The darkness at the edge of town.
December 2011
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Syndicate
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Nov. 3rd, 2030
Dec. 22nd, 2011
[The wreaths go out just like last year, down to the smallest details. A few individuals, tucked away in new boltholes and cheerfully ignoring various accounts in arrears, will no doubt be unpleasantly surprised by the little token of remembrance. To all others, it serves as the company's holiday card.
Riley delivers a few personally. A plain wreath from his own stock to Andrei, evergreen that will not flower, will not fade into dust. A pretty freesia thing for Gray. Something tropical and vibrant and lush, magically augmented to weather the winter goes to Talia (decided upon after a long slow deliberate pause, his fingers flexing absently as if he wished he held a knife, or could hide them). A veritable carload of seasonal greenery for Haven, unloaded with as little fanfare as he can possibly manage before he vanishes back to his shop, brightly lit but somehow an inverse of the natural order (the shadows seethe and roil and crawl, defy their proper place every now and then and scud across floor or wall, curl around his feet like affectionate immaterial cats before flitting off again. He stands in a pool of indistinct dark, half-finished floral arrangement to the left, paper full of various handwritings not his own to the right). Shadows curl delicately as lacework curtains up the glass windows (surely just a trick of the light to a passer-by). Do they watch the roads? Do they block out the light?
His journal is out but ignored, open but unread. An infant shadow crawls across it, arranges itself like the concept of a snowflake turned inside out, all organic curves and latticework that arches and loops into a maze of whorls. Pretty enough, if not a little creepy. When he notices, he pauses instead of shooing it off. Turns, all deliberate essential movements only. Digs in a drawer for a moment. The shadow freezes obediently, lets Riley work at mimicking it precisely on the opposite page the way something without true volition must. It's the quick, precise work of perhaps fifteen minutes before he extends a hand and the shadow flows up his finger to loop around his wrist like a seamless bracelet, barely a quarter of an hour before he turns away again, leaving an eerie-elegant thing blooming across the page.]
Riley delivers a few personally. A plain wreath from his own stock to Andrei, evergreen that will not flower, will not fade into dust. A pretty freesia thing for Gray. Something tropical and vibrant and lush, magically augmented to weather the winter goes to Talia (decided upon after a long slow deliberate pause, his fingers flexing absently as if he wished he held a knife, or could hide them). A veritable carload of seasonal greenery for Haven, unloaded with as little fanfare as he can possibly manage before he vanishes back to his shop, brightly lit but somehow an inverse of the natural order (the shadows seethe and roil and crawl, defy their proper place every now and then and scud across floor or wall, curl around his feet like affectionate immaterial cats before flitting off again. He stands in a pool of indistinct dark, half-finished floral arrangement to the left, paper full of various handwritings not his own to the right). Shadows curl delicately as lacework curtains up the glass windows (surely just a trick of the light to a passer-by). Do they watch the roads? Do they block out the light?
His journal is out but ignored, open but unread. An infant shadow crawls across it, arranges itself like the concept of a snowflake turned inside out, all organic curves and latticework that arches and loops into a maze of whorls. Pretty enough, if not a little creepy. When he notices, he pauses instead of shooing it off. Turns, all deliberate essential movements only. Digs in a drawer for a moment. The shadow freezes obediently, lets Riley work at mimicking it precisely on the opposite page the way something without true volition must. It's the quick, precise work of perhaps fifteen minutes before he extends a hand and the shadow flows up his finger to loop around his wrist like a seamless bracelet, barely a quarter of an hour before he turns away again, leaving an eerie-elegant thing blooming across the page.]
Nov. 19th, 2011
[The handwriting is not his own. The pen isn't the sort he usually uses, either. He's spent the last few nights writing in scripts that properly belong to other people, and now that the job is wrapped up and sent off he's regressed, deviated back something learned for one of his first proper bait and swap jobs with no little amusement at how quickly the spidery old elderly woman's crooked-cramped chicken scratch shifts from something half-remembered, doodled on some scrap paper in the shop, to an entity so fully formed that he takes it to the journals with no small measure of amusement.
The writing crams itself together, word edging up against word, all points and implied flourishes that don't quite carry themselves off. It is writing for smaller and more arthritic hands, and Riley's fingers hold the pen in an easy grip that only looks impossibly awkward.]
Back in my day the journals were used proper.
None of this catch-all drivel you lot toss out now.
But no matter. Selling two chests.
One as won't let things out without asking,
and one as won't let things in without permission.
Best offer gets both, I've no use for them now.
The writing crams itself together, word edging up against word, all points and implied flourishes that don't quite carry themselves off. It is writing for smaller and more arthritic hands, and Riley's fingers hold the pen in an easy grip that only looks impossibly awkward.]
