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I seem to recall making more than one "So Blogging This" remark of late, so I'll throw it open to the Audience as to which neglected lead I should be working on next:
[Poll #1866725]
But first, Muse has finally turned in the next installment of "Hiraeth". I'm still not entirely sure that I didn't accidentally break a couple of things fixing others -- thoughts on how well this stands up RE structure or general sense-making particularly appreciated...
***
There's a centipede the size of a mouse on the kitchen ceiling. "Piss off," I tell it crossly, and turn at a sound from the doorway to find Jason regarding me with an openly sceptical expression. "What?"
"You could get the broom."
Not its fault it's in our kitchen. "Didn't seem sporting."
The centipede scuttles into a corner in a ripple of limbs, moustache with a tic. Jason shakes his head. "There's such a thing as taking the non-violence thing to extremes, man."
By my lights extremes is when you'd rather go about naked than put on a uniform. We'd none quite so determined at the gaol, more a quiet oubliette for the inconveniently Nonconformist, but we've all heard the rumours. Test enough of faith, to be held at the pleasure of his majesty for our audacity.
We're allowed letters, when it pleases them to believe this is still any sort of a civilised business. Different lieutenant than usual sat in the niche that passes for a censor's office; not a local bloke but not Sais neither, curls shot with steely grey and dark dark eyes glaring at me from over a broken blade of a nose. "Letter to the wife? Right, let's have it."
I hand him my latest attempt to make sense of the senseless. He looks the sheets over, scowl deepening. "Can't have that, bad for morale," he announces, blacking out the heart of the letter.
"It's the truth."
He snorts, obviously marking me down from mere uselessness to outright criminality. "Quakers for you. Couldn't even stomach relief work?" He balls the papers in a broad fist and tosses them into the grate. "Blimey. The Silures used to have some ruddy backbone."
I'd picked enough of this man's notion of courage up out of the endless bloodstained mud. "Alternative service was still being party to it all," I say.
He rises to walk me back to the exercise-ground. He's not even my height; bantam battalion man, then, so keen to rush to the fighting that an indulgent crown could smile and ease the requirements. Back when it would all be over by christmas. "You'd never raise a hand against your fellow man, then?" His lips part in a sneer of strange dark humour. "Even to save your own life?"
His teeth --
Dulce et decorum est. The centipede flows down the wall to run behind the piano. Jason heaves a sigh, looking after it. "I can think of a couple of bad jokes but fuck if I'm going there before coffee," he says, and goes to pour himself a bowl of muesli.
[Poll #1866725]
But first, Muse has finally turned in the next installment of "Hiraeth". I'm still not entirely sure that I didn't accidentally break a couple of things fixing others -- thoughts on how well this stands up RE structure or general sense-making particularly appreciated...
***
There's a centipede the size of a mouse on the kitchen ceiling. "Piss off," I tell it crossly, and turn at a sound from the doorway to find Jason regarding me with an openly sceptical expression. "What?"
"You could get the broom."
Not its fault it's in our kitchen. "Didn't seem sporting."
The centipede scuttles into a corner in a ripple of limbs, moustache with a tic. Jason shakes his head. "There's such a thing as taking the non-violence thing to extremes, man."
By my lights extremes is when you'd rather go about naked than put on a uniform. We'd none quite so determined at the gaol, more a quiet oubliette for the inconveniently Nonconformist, but we've all heard the rumours. Test enough of faith, to be held at the pleasure of his majesty for our audacity.
We're allowed letters, when it pleases them to believe this is still any sort of a civilised business. Different lieutenant than usual sat in the niche that passes for a censor's office; not a local bloke but not Sais neither, curls shot with steely grey and dark dark eyes glaring at me from over a broken blade of a nose. "Letter to the wife? Right, let's have it."
I hand him my latest attempt to make sense of the senseless. He looks the sheets over, scowl deepening. "Can't have that, bad for morale," he announces, blacking out the heart of the letter.
"It's the truth."
He snorts, obviously marking me down from mere uselessness to outright criminality. "Quakers for you. Couldn't even stomach relief work?" He balls the papers in a broad fist and tosses them into the grate. "Blimey. The Silures used to have some ruddy backbone."
I'd picked enough of this man's notion of courage up out of the endless bloodstained mud. "Alternative service was still being party to it all," I say.
He rises to walk me back to the exercise-ground. He's not even my height; bantam battalion man, then, so keen to rush to the fighting that an indulgent crown could smile and ease the requirements. Back when it would all be over by christmas. "You'd never raise a hand against your fellow man, then?" His lips part in a sneer of strange dark humour. "Even to save your own life?"
His teeth --
Dulce et decorum est. The centipede flows down the wall to run behind the piano. Jason heaves a sigh, looking after it. "I can think of a couple of bad jokes but fuck if I'm going there before coffee," he says, and goes to pour himself a bowl of muesli.