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Topics - Agnes Ogden

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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.

2
1949 / she pretends [dorian]
« on: 12/06/2016 at 18:29 »
Beneath her, the train rumbled sleepily over the tracks--the sort of tired motion that grows so familiar that you hardly notice it, but The Girl noticed it; it was her business, after all, noticing things.

Out of the window, she watched the hills meander by, lazy and languid and stretching out endlessly.  She had never been to this part of Tennessee before, would never see it again, but for the moment, she loved those hills and lived within them.  The train rumbled, and it pulled into a dozing tunnel as sleepy as the motion of it, and from its walls yellow lights blinked between the bar separating upper window from lower.  The Girl opened the window, her thin, strong fingers tugging on the flattened handle and sliding it to with a scraping sound.  The scent of the damp, hot earth filled up the train car and filled up The Girl and she lived in it, too.


Without her permission, her hand stopped and rose, the right hand that had only just been sending a pencil flying across lined notebook paper coming suddenly to clutch at her chest.  A sense of longing, lonesome and all-encompassing, overcame her, grabbing at the string of her heart and pulling them down to the pit of her stomach to fester.  Drawing in a sharp breath, she shook her head; she hadn’t even put the girl back home--not all the way, for she knew better than to do so on a summer day such as it was, all dry and disappointing--but borrowing its scent had done it.

Agnes missed Savannah in the acute and final way she might have missed a friend who had died, or worse and more accurately still, the way she might miss a friend who had not died but rather had moved away across the ocean and forgotten to write.  She sniffed, trying to recall the smell she had written--that earthen, humid smell so unique to her native South, like Spanish moss and heat--but was met only with the boggy, cold sort of smell of the lagoon.  Against this, too, she shook her head, her hand (pencil still lighted between her fingers) falling down to her notebook again.  It was useless, and she knew it; she had been gone too long--two years--and she worried she was forgetting the important parts of it.

Blessing her notes, stacked in piles at the bottom of her trunk, she crossed out what she had written and began again.

She had never been to this part of France before, would never see it again--

A clicking sound or a scratching sound reached her ears; she couldn’t discern which and did not particularly care, for she had found a flow and intended to stay with it.  A beat passed, and then another, and finally she spoke, her pencil still scratching across the page.

“Hold on,” she said.  “I’m writing.”

3
1949 / in the hot blind earth | agnes ogden
« on: 12/03/2016 at 18:58 »
Agnes Ogden
unsorted - faeries - halfblood - the south
“I don’t see why you’d rightly bother.”
-Agnes, on the subject of Agnes

Don’t ask Agnes about the subject of Agnes; you’ll never get a straight answer.  Don’t ask Opal, either, because she’ll just tell you her second-to-youngest sister is a no-good and dumber than a bag of nickles beside.  And certainly don’t ask Rhett; wiser minds don’t trust a thing Rhett ever says.

If you want the truth about Agnes, it’s best to ask Ida.

If you asked Ida about Agnes, Ida would tell you that she is a gentle girl even though the way she talks would make you think otherwise.  That she’s different, true; that no one else sees the world quite like her Agnes does, and that it’s in her writing that you see it best.  There’s more working behind her brown eyes than you’d think, Ida would say, and no amount of hiding behind her tarot cards or in one of her books could ever fully disguise it.  Ida would tell you that Agnes was good, and that you should certainly--despite her protests--bother.

Will you?


Agnes is Southern, Romantic, introspective, internal, a believer, a writer, a reader, streaked with a line of sass wide as the savannah river, observant, self-indulgent, guilt-riddled, a practitioner of the softer magics, a reveler in the mundane, made of water, a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.  She is probably a Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, or Slytherