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Messages - Agnes Ogden

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1949 / Re: Quidditch Game Three - Acromantula Vs. Thestral
« on: 12/27/2016 at 17:26 »

One moment she was bargaining away the Snitch, and the next she was being approached by her captain, Zak, a....batter?  she was fairly sure it was batter...for the team.  Agnes gulped--this was it, the end--for her, at least, for as the boy streaked toward her in the darkness, only noticeable by the way the soft night's light reflected off the apples of his cheeks, she was sure he was coming to take her out of the game.  While she knew little about the sport on her own, she knew plenty about the seriousness of it from Tennessee, whom she could swear she remembered swearing at the score-box in the papers on more than one occasion.

"Look," she said, drawling and drawing herself around to face the boy.  "I didn't mean nothing--"

But before she could bleat out the rest of her excuse--not her apology, for she had no intention of apologizing for what she firmly believed was sound and fair logic--he was raising his hands to her not in anger but in....offering?

Zak Weiland was giving Agnes Ogden his damned sweater.

She could feel it--that furious sort of red, hot and angry, on her cheeks at first but then extending to flush across her freckled forehead and on to the tips of her ears.  A feeling something like nervousness swelled at the place between her stomach and her heart, somehow both pleasantly and unpleasantly hollow.

"I--well--you--" the girl stammered, hands floating for a moment away from the broom to gesture uselessly between her chest and the boy's.  "Aw, hell," she said next, for the broom vibrated violently and jerked her to the left, threatening to unseat her; she corrected it the best she could, drawing a little closer to Zak in the process.  More tentatively now and clinging tight to the blasted broom as she could with her inner thighs, Agnes reached out with one hand, taking the sweater from her captain.

In her hands, it was still warm, and--with much awkward shimmying and with at least one near unseating--she tugged it over her head; with it, she pulled the scent of the woods over her, too, pine-heavy, a little like dirt and sweat, wholly something natural and yet foreign on her own frame.  Her outdoors was the garden or else the river, but this decidedly deep like a forest, wild and new, untameable, masculine.

The red of her cheeks darkened two shades to a violent sort of crimson, and she was flooded with a sort of warmth that had little to do with knitted garments.

"Thanks," she said smally, smiling, and then she took off too search for the Snitch again.

1949 / Re: is it too late to make one of these?
« on: 12/24/2016 at 04:49 »
This is my current favorite cat gif, which is important:

You're very brave for liking snow that much; send some down here.  I also have the a problem when it comes to re-reading old favorite books...and a slow and fickle muse.

Also cat x infinity, which is also important.

Agnes is also halfblooded and American (though she struggles with yanks), and also a hopeful Ravenclaw.  I would really like to thread together when you're muse is in good shape.  Get at meeeeee.

Like a river rolling over rocks, his voice lulled.

Again, Agnes went stock-still like the motion of her might frighten him. In triplicate she blinked at him, holding the breath she had sucked in at the sound of him hard in her chest.  It strained and stung but she in her stillness persevered.

It had been a long time since she had heard the sound of home, and from it she put the sum of his parts together.  His voice held more rs in it, ending words they should where hers fell off, and the vowels of him, though round, were not so rounded as her own; that put him further up the coast, perhaps amid the snow-capped Smokeys or offshoots thereof.  There was something in the furrow of his eyebrow that painted him a creative, for only one who made art could have such a deeply defined worry line, and Agnes knew from his curls that he was a poet, for they were the sort of brown curls that poets always seemed to be possessed of--as if some far-off and largely absent god made all poets’ curls brown for their universality but also for their poetically defiant plainness.

And he was reading Faulkner, beside.

“Oh,” she said, and then, “well.

Somewhere in the glowing center of herself, she recognized that this was an Experience.

Her hands poured out a whiskey, rockless unlike his voice, neat and tidy unlike the thoughts racing through her head.  The cut glass clanked as she placed it against the bar, her fingers not leaving it until they had slid it almost to bump against the cream canvas binding of his book.  There they let go, and there too they started to itch, to tingle, to seek out--and when they did this, as such, they were only ever in search of a pencil with which to write.  The ancient grandfather clock set in the corner--a relic of the time The Hind had been a house and not the slip of a pub it was--struck out seven bells and, with nothing more than a nod to the man who had stoked it within her, Agnes turned and left the book, its man, The Hind to write.

Agnes was washing her hands when she saw him, her hands wringing neatly together in the hot suds of the wash basin, sore slightly in the tips of their fingers from the scrubbing of the distant-relation glasses, now stacked together beneath the counter as neatly as she wrung her hands.  Her hands were thin little things but they were strong, as equally suited to books and letters as to soil and spirits, and it was a lucky thing, too, the way things were, and--well, she was washing her hands when she saw him, her hands that were thin as they were strong, and if it hadn’t been for Harold rolling through and her turning out of the way she would have missed him entirely.

So she had turned to the right, out of the way of Harold and his tray for Old Orel, and she saw it before she saw him--the title, just some words, stark and black on gentle cream canvas: The Sound and the Fury.  Like she might frighten the binding away, Agnes went very still, deer-like, her hands still too and still plunged into the wash basin’s warm suds.  Her gaze shifted slowly, skillfully up, brown eyes working over the arm that held it--wiry in musculature, salt peppered in with the pepper-colored hair that wove across it.  They skipped on, her eyes on his arm, to a blue sky button-front rolled to the sleeves, torn once and small at the elbow, on up to a shoulder that might have been broad in youth but was now somewhat hollow, a neck also woven with salt-and-pepper scruff, attached to a head with the usual mouth and nose and brown eyes that were, like her stillness, deer-like, all of it surrounded in brown curls.


She hadn’t heard the order because orders to her were background noise, especially in the presence of one such as William in a place such as, of all places, Bantry.  She moved again, also deer-like, which is to say in an unexpected and sudden burst: hands, dripping with now rapidly cooling suds, stopped wringing themselves in the wash basin and started to wring themselves once, twice, three times and fast on the bottom of her apron, and then legs lept also into motion, springing her forward until the middle of her rested against the bar just in front of and to the side of the book and the man to which it was attached.

“You know he got it from that Shakespeare play,” her mouth said before she meant for it to--an unusual occurrence, but she was overcome in the moment.  “The title, that is.”


-kisses u-

1949 / Re: Quidditch Game Three - Acromantula Vs. Thestral
« on: 12/23/2016 at 19:28 »

Of course it was this game of all games that Agnes had decided--on a whim, no less--to play.

Beneath her, the loaned broom rumbled--yes, rumbled, for there was no other words for what the beast of a broom was doing.  It was almost audible, so violent was its shaking; her cheeks itched from the motion of it, and if her mind drifted for a moment--and, she would be the first to tell you, over the last six hours, it had--the vibration of the thing threatened to unseat her.  On at least a few occasions, the young Ogden had almost lost her grip on the thing, and it was only by the grace of God that she had found it in her to cling tight enough to the broom’s handle to stay upright.

Through her hair (which was too short to tie back), the midnight air whipped, sending it to snap against the sides of her face.  It didn’t do much to help with the itching of her cheeks; she was sure by tomorrow (today, she reminded herself, for it was tomorrow) they’d be an angry sort of red if they weren’t already.  From her chest, she heaved a sigh, one hand finding the bravery to reach up and rub her right cheek.

She paid for it, of course--no sooner had her hand left the broom did it veer sharply to the left, dropping in an instant several feet downward.

“Oh, damn your eyes,” she huffed at the old monster, hand gripping its hold hard.

It was the fasted of the loaner brooms, which was why she had chosen it, but why she had chosen to play...well, that was another issue entirely.  Even then, during hour six of the blasted game, she couldn’t give a straight answer for why.  Sports of any flavor had never been her thing, least of all Quidditch which was far too fast to be sensible.  It was more Tennessee’s business, and perhaps that was why she had signed herself up--to prove to her brother that she could play--or perhaps it was for the sake of writing for, while the game never featured prominently in her prose, when it did she felt it was woefully lacking in realism.  Most likely, she could only blame it on the follies of youth for, though she had never played a lick in her life, she found herself made Seeker of the…..some magical beast which she couldn’t remember at the moment.

“I could use a sweater, I reckon,” she shouted at Zak as she rumbled past him, sparing him a quick, brown-eyed look before bringing her focus front and center again.  With a turn of her wrists, she tried the loop the beast around the outside of the...Quidditch….yard (she was sure there was a name for it, but she was not at all as sure as to what it was).

By this time, it was not even the small gold ball--the Snitch, that she knew--she looked for; the game had gone so long and the night grown so dark that she had given up.  She was sharp of eye (a blessing, for writers should be, lest they forever be squinting off after something), but in the unseasonably cool gloom of the night, with something so small...well, there was a reason the game had run so long, and she was fairly certain it wasn’t the other team’s Seeker.

“All right, Sylvia,” she sighed to the girl in question, rumbling up as close as she felt comfortable getting on a broom such as the one beneath her. “I got an idea.”

She had--it had come to her slowly over six hours, and she wished she had thought of it so much sooner (or that she had a less violent broom, or that she hadn’t signed up to play Quidditch in the first place, but hind sight, as they say, was twenty-twenty)--and it was this:

“I’ll help you look for the little old thing, so as at least one of us can catch the damned thing finally and it’ll be over.”

Just how treasonous an offer that was, Agnes Ogden did not realize.

Past Workshop Prompts / PROMPT 1: The Hind, Revisited
« on: 12/22/2016 at 18:32 »
The Hind was only a slip of a pub--a pub because the people of the town willed it to be, poured their bodies and their small coin into it with the expectation that libations would, in turn, pour out for them.  At some point along the line, it had worked; space taken and money invested had transformed alchemically into liquor and so too had the house turned into not a house but The Hind and a slip of a pub it was, but that had been long before the girl’s time, certainly on this soil but on any other soil as well.

It was also where the girl--the real girl, the corporeal one, who had no capitals other than the a and the m and the o of Agnes Marie Ogden--worked, the soil where today her feet rooted, or at least for the next five minutes until the clock struck seven and her shift was over.

“Head’s up, Harold,” she said, sliding past him--a slip of the girl not unlike The Hind was a slip of a pub, especially in comparison to Harold who was as wide and as billowing as a steam engine.  In her hands, she held a clutch of cups (and none of them seemed to match, not identically, as if they were all distant cousins and married-in aunt instead of the sort of central family one expected from glasses at bars) ready for the wash, and with those hands she plunged them into the wash basin--the sort of instillation every pub, slip or not, seemed to have, full of warm water and suds and glasses piling up and waiting to be washed.

There was nothing at all--not the steady and practiced and patient movement of her hands over cut glass in the wash basin, not the clatter of Harold coming to life to pull an order out for Old Orel in the corner nor the steam-like sigh he exhaled for having to do it, not even the sleepy, stretching-out Hind itself with its comfortable grays and warm, stale air--that hinted that the next five minutes might be anything other than ordinary.

1949 / Re: Prophets and Saints {Agnes}
« on: 12/21/2016 at 03:56 »
VII: The Chariot.  Again.

This time it had deck-jumped on her.  Her hands, minding their own business and shuffling carefully through the cards in a way so familiar it was almost mechanical, had snatched it from the air only minutes ago now--mid-shuffle, it had sprung out and away from the deck, leaping lapward before she even had the good grace to put her hands to reading.

Presently, she sat poolside--a place she had found over the course of the summer to be often empty, particularly at early evening hours (perhaps on account of the less than subtle smell of the pool’s namesake residents, perhaps losing out to more savory sorts of solitary spaces)--her cards in her lap save for the one, The Chariot again, pinched between her thumb and the side of her middle finger with the right edge of the cardstock resting against her index.  She regarded the card the same way she often regarded her brother, Tennessee, which was as if to ask in a perpetual loop how in the name of the Lord do you have the nerve to do such a thing as this?  The Chariot, of course, did not answer, but rather stayed there perched in her fingers, defiant.

Agnes squinted at it as if somehow the act of it could extract something new, something else from the card.  It had been somewhat of a haunt these long summer days, showing up suddenly and out of pattern in her readings.  She squinted at it, at its unrelenting earth tones, at the calm chaos of it and its angry yellow dust clouds, at the place where the would-be driver stood not on a chariot but on the dust clouds themselves, his feet groundless and his hands, reins held within them, useless, and she wondered why it was the Chariot again that was leaping out at her.

There was no answer, none that she hadn’t gone over in her head and in her notes what felt like a hundred times; she huffed out a breath, the motion of it sending the card to dance and tug in her fingers, and had just made to shuffle it back into her deck when someone--a girl--arrived.

Someone was always arriving here and typically the second to youngest Ogden girl could be found in good humor for the welcoming of company, and she would have then but for these contributing factors:  one, the tone of voice that reached her ears was sewn up with a smugness so thick it was like to sin; two, it was on about her cards, as it seemed damned near everyone in the forsaken camp had been at some point or another; three, The Chariot, luckless number seven, was poised in her fingertips--again--still not quite shuffled back into the cards that rested in her lap.

In a swift motion, she scooped them up, and just as quickly folded the seventh card back among them.

“If it were such a strength,” she said, and her voice was not cold because it teemed with the true heat of a Southern summer, a sort of humidity, but neither was it wholly kind.  “You’d know it ain’t much to do with playing,” she said, and she tried to weight the word like Rhett might, for, for all his faults, he could do beautiful and terrible things with tone.  “I read,” she said, correcting.

A beat, and her hands turned, separated, squared, turned out to shuffle.

“Why should I read for you?”

1949 / Re: she pretends [dorian]
« on: 12/21/2016 at 02:47 »


Well.  As a word it was, for the girl at least, a phrase unto itself, split under the weight of her accent into two syllables, the sound of a h added to the first, the second always drawn a little longer than was sensible.  It was a phrase unto itself because she willed it to be so, sometimes a knowing commentary, sometime a replacement for a shrug of the shoulders she was too tired to make or a roll of the eyes she was too polite to perform; in this case it was a sort of filler, a sound to take up space because she felt like there should be something and was not graceful enough to suss out the right words for it.

Agnes watched the sigh as it moved from the boy’s chest and out, watched the way it made the weight of his camera shift as it strained delicately on its strap.  Merpeople.  It was something she was still getting used to, the common use of such words first off, but more so that there was daily cause for it.  Her understanding of magic--and therefore the magical world, for even for all her imagination she could only define it through her experience, the things onto which she had placed her own hands, the way they worked and the tasks they performed--was much more organic, bore out of need and not want and with function favored over form, and was perhaps therefore smaller than the one she had encountered on this side of the ocean or at least this neck of the woods.  She used her cards because somewhere along the line some ancient Ogden-adjacent individual had used them to plan planted fields and because it made it easier for her to plan her own forays into the city; she worked among the buds and roots in the garden because it was more cost effective to tend plants daily than it was to pay a doctor for a house visit--and because there was something delightfully and magically mundane about it, the ability to coax life from seed and soil alone.

Here, however, there were merpeople and magic was better off thought of with a capital M, maybe--Magic.  Her brown eyes watched still the motion of the camera, how carefully yet precariously it was hung from the thin neck of the boy, and it dawned on her that the camera, too, was likely Magical.


“Oh, just some old drivel,” was what she was writing and was therefore what she answered for; her hand flipped through the air dismissively and then moved to close her board-bound notebook.  It was true--already the words she had written were sliding away from her, taking on a tainted sort of garish gray as they did; she’d likely not read them again at all.  Her gaze slipped from camera to boy again.  “But tell me--”

Quickly, she tried to recall a name but could not for the life of her match any to the face before her.  She omitted it.

“Does that camera make moving pictures?”

She saw them, on occasion, blinking up at her from the mess hall tables where they were left so often and so carelessly behind with the breakfast dishes.

“The kind you see in the papers?”

