| 002. |
[Thu Feb 2012 @ 7:39pm] |
[It's time to report in after a somewhat lengthy radio silence: after becoming acquainted with her new, fickle and business-oriented owner, Alice is finally surfacing again. It's too much information for some, and for a public message, but Alice is happy - minus a few little irritating exceptions - and in a boastful mood.]
I am currently sitting in my very own office on the thirteenth floor of some skyscraper in the middle of the city. Yep, you heard me. My new owner's got a nice little pad of sorts for his latest employee. Pity I don't have a plaque on the door: "ALICE MUNROE: DEAD WORKER" and it would also be nice if my office slash living quarters was bigger than a broom cupboard, but you can't have everything.
I think I'm getting pretty close to having everything, but. Relative freedom is fucking fantastic. Hellooooo, Morden's birthday party.
[There's no mention of the compromise: that her freedom comes at a price, and that the price is being a nasty errand girl for this Mr. Smith. She's a master at omitting things, but this time, there's not even a hint or fleeting sense of bitterness. It's all naive excitement, which is especially directed at the party tonight.]
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| 001. |
[Thu Dec 2011 @ 11:02pm] |
[Men enter the store with their greedy hands and appraising eyes. They are different to the normal fare the quaint, comparatively kitschy shop calls customers. A different clientele, a different goal - no aimless browsing through the magical goods for these men. They seek out an amulet they have been told of, share a word with the owner, and the ghost who comes part and parcel with the amulet overhears words like 'Vendor', 'Market', and 'Santoro'. It is a deep-seated fear of the unknown that takes hold in her. The knowledge that she is changing hands like a poker chip lost by an unlucky player; helpless and easily wiped off the board just like a pawn. She overhears more, slipping through door and wall to learn more of this Vendor who will own her. Ghostly nerves twitch and fears blossom (just hopefully not into reality).
Needless to say, this holiday season is not a festive one, and though Alice's eyes glaze over the tinsel and silly shop decorations of her elderly owner, she puts on a brave face when shakily & translucently putting pen to paper. It's something to talk about; a welcome distraction.]
Been making a mental list of things I'd do this holiday season if I could: send out Christmas cards all mundane-like to those who celebrate; eat some of the Christmas pudding I loved when I was a kid; learn to knit; knit Dom a hideously ugly bobble hat that he'd feel obligated to wear for five minutes tops and then secretly throw in some rubbish bin somewhere but not before I got photographic proof of him wearing it; and last but not least, make a gingerbread mansion (not a house, a mansion!) with all the bells and whistles. I was thinking two floor, gingerbread mezzanine.
So if anyone wants to make a gingerbread house or make Dom a disgustingly ugly hat in my honour, go right ahead.
[Dom Munroe.]
[Inevitably, though, there is business to attend to. Lengthy pause before continuing her scrawl aside, the ghost buckles down. This is what they do; let each other know the score, so they can tally up the ever-growing odds against them. Same old, same old.]
I've got news. Not good stuff, mind you.
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