destroying my writing career with unhappiness-making (though constructive) criticism. My housemate, who is all 'poetry boy', seems to like them anyway, so...yes. Feedback at will.