1949 / Re: haunted waters || A. Ogden
« on: 12/21/2016 at 00:14 »

As if waiting to have been triggered by something as such, Agnes’s writer’s brain whirred to life at the line to go on the run; her eyes, brown and plain, regarded him for the first real time and with a new sort of curiosity, from her periphery at first and then full-on with the turn of her head.  He didn’t look the sort to go on the run--with his too-big shorts that were less shocking in the skin they showed now than they had been when she first saw him, and the easy look of his face like he could as simply be sleeping as he was sitting--but, she supposed, she, Agnes, did not look at first sight like she might know how to fish or be from a family where she was one of eight children.  Still, she studied his features and decided they looked all together not-sinister-enough to go on the run, family of course not withstanding (and she knew more than most that family was a wild card always).

But then he was offering to take her camping, and again the girl closed off, her eyes falling back to the lake and to the slow creeping of her bobber across its surface.  Even under the experienced guidance of her hand, still working slow and relentless at the reel, the damn thing didn’t bob once under the soft waves.  It didn’t still her effort, however, and it seemed now to double as her eyes searched out anything to hold them other than the brazen boy beside her.  Her hand began to dance just-so, coaxing from the line the same sort of calculated jerking, and she knew that below the fly would be doing the same.

Back home, boys never--spare her own brothers, who were questionable, to say the least--spoke to a girl as this one did to her now.  Last year, when she had been at school, she had kept mostly to herself, falling only ever in the company of a few gentlemen and they had been that, by and large--gentlemen.  But this one--Briar, he introduced himself...well, this one, she decided, with his running and his less-than-veiled coyness and his exposed knees, was suited to his name.

“Nice to meet you,” she lulled, because even startled she was still not without her manners.

Again, her line found itself reeled all in, and for habit and for something to do she cast it out again.  What was she meant to do, then?  For once, she wished for the sort of easy grace Tennessee always carried himself with socially, the ease that allowed him to switch from jovial joking to serious conversation and back with very little effort and even less pause.  She’d even take Rhett’s uncaring now, over what she felt, which was a mix of uncomfortable and guilt for feeling uncomfortable.  Her hand turned because it was mechanical and that, for the Ogden girl, was easy, but her mind reeled off as a pregnant sort of silence fell over the lagoon and the two perched beside it, one sitting and one standing.

It was so much easier, when she was writing this sort of thing--and even as she stood and turned her line over and over, bobber useless and still in the water, she acknowledged that this would be a lovely sort of scene, if written under her hand--because then she could edit, and she could erase delicately or else rip and crumble and toss violently away pages, and she could start over or move things or shape the fabric of reality as only a writer could.  Standing there, she found herself unfit to deal with the scene in the flesh, where neither tact nor time were on her side.

“You always this forward, then?”

Those were the words she decided on, because it wasn’t Tennessee ease or Rhett’s uncaring that were hers but rather the sort of uncouth frankness belonged only to Agnes.  Her line reeled in and she cast it out again, backtracking some.

“When you first meet a lady, that is.”

1949 / Re: Quidditch Game 2 Activity Check!
« on: 12/20/2016 at 03:46 »

Summer Quidditch Sign-Up

Agnes Marie Ogden

   Year & Age: Fifth? Fifteen?
   Basilisk or Pesky Pixies: Perhaps something respectable, like a grebe.
   First Position: Something laid-back, please?  Seeker?  Keeper?

   Second Position: Literally anything but chaser.

   Have you played before: I've never even heard of Quidditch before????

1949 / Re: Down The Falls | Agnes
« on: 12/20/2016 at 01:24 »
“Well, I never…”

One eyebrow rose very far indeed up the girl’s pale forehead, disappearing beneath the line of her bangs.  A Yank, why, in her household that was like to a swear word, spared only for the fussy sort of out-of-towner city types you found in certain parts of the Savannah, or for particularly unkind playground battles.

“No,” Agnes said simply, not sure if the boy had some cheek to him or was simply stupid.  “No, I ain’t.”

(That the word might mean anything different to him escaped her.)

Still, he meant well (or so she damned well hoped) and she only had dreadful Potions otherwise, so she resisted the sudden urge to push him into the lazy river herself and instead refitted her smile politely in place.  She was, after all, a Southerner; she, unlike some, had manners.

But she also had limits and, quite physically, the boy was approaching one of them.

“You’ve got the be kidding me,” she said, taking a few tentative steps closer.  “You don’t mean to jump off that old mess, surely?”

(She was fairly sure he did.)

1949 / Re: Getting a Read | Agnes
« on: 12/20/2016 at 01:00 »
“What in the--”

It was Adrian's hands she watched then and less Adrian himself--the way they prodded and coaxed and propped and stuffed and pleaded, trying to harass the door into opened compliance.  Why, he had even gone so far as to shove a book into the open maw of it, an act that found Agnes in spite of herself shaking her head slow and disbelieving.  Why, for the love of all things, he was so intent on bullying the thing was beyond her.

Then it dawned on her slowly, washing over her in a nervous, cold wave and settling like a flight of birds behind her ribcage with the sound of a great and sighing oh.  Oh, and a swell of warmth rose in her cheeks, turning them what would be a violent sort of rouge that she knew from years of experience would flush to extend all the up to the tips of her ears.  Oh, and her hands darted to the pockets of her dress, jetted into them like rats retreating down their holes, clenching and unclenching there as if the pressure of her own fingers could rend something different out of the situation.

“Oh,” and her mouth formed the round shape of it, quiet-like.  “Well.”

Adrian said something--about being a counselor, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure, for her own mind was at work hard and fast about what this must look like--why, if she herself was that mournful old door, yawning and groaning, the things she’d think of the pair of them now.  What Adrian himself must think!  Why, she would never--which is to say, well, not that she hadn’t thought--but it was simply--

“Naw, I’ll go on standing,” she bleated out a little too high, just a hair off and up the scale from her usual lulling alto.  Her hands whipped out from her pockets to clutch themselves together at her front, holding a little too hard to accomplish the casual look she had hoped for.  Her weight, not unlike Adrian's had, shifted senselessly from one foot to another.  Her head nodded on its shoulders, a little too vigorously to be the polite sort of listening she usually spared for the boy.  It took much more effort than it should have to hear each of his words, for her own brown eyes seemed to dart often to the door, now blessing the book that served to hold it open.

“Oh, I right like it here,” she said, still just a fraction higher than she should have sounded.  “Though I do worry after my chickens.  Rhett said he’d keep ‘em but he’s never been a man of his word, and Ida can only do so much on her own.”

A beat too late, she realized she was babbling.  There had been a reason she had come here, why against her sensible sensibilities she had let herself in like she belonged here, and her fingers clasped before her wrang themselves together as if the turning motion would draw that reason back to her.  She shifted, and her corner of her deck poked against her hip.

Oh.  Agnes took a breath, shifted where she stood, and steadied herself some.

“I’m glad you’re handling the strains of the job well,” Agnes said, her voice back to its usual register.  She did care for him, after all, and she remembered now that it was this caring that had brought her along in the first place.  “I just wanted--Adrian, how are you doing?”

Another pause, another shift though this one slighter, and she fitted him with what she hoped was a meaningful sort of look, equal parts care and comfort, like chicken and dumplings but brown-eyed.

“Your true-self, not just your counselor-self.”

1949 / Re: ashes and dirt | agnes
« on: 12/19/2016 at 22:40 »
“Of course I’m Agnes.”

And it was--Agnes, of course, coming with slow and measured steps to the window by the red front door.  In one hand was balanced a cup of coffee--black, for there had been no need for pretense this morning and therefore no need for cream or sugar or even paltry milk--and in the other was clutched her notebook, the same one which she always carried: a plain board binding, stitched likely in some anonymous factory by some autonomous machine.

Icarus Argabright--and his damned cat in a dress beside--was hanging around again.

The Ogden girl in her flower-printed dress and brown oxfords perched on the seat of a spindly stool and her notebook came to rest upon the stout table by the window of the toadstood.  The toadstood.  Agnes shook her head, careful that the motion of it didn’t spill her coffee, and if she had had more than a tentative pursed-lipped sup of it for flavor before she had left the mess hall she would have laughed at the absurdity of it--of the toadstool and the boy beneath its window and the damned cat and all of it--but it had only been a tiny little swig she had taken of the coffee just for taste, so shaking her head was all she could do.

“And you’re lucky off for it, too,” she chided, drawing up closer to the window sill, a bony elbow bending to rest there.  Her other hand, careful still to guard against spills, lifted her hot drink up and to her lips, where she sipped much less delicately.  “Any other of these old girls come up to some boy outside their cabin and they’d have been callin’ a counselor quicker than nobody’s business.”

Any of these other old girls, Agnes conceded to herself, sipping her coffee, other than that red-headed Ava one, for it was she who had Icarus tomcatting around the way he had been all summer.

And yet still Agnes had not called the counselor this mid-morning, nor had she called the counselor any of the other nights or afternoons or whathaveyous that she found him hanging around, with his cat or with his guitar or with any matter of little whirring metal things and always with that red-headed girl.  Usually, she would just turn right around square on her heel and head elsewhere--to find Tennessee and give him a good ribbing, or suss out some less bare corner of camp to read a book--but today he was alone with none but that cat to keep him company and nary a bag or book elsewise in sight, sprawled out under her window.  With another sip of her coffee, she tilted forward on the fulcrum of her elbow some, brown eyes gazing out of the window at down, regarding him the way she might regard a neighborhood stray in absence of his usual feeder.

He--and that cat again beside--was a mess.

“Icarus Argabright,” she said, and if he couldn’t see her still (who knew; she did not) he could certainly hear the shake of her head in her voice, half amused, a quarter exasperated, the rest again with the sort of regard one spares for a particularly amiable stray.  “Where, for the love of all things Holy, are your damned shoes?”

1949 / Re: desperate times [charlotte]
« on: 12/12/2016 at 23:10 »
Agnes raised an eyebrow at Charlie, and it was as if the motion of it pulled the rest of her head up along for the ride, cocking it to the side.  More specific, she had said.  More specific, they always seemed to say--at least, all of them here.  Back home in the superstitious South, she had never faced half the need for specificity in fourteen years as she had here in going-on-two.  There, there had been an easy understanding for the subtleties of her work, an agreement that the future was not science but art, and that reading of it was (certainly in her mind, at least) more akin to literature than research papers.

“All right, though,” she said, the though mostly for herself and only in part relenting to the girl in the grass with her.  Her finger ticked out a tapping sound on the top of her cards, a sort of motion to fill space and to set the movement of her mind straight and even again.  “More specific it is.”

With a final tap, she turned another card.

The Ten of Cups, Reversed, laid slightly left-skewed and on the left side.  X: Fortune, Reversed, also skewed to the left but placed to the right.  XI: Justice, Reversed, rail-straight and below.  The Eight of Coins, Reversed, slanted slightly to the right and placed above it all.

“Well, well, well” she sighed, disyllabic and South-soaked and in triplicate.

Brown eyes scanned the spread, falling first on the Ten, the cups upturned and floating, somehow still holding their contents.  There was something holding her back, keeping the other girl from letting go, but for now she held onto it willingly.  Just as quick, her eyes flashed to her right, to the bare and upended feet of Fortune, her world of golden Fate circling off-kilter around her, taken by the wind of the gathering storm behind her.  It would cost her, this need for distance, but even this she clung to, as if it would be easier to maintain the space than to allow others close enough to threaten the balance she controlled. Again, Agnes’s eyes shifted, this time down to Justice, her eyes brazen and exposed in an unusual twist of the symbol.  A bias clouded Charlie’s judgement, and from the straight and true placement of the card on the handkerchief, it could only be in reference to a matter of self.  She sifted then to the Eight of Coins, its reversal echoing the same gravity of success or failure that the Ten of Cups had, but the duality of the art and the artist added a layer of identity that sat awkwardly in Agnes’s stomach, creating a hollow, lonesome sort of feeling.

Was it precise?  Not in such a singular word, no. And yet still...

“You know,” she said, straightening--and she had to pull herself further upward than she thought she would; though her examination of the cards had hardly lasted a minute, she had sunk quite low to meet them.  Her eyes lifted to Charlotte’s, brown searching hazel matter-of-factly and with thin eyebrows pinching together.  For a moment she considered the girl, and then she settled something within her own chest.