Back in my day the journals were used proper.
None of this catch-all drivel you lot toss out now.
But no matter. Selling two chests.
One as won't let things out without asking,
and one as won't let things in without permission.
Best offer gets both, I've no use for them now.
Feb. 27th, 2011
Feb. 15th, 2011
Yesterday was work, and work, and work, and flowers delivered to Gray that were mute gratitude and affection with a bow, and a similar but altogether different bunch to Liv that were all laughing kinship and sidelong glances during boring business affairs and copious inside jesting of the sort only cousins can ever really share (and a single red rose to Liam, because such things will never not be hilarious, and a forgery of Sully's own self done in the younger man's style because sometimes Riley can crawl right up to the edge where creation and imitation intersect and almost, almost edge over the line he used to traverse so effortlessly).
Yesterday was not determinedly not thinking about the past, as it has been in other years. Nor was it brooding compulsively or diving headfirst into a bottle at the first opportunity or simply misery. No, yesterday was equal parts helping people select just the right arrangement and just enough detachment to keep the edge off and something astonishingly close to boredom with the hit and run skin-deep romance of so many of his customers. It was a good day for relaxed, friendly banter skirting the edge of flirting as the shop grew busier and busier, and it was an excellent day for tips.
It was just Valentine's Day, which used to mean something more than it does. The shop is less cluttered now that it is over. He picks up the broom, winks at the shadow that nestled beneath it as it jumps to curl around his ankles in mild defiance of physics before he gets to work cleaning up the aftermath of crowds trooping in and out all day. Winter is hard times for hardwood floors.
When he reaches the counter he pauses just long enough to scribble something quick and facetious.
Red roses 60% off.
Yesterday was not determinedly not thinking about the past, as it has been in other years. Nor was it brooding compulsively or diving headfirst into a bottle at the first opportunity or simply misery. No, yesterday was equal parts helping people select just the right arrangement and just enough detachment to keep the edge off and something astonishingly close to boredom with the hit and run skin-deep romance of so many of his customers. It was a good day for relaxed, friendly banter skirting the edge of flirting as the shop grew busier and busier, and it was an excellent day for tips.
It was just Valentine's Day, which used to mean something more than it does. The shop is less cluttered now that it is over. He picks up the broom, winks at the shadow that nestled beneath it as it jumps to curl around his ankles in mild defiance of physics before he gets to work cleaning up the aftermath of crowds trooping in and out all day. Winter is hard times for hardwood floors.
When he reaches the counter he pauses just long enough to scribble something quick and facetious.
Red roses 60% off.
Dec. 27th, 2010
Every regular customer of Riley's shop - indeed, every regular customer and business partner of the Woods family, as well as those who are friends of individual family members - received an ornamental wreath for their door a week or two before their preferred holiday. The wreaths are nothing overly elaborate, a pretty little acknowledging courtesy gesture that most are familiar with by now, just another part of the holiday season. Greenery and pine cones with a hint of red initially, they undergo a subtle transformation when the holiday hits, as the hints of red prove themselves to be buds and a minor amount of ornamental magic causes them to bloom overnight. They will will remain vibrant for a week, as the spell cannibalizes the vitality of the evergreens, and then abruptly wither away into dust for the wind to carry away. No muss, no clean-up, no fuss, just the Woods thinking of you (and turning your thoughts, ever so subtly, to them).
Gray is an exception. In addition to the standard wreath, she receives a more delicate one suitable for indoor display, without a holiday theme. On Christmas the freesia buds that ring it will bloom, and for a month's worth of winter she will have a spot of spring in her kitchen.
There is one other exception, a snow-capped stone with graven letters surrounded by others of its kind. Andrei's wreath does not bloom: the other man had never favored anything floral, and Riley lets that be the reason why.
Gray is an exception. In addition to the standard wreath, she receives a more delicate one suitable for indoor display, without a holiday theme. On Christmas the freesia buds that ring it will bloom, and for a month's worth of winter she will have a spot of spring in her kitchen.
There is one other exception, a snow-capped stone with graven letters surrounded by others of its kind. Andrei's wreath does not bloom: the other man had never favored anything floral, and Riley lets that be the reason why.
Dec. 3rd, 2010
His changeable but typically neat and left-slanting, interconnected though not cursive print was once seen far more often about the journals than it is nowadays, but Riley never disappeared utterly from this network that is not a network even when he voluntarily became little more than handwriting on a page to most. Entries to his brother or the family at large are more typical than public fare, twins being twins and the family business being business and family all at once, but he isn't the sort to refrain from dropping a note to the supernatural community - such as it is - at large as thoughts occur to him.
Earlier is better (and more cost-effective) when it comes to holiday arrangements.
Earlier is better (and more cost-effective) when it comes to holiday arrangements.