Illustration 012 (updates Thursdays) (kinda)

Just another sketch from the sketchbook this week. Apologies for the lateness too. The newborn, just four weeks old today, and some visiting family have been occupying time.

This is my ‘faces in rocks’ page of sketches, which was a companion to the ‘faces in trees’ I posted earlier. Both sets of sketches were intended to try and break me out of sketching the same sorts of faces over and over again, reaching out, into something new, physiognomically speaking.

Fair Upon the Tor #21 (updates Mondays)

It was difficult to find a mental path back to her cosy sphere of relaxation, with the biloko standing there, hissing their small sad noises. She supposed that she could have told them to be quiet, and maybe they would even have obeyed her, but the thought of giving them commands made her feel damp and cold inside. The decision soon made itself up in her mind; the best thing to say was nothing. Instead, she sank into the hot water, tried to block out the noise of the angry biloko, and listened to the rain. Eventually their unhappy pipes and trebles faded off into fragmented breathing. A fragile quietness resumed. Time passed, and the steam rose. The glow of the embers below the tub started to fill up the space in the tent, reddening the air as the rain drummed on the fabric above. She had thoroughly lost track of time when the curtain ruffled, and a familiar, irritated voice said, “Are you not done in there yet?” It was Pel.

“Sorry. I was just soaking.”

“Can I come in? I need to collect some things.”

Caewen felt a bit exposed in the water, but the sides of the bath were tall, and she was able to sink down a bit. “Yes. Please do.”

Peloxanna pushed her way through the curtain with a scratchy sounding sigh. She glanced past Caewen, uninterested, but looked back again, her brow lining. “Haven’t you even washed yourself yet?”

“Washed myself?” She looked down. “I’m in the water. What more washing can I do?”

An expression of frustration fomented, then leapt and dashed through Pel’s eyes. “There are no suds in the water. You’re haven’t even picked up a piece of soap.”

“Soap?” said Caewen, looking around.

Pel walked over to her, picked up a rose-tinted, unevenly shaped lump from a side-table, and thrust it towards Caewen’s face. It finished up poised right in front of her nose. “Soap, you barbaric yokel.”

Skin prickling, heat rising in the base of her skull, Caewen scowled back. A tension ran up and down the length of her arms. “I know what soap is. We make soap. I just wouldn’t use soap on my skin. It’s for washing hard linens. It would burn skin, wouldn’t it? Soap is caustic. I’m not an idiot.”

“What in the name of all twelve deserts of the world…? What kind of soap do you people make?” Pel seemed to deflate then. The energy went out of her. “By the temples of flame and water, I think your whole village must be nothing but mud-huts and hovels. It’s like talking to a badger. Do you people live with animals in your houses too?”

“Only when it is cold out,” said Caewen, ruefully. “In winter. Or if the spring turns harsh, the lambs have to come indoors. Otherwise, they’d freeze to death.” After a pause. “Wouldn’t they?”

“Or your could build barns.”

“We have barns! Of course we have barns. But a barn has no hearth fire,” said Caewen. “If you leave a newborn lamb in a warmthless barn, under a hard frost, it’ll be dead by morning, and then the ewe will be all a-kilter and miserable. Bleat, bleat bleat. On and on.” The breath she took was hard to keep steady. “Look, I’m not some bogle, wearing pelts, or living in a hole dug out of the ground,” she waved a hand, angry, “…eating moles and earthworms.”

“Well, you’ve certainly fooled me. Here, lean forward. You haven’t even wetted your hair, or combed it. I honestly don’t know.”

Caewen obeyed, feeling the unpleasantness lining her face and cords of irritation, like hard twisted strings, running through her. Pel sat behind the bath, on a stool, then splashed water into Caewen’s hair. She then emptied some of a bottle of liquor onto her head. It smelled faintly of rosehips. Then, Pel started lathering the stuff in, more roughly than was strictly required in Caewen’s opinion.

She was trying to shepherd some calmness together inside herself, but her blood only felt hotter and angrier with the passing moments. She shut her eyes, stopped the thoughts. The raking of Pel’s fingers on her scalp was sharply unpleasant, but she tolerated it. As she listened to Pel breathing in short, irritated puffs, she came back to wondering why the woman was so enraged at her. Finally, she asked, “Pel, why are you angry with me? I haven’t done anything to you.”

Pel pulled at Caewen’s hair, causing a sharp bite of pain at the scalp. “What makes you think I’m not angry at everyone?”

Caewen was about to say something mean-spirited, but took a breath, stared into the rippling and now quite pink-and-yellow foamy water, and instead, said, “I’m sorry. For whatever it is that happened to you. I’m sorry for it. But it can’t have anything to do with me. Being angry with some random stranger from the north doesn’t make sense to me. And it isn’t fair, either. We’re not all night-worshippers, and most night-worshippers I’ve met were decent people, besides. No more or less decent than most folks, anyway.” She held onto a silence for a moment, allowing Pel to say something, anything, but got only another equal and balanced silence in return. That, and the continued rough ministering of fingers against her skull. She tried another tack. “I grew up in a village that was ruled by a nasty old warlock. Mannagarm, by name, and just as filthy and dirty an old man as you can imagine. Everyone in the village was afraid of him, and he was afraid of everyone. He took people from the village to be his servants, and he killed folk’s wits with magic, and he stole people’s dreams, and made them into dull beasts that could barely remember their own names.” She twisted a little to look at Pel. “But you know what? He wasn’t a worshipper of Old Lady Night. He wasn’t a worshipper of the Day Queen, neither. He wasn’t out for anyone or anything, but for his own self. And he was quite capable of being malicious all on his own. I’m not in any divine camp either. I’m not thrown in with one goddess or the other. I’m doing my best to be a halfway good person, all on my own.”

“And what happened to him?”

“Mannagarm? He got what he deserved. Maybe worse than he deserved. But you know what? I don’t hate him, not anymore. I did, I think, and for a long time. I was definitely afraid of him. My brother and me had to hide in a cellar for most of our lives,” she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with Pel, and giving up a little bit, she added, “Oh, I don’t know. There can be a time for anger. But it has to pass. Otherwise you become the anger. Nothing but anger all the way down.”

Fair Upon the Tor #20 (updates Mondays)

Dapplegrim stirred. “H’m. Caewen? Couldn’t you just say what you have to say to one of these others? Any of them will do, and then they can talk at the moot, and we’re all done. Then we could up hooves and leave. I don’t like being around so many magicians.” He shook himself, and a shiver ran down his black-grey flanks. “It makes my skin crawl. They’re creepy.”

“Sometimes, Dapple, I really don’t know if you are joking or serious.”

“What?”

“I will convey a message, if you wish it,” said Samarkarantha. Pel glared at him, but he ignored her. A few light creases marred his brow. He waited.

Caewen thought this through, turned it over in her mind. “No,” she said. “I promised to speak myself, and so I will. It wouldn’t honest to the promise otherwise.”

“Then so you will,” said Samarkarantha.

The conversation turned thinner and more pattering then, dipping in and out of a few topics of no particular consequence. Where to buy good cloth in the market. The better handles of beer to be had for a few coins. The sort of thing that people fall back on when they feel it is polite to carry on a conversation with strangers, but are uncomfortable. Caewen was finding herself increasing aware of the damp in her clothing. The water had soaked itself down to her skin. Her leggings were wet right through to the toes inside her big farm-boots. Finally, after she started squirming slightly, Samarkarantha noticed. “You are cold. And soaked. You should not sit in wet clothing. There is a bath behind the curtains. I will order my un-belled biloko to fill it, and heat the water.” He rang the little gong again. The chiming note clung to the air like a frisson of sunlight, fading. As the sound receded, the three tusk-mouthed, snouted and woody faced creatures emerged from behind the curtain. Samarkarantha gave them a short command in his homeland tongue and they turned and retreated back behind the thick hangings. “They will fetch water and pour it, and stoke coals for warmth. You need not fear them, they’ve no power to harm you.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that Samarkarantha would have a bath hidden behind the folds of the rich curtains. In Caewen’s sphere of experience, a hot bath was the sort of thing empresses indulged in. Or princesses in bogey-tales. She had never been anywhere near such a thing, and she was immediately curious. “Alright.” She got up, feeling the wet clothing suck and draw at her skin. The smell of wet wool was becoming a stink of damp lanolin. Some quick digging around in her pile of saddlebags, and she was able to pull out dry clothing. She passed Pel on her way across the tent, and caught a close, ferocious look. Caewen wondered what must have happened to Peloxanna to motivate such dislike. She wanted to stop and explain, again, that her whole family, and all her cousins, and village, and everyone in Drossel were, by necessity of living in the borderlands, quite neutral in the ceaseless conflict of the two great goddesses. She wanted to say again: I am no night worshipper. I’m no sun worshipper either. I don’t have a stake in this.

