I’d have thought you’d have made a better effort than this. Your “little duckies” are going without. How shameful, for a hostess of your caliber.
I think, perhaps, I shall take a stab at this, as you seem to be neglecting your duties.
I’ve guess your password. Now you must guess what I’ve changed it to.
~Your Loving Daughter.
Rupert can vaguely remember a time before Oliver. But only vaguely.
His first foggy memory is of a man and a woman. They stand over him and coo and smile, and he smiles back. He hates them. He does not know why. The pictures of them in his mind blur, after a time. He can only remember that their story ends with his hands covered in the prettiest shades of red.
Next is a woman in a white coat, who pats his head and tells him that it’s all right, they’ll find the right medication soon. He won’t have to spend his whole childhood in his happy little playroom, with the nice carpeted walls. He loves her, as he has never loved in his young, young life. Her skin is dark and beautiful, and her eyes wide and intelligent. They sparkle and shine in the light of his fire. He gave her his fire, as a gift. He just knew she would love it. He set it just for her.
The memories are even stringier and stranger after that. There are faces and names he can’t place. Rooms and roads he can’t remember. They must have once been important. They must have been, or they would be gone from his mind. He is very good at that. At dismissing that which is unnecessary from his thoughts.
Their stories must have ended, he thinks, or he would still know why they had been important. Even the woman he gave his fire to. Even she no longer has a name. He had been so small, and she so big. But he thinks that maybe, if he could see her now, she would be smaller. He thinks this is maybe because he has gotten so much bigger.
He is very big now. Oliver told him so. Oliver is always right.
Oliver is bigger than everyone.
He can’t remember what he was thinking of.
Oliver is home from work now, walking in the door.
He runs to meet him.
How do we know what’s true and what’s false, when everyone has photoshop and a camera?
Ursula peaked over her blankets and out into the dark gloom of her room, just to check (just to see if it was still there, or if she’d only been dreaming).
The illustrated police news - 1886
(From thequackdoctor.com ).
Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood
She sees patterns she won’t acknowledge. In the floors, in the walls, in the streets. She sees them, and tries not to focus on them. They move too much, and make her eyes burn when she looks away too quickly. But her mind reels, when she stares too long. The patterns dance and form themselves into shapes before her eyes. Then, just as quickly, jerk to a halt and melt back into their surroundings.
Nature, in her indifference, makes no distinction between good and evil.
I've stolen this from my Mother. Hello Everyone.