“You’re right,” she relented.  “I just ain’t got the details you need here.”

1949 / Re: Down The Falls | Agnes
« on: 12/12/2016 at 19:25 »
“You don’t know hot, bless your heart.”

On this point, Agnes would not relent--even as she spoke the words, the sound of her voice reinforced it.  Her accent, she felt, was a product unique to the heat of the South, syllables drawn out slow and easy as if to move as little as possible in the unrelenting humidity of her homeland.  She shook her head at the boy, and had she been the eye-rolling variety she might have done that as well, but she wasn’t, and she was looking for an out, beside.

It was for this reason that she came to close her book, tucking her pages on notes neatly into the spine as a place marker and carefully placing its canvas cover onto the cool grass.

“But is is hot enough, I reckon.”

Only very seldom did Agnes give in to her less practical whims--she had The Girl for that, and her imagination--but the drudgery of Potions study and perhaps the looming threat of O.W.L.s, which she was told were a sort of standard measure of learning, was off-putting enough that she favored the offered option over the more sensible one.  Pushing herself up from the ground, she dusted off her behind, brown eyes scanning the lazy river.  It looked a little fast-moving for any sort of real swimming (it was, after all, moving in to the waterfall), and though she was well-practiced herself, she wasn’t sure of the boy’s skills in the water.

“Is there a swimming hole up river some or something?”

Freestyle Archives / Re: thicker than water | agnes o.
« on: 12/12/2016 at 18:12 »
Agnes laughed.

If she had been then one to write down the way she did it, she would have written it something like this:

The Girl laughed, and it pulled out of her like teeth--extracted, sort of cutting, a little short in the center and jagged at the edges--and fell onto the floor with a hollow sound like breaking porcelain.

But she wasn’t (Agnes never wrote around Tennessee; she knew better than that), so it was just a strange sort of laugh, markedly different from the regular round sound of her usual laughter or the snorting, half-frustrated sort that her brother usually prompted.

“Oh, Lord,” she said, and there was that same breaking quality to her words too.  “Bless Joycelynn’s heart.”

The eldest of the Ogdens on the train, for all Agnes knew, had skittered off somewhere to find her own well-appointed compartment, to lavish on her own plush seat, for in her opinion this was the sort of place Joycelynn might lavish.  It made Agnes herself feel a bit like she was being strangled, and she was still laughing beside.

And then the train, accompanied with the high thrill of whistles and a plume of white steam, lurched beneath her like some large and angry iron animal, and the sound (broken though it was) stopped in her throat.  Agnes sucked in a breath, brown eyes wheeling wildly to her brother.

“Tennessee,” she said, pleading and like prayer.

50/50 Addie/Jere split typically, though I feel about 70/30 in favor of Addie right now.

You know I firmly believe you're an actual super hero, right?
You might think that I am joking but I am very, very serious.

Did someone say mediocre boybands?  This was mine:

1949 / Re: dust on the bible | tennessee ogden
« on: 12/11/2016 at 15:09 »

Agnes Ogden - Fifth(?) - Unsorted - yer sister!

"Ugly duckling" my big toe, you old rat!  Get back here or I'mma snatch a knot in your tail!

there was a man The Girl had once met--a boy, really, with hair like wheat and eyes like mossy stones, and he went by the name of Kentucky.  he was a terrible thing, if she was to be honest, and it was her business, being honest; more trouble than he was worth, more noise than should be allowed, more transient even than she herself was.  Still, Kentucky told a story better than any in the tri-county area, and when he told a story he really told it the way it should be told, with the waving of hands and voices when they were needed and a small change for the better every time.  he could throw a fast curve ball beside, and was, god love him, a good enough time that she liked Kentucky when he was good and stomached him well enough when he wasn't, just awating for the good times again.
--a.m.o. on a boy The Girl once met, called Kentucky.

1949 / Re: in the hot blind earth | agnes ogden
« on: 12/10/2016 at 20:34 »
follow-ups sent
PMs have been sent to those of you that I'm not already plotting or threading with.  Each of you is terribly lovely and I'm thrilled to be writing together.

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