But she didn’t. She saw no point. Peloxanna would not want to listen, and there was no way to make her.

Instead, Caewen, tried a small smile, and found that it ran aground on that hard yellow gaze. Pel’s irises were so bright in the lamplight that they looked the colour of daffodils. So, getting nothing in return but more cool anger, Caewen shrugged, and walked over to the curtains. “Through here?” she asked.

Samarkarantha nodded.

On the other side of the curtains, the biloko were already busy. One of them was pouring water into a huge iron tub that was decorated with motifs of lions and a some manner of spiky creature that looked like a giant hedgehog with a long snout. Another of the biloko was coming into the tent with a pail of water, while the third was kindling coals to life under the tub. This last one was chanting in rising and falling cadences, the language wild and eerie. It must have been a charm to speed the heating of the water. Trickles and low lines of steam were already roiling over the water’s surface.

Caewen peeled off her clothing without even thinking about the biloko. They gave off such an alien strangeness, that it was unclear to her whether they had a concept of male and female, let alone any notion of propriety. Her clothing came away in the sticky, bunched-up, damp masses that tend to accumulate once fabric gets really wet. Her skin felt immediately freer and more pleasant once the wet cloth was off her. She looked around for a drying rag, but found only some richly embroidered soft material that was cut into rectangles and hanging near the bath. Each of these soft strips was long and quite narrow, and she thought perhaps the intention was to wrap a piece around yourself. She asked through the curtain if she was to use the hanging cloth rectangles to dry herself afterward, and heard back, “Yes, certainly.”

Pel followed this by saying, loudly, “They are called towels.”

By this time the bath was getting towards full, and the steam was clouding up in pleasant puffs. When she went to the bath’s rim, intending to get in, she found that the biloko stopped their work and looked at her, rather more fixedly than seemed appropriate. But their gaze was clearly not desirous, rather, it seemed something closer to the stare of a curious animal. Not sure how much wariness was justified, she stared back at the three creatures, but found that the biloko just remained unmoving, limp-limbed, gawping. So without any further hesitation, she climbed into the hot water, splashing and sloshing it about. Yet, all the while, she kept half-an-eye on the small, woody-skinned creatures with their deep-set pig’s eyes.

She sank into the hot bathwater then.

It was very good.

Caewen allowed herself relax for the first time in what felt like forever and ever. Soaking into the water for long minutes, she could feel her breathing slow and grow gentler. On the other side of the curtain, the conversation continued pleasantly, and she caught some words of it, from time to time. Above her, the canvas roof drummed and rippled, as blasts of rain came down. Now and then, a flash of yellow-blue lightning filled the whole ceiling with translucent brilliance, and thunder stirred and rolled. It was so very good not to be out in this weather. Not everyone at the moot would have a tent. She didn’t own one, after all. Maybe she should buy a canopy or tent at the market? Could Dapplegrim carry a tent? Maybe a small tent. Not like this huge thing, with hot baths and cushions and little square tables and hideous servants from distant jungles.

The warmth of the water was lulling her into drowsy inattention. As her muscles unknotted and loosened, she tried to think through the next day, but found her plans muddled. Walk the maze? Ask some questions about that tent that caught on fire? She was curious about that now. Other things too. Definitely some other things.

She jolted silently, as she came awake. A light sharp scratch at her upper arm had woken her. To her right, one of the biloko had scuffled up very close. The other two were behind it, hanging back, watchful. The one that was beside her peered into her face, and it spoke. Its voice was like two pieces of old dead wood rubbing together in a wet forest. “Have pity on us, enchantress. Grant mercy upon us, mistress of sorceries.”

She said nothing, letting it speak.

It went on, waving his too-long, too-thin fingers in a hurry-less pattern. “We are servants of the Goddess of Night and Moonlight, just as you are, winter-witch. We sing her songs and her praises in the darkest reaches of the jungles. But all around us are the sun-worshippers. The day-hags. They enslave us. They take our bells away, our blessed bells of power, and they make us be servile for them.”

“And do laundry,” hissed one of the other biloko, like wind through thick waxy leaves dripping green water.

“And scrub pots and dishes,” snarled the last of them, like moonlight on a forest floor.

“Our bells are in a chest that we may not touch. Take them out, fetch them to us, give them to us.” The thing pointed at a wooden strongbox that sat at the foot of a large sleeping frame, off to one side. This was presumably where Samakarantha made his bed each night.

“Return to us our potencies.”

“And we will serve you and be your servants, and grateful, untold and everlasting.”

“And what else would you do, if I freed you?”

“We would murder the filthy sun-magician who ensnared us. Murder him dead. Dead like bones. Dead like gristle. Dead like marrow chewed up by hyaenas in the blessed dark night.”

“Then I cannot,” she told him. “Samarkarantha has been kind to me. I will not repay kindness with treachery.”

“Then you are no lady of the night. No true sorceress of our glorious and most beautiful mistress would let her children suffer so. She who is the mother of all things will curse your name, and spit poison into your blood and soul.”

“No. I’m not a true sorceress of anything. You’re right about that.”

“Then, hark to us. Hark! We will be freed eventually. One way, or another.”

Another of them spoke. “We live an eternity.”

The third hissed. “And when we are free, we will remember you and your morality.”

“We will come for you and kill you dead. Like bones. Like meat. Like marrow.”

“Marrow to be chewed by hyaenas in the blessed dark night.”

She shrugged. “I suppose you may live an eternity but I won’t. I expect I’ll be a long time dead before you come looking for me.” They retreated into the shadows then, whispering and snivelling to themselves. She looked away but thought about what they had said. Caewen did not much like slavery. Whether it was humanfolk, spirits, or gods who were the slave-keepers, or the enslaved. “I will speak to Samarkarantha on your behalf,” she said, softly and into the darkness. “I’ll tell him that I think he shouldn’t be keeping servants against their will.”

They snarled as one, and retreated yet deeper into darkness, huddling together in a miserable mass of arms and legs and woodlike skin and grasslike hair.

Fair Upon the Tor #19 (updates Mondays)

Caewen gave into a mass of unpleasant thoughts as she returned, going via the market, and eventually, back to Samarkarantha’s tent. She stumped through the cold, muddy grass, feeling each heavy tread of her feet.

The thickness of storm-cloud that had been lying over the world was finally deciding to give up some of its rain, though it was still an inconstant and fickle drizzle, never quite deciding to grow into the heavy wet droplets that the clouds promised. Instead of soaking her, the airy mist fringed her skin, hair and clothing with a haze of cold moisture, making her chilled, deep inside. Her woollens, with their moth-holes and wispy strands, gathered a halo of damp that glowed under lantern-light and itched her skin.

At Samarkarantha’s tent she stopped to look up into the sky, at the churn of clouds and the few peeking stars beyond. Someone, somewhere was singing an even-song, and it was beautiful. A high clear intonation, fit to call blessed spirits down from the moon, or celestial maidens out of their thrones in the stars. There was beauty here too, she reflected. Madness. Strange old laws. Ugliness and fear-wrought things. But also beauty. She would take her mind back to that. Look for the beauty in the world. It is there, she thought, a person only has to see it.

She felt calmer then. The cool air had eased her temper, and there was some tranquility in her thoughts, as she pushed the tent open, as she heard friendly voices, and smelled food and incense.

“Caewen!” It was Keri. She jumped up from where she had been sitting beside her brother. She crossed the space between them at speed but slowed down enough to avoid knocking Caewen over. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, and hugged her with a solid grip of an embrace. “My stupid brother would be dead,” she said then, quieter.

“How is he?”

“Resting. Keru will live.”

“I did the running,” said Dapplegrim, behind them.

“Yes.” Keri sounded both amused and irritated. “And I’ve already told you I’m grateful for it.”

“I just want to put it out there. Hurm. There wouldn’t have been any saving without me. Me. Dapplegrim. The nasty shadow demon horse,” though as he spoke, he was looking sideways at Peloxanna, where she was relaxing with a cup of wine in the corner, eying everyone in silence. She snorted, a tiny, ladylike noise.

Samarkanatha was still seated in his place near the middle of the tent. “Your horse does not merely talk, it is talkative. I hope it knows to be quiet while a person is trying to sleep.”

“Oh, Dapple just likes the attention when he can get it.” Caewen tried on a smile, though it was a touch wan she suspected. She stepped over to Dapplegrim, reaching out and scratching him behind the ears. He grinned, showing all his sharp teeth. She then walked with Keri over to a pile of cushions near Keru. He was stretched out on his back, sound asleep. They sat down. It felt good to be off her feet.

Outside, the wind was rising by degrees. A few straggling lashes of rain crossed the roof of the tent, making it ripple along the underside. Somewhere, far away, thunder grumbled. A few spare moments passed and then the torrent descended. Rain rammed the roof and the earth outside in cold spears. The air temperature noticeably dropped, so that the light down of hairs on Caewen’s arms and legs and the back of her neck prickled up. She pulled off the damp wool jumper and draped it over a table to dry.

It was then that she noticed Peloxanna watching her.

“What?” said Caewen.

But the lady just tilted her head and let her eyelids hood over those golden eyes. “It is like you were raised in a cellar.”

“People keep saying that,” muttered Caewen.

Samarkarantha cut them off. “Ahem. How was your walk? Did it help you put your thoughts in order?”

“Yes. More than I expected. I ran into Fafmuir. We had an interesting exchange.” She related the conversation, and told them about how she had found Fafmuir talking to the supposed assassin. She told them that she was undecided how much of the old man’s words she trusted. Finally, she asked, “Did you know that the triple goddess of this hill demands sacrifices? Human sacrifices?”

“If you refer to the way in which the maze takes walkers from time-to-time,” replied Samarkarantha, “then, yes. We are aware of that. The Lady Pel and myself are not in support of this practise. It is barbaric.” He threw a glance at Peloxanna, who continued to lounge where she was, like a golden cat, and did not take her eyes from Caewen. “But, we are acquitted to it, for the time being.” He gave out a huff of a noise, followed by considered, self-regarding silence. “There is some truth in the belief that we wizards would not come together at all, if there was no guarantee of godly punishment for those who might transgress the old laws. It is fair to say that many–not all–but many of we whom tread the pathways of spellcraft, the art and the way of charms, many of us, are driven by a desire for power, greater and greater, without limit. There are some of us who live in absolute terror of what their fellow magicians might stoop to, in order to steal secrets or treasures.” He allowed himself a moment to take a drink before continuing. “So, yes. It is not in the way of my people to offer human lives to any god or spirit. And yet, this is an old law, and the seven year moot has been thus for a long many years. It is difficult to see an end to it.”

“Keri,” what do you think? Aren’t you worried about walking the maze? Aren’t you worried about vanishing?”

“I was,” she confessed, “but I did the maze and was granted my magehood back at the last moot. I was still a girl, but I did it, and came through alright.” She shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t so bad, looking back. It’s not difficult. And we’re only here for this moot because Keru is going to walk the paths tomorrow. He not much of a magician, but boys will tend to get grand ideas about themselves.”

“So aren’t you worried for him then?” She looked at Keru, snoring gently in his half-enchanted sleep. “I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying he seems likely to charge into trouble. If there’s trouble to be found.”

“Oh, but Keru’s safe. Of course he won’t be taken.”

“Why?”

“Did old Fafmuir not explain?” said Samarkarantha, uncomfortable.

There was an tense absence of words around the group that grew more tense as it drew out. Finally, it was Peloxanna who spoke. “What they don’t want to tell you, is that only young woman and girls are taken by the maze. Not boys. Not men. And if you have given birth to a child, you are safe too. So, maybe, if you are afraid, Caewen, well… maybe you should get yourself with a screaming little brat, and come back seven year’s hence. You’d be safe enough then.” She followed this with a feline smile. “I’m sure if I asked around I could find some fellow who would lower himself to helping out in that respect.”

Caewen didn’t rise to Pel’s taunt. She was too angry. “What? The maze only takes young women? How can any of you stand for this? It’s… that’s…” she grasped around for words, but said int he end, limply, “Well, it’s not fair, is it?”

The people around the tent remained silent. Samarkarantha shifted and looked at his knuckles. Keri seemed embarrassed. Only Lady Pel was smiling, a nasty, small smile.

The rain was falling heavier now. A storm was coming down outside. The ground would be mud by morning.

“That’s so much worse,” said Caewen. “It’s bad enough to let the goddesses take human life. But the rotten old wizards and all the foul old men of this place never even had to take any risk at all? Fafmuir told me he walked the maze when he was young, and he said it wasn’t so bad… but of course it wasn’t bad for him. He was never under any threat.” She sat a little more upright, scowling. “What happens if there are no young woman wanting to walk the maze-ways? Do they force some girl to go in, to satisfy the bargain?”

“Well,” said Keri, “that hasn’t happened–not in a very long time–so far as I know. There’s always someone who wants a grasp at magehood. Always a lot of someones. Boys and girls. Male and female.”

“So, then, I don’t suppose you will be walking the labyrinth tomorrow?” said Pel, her voice a subtle purr. “It seems that you object.”

Caewen hunched up her shoulders. She frowned at the ground, and picked at one of the holes in her clothing that the moths had left her. “No. Well. Yes. I promised someone I would speak at the moot, and to speak I have to walk the maze first. Unless Fafmuir was being deceitful on that count too?”

Samarkarantha shook his head. “No. On that, he was plainspoken and honest. It is the rule of the moot. Only accepted and sworn magi may get up on the stump and speak. Of course, whether anyone will listen, that is another matter. Magicians like to sound wise more than they like to listen to wisdom.”

“The maze is something I’ll have to risk then.”

Thoughts on what to think aloud

I’ve been thinking about what sorts of things I’d like to discuss here. Although, like everyone, I have political views, I don’t feel this is the forum to air them. Although I have a life and people in my life, I want to be careful about how much of that is brought out and waved around in public. This endeavour is (kinda) anonymous after all. Kinda, because it’s not very hard to work out my actual name. I haven’t hidden it in any careful way.

I’m also little uncertain about getting into the craft of writing too deeply, because magicians and curtains, and all that. I might go that route, but I’ll have to think about it for a while first.

I can write about books I’m reading, of course, and will do. And maybe some generalised life thoughts.

So, what did I want to say here. I went for a walk today with my partner and our week-old newborn. There is a park right nearby that is a bit wilder than the usual urban park. There’s a good amount of undergrowth, and the wildlife is more wild than the usual urban park. There are bluetongues and king parrots, and some of the locals claim that there are echidnas too. There could be. Not very far away are grey kangaroos and wombats. It’s not like we’re out on the urban fringe either. We’re only 30 minutes by commuter rail to the city.

Anyway, the park always has people in it, circling around, walking themselves, or their kids, or their dogs. We were stopped today by an elderly man, easily well past eighty if he were a day, asking if he might see our newborn. Age was claiming the man. He was frail, walking with a cane, wrinkled and stooped around the shoulders. He had a cap on, and the sort of casual clothing you can get away with if you are a student, or retired, but not so often in the between years. He really lit up looking at our newborn. He made a guess at age, ‘Is he a week old?’, and was right on the money, and then said with this nostalgic glow in his voice, ‘You’re in for some happy times.’ I asked him how often he made it around the park, expecting the answer to be once or twice a week, but he answered, proudly, ‘Three or four times a day’. We had to move on after that. The sunlight was getting bright, and upsetting the little one. So we said goodbye and moved on, into shade, to sit by the creek that has sleeping pobblebonk frogs*, waiting for next summer, near children playing on a jungle gym in the shadowmottled light of eucalyptus trees. There is nothing much more to the story than this. No end. No startling twist. But that is life, isn’t it. It just struck me as somehow beautiful, the old looking at the new and remembering good years gone by, and telling us, with a firm conviction that we have good years to come.

* Isn’t ‘pobblebonk’ the best name ever for a frog species?

Illustration 009 (updates Thursdays)

I decided I wanted an opening illustration and realised that the pieces I have so far are a little bit into the story. So, here are the two rooks flying over the hills and glens of the lands south of the Snowy Mountains. The red tinted illustration is the original done with an ochre coloured oil-based pastel pencil. I then discarded the colour, switching to greyscale, and duplicated the image as a new layer in Photoshop. I switched the new layer to Multiply to bring up the lines. As a tidying up step, I used the adjust levels option and the white eye-dropper to pick a place that is a bit off-white but should be white to push the background into a nice clear white colour.

Journal and updates

I’m going to see if I can start up some posting with updates and (hopefully relatively brief) thoughts and reflections on writing. I’d like these to stand out from the ongoing fiction I’m posting. To that end, I’m going to play around with fonts and colours.

These life updates won’t be regular. It’ll largely depend on me having something I want to say.

And, yes, this post is awfully short, I know, but it will have to do for now. It’s getting onto be late and I’m barely keeping my eyes open. Time to sign off for the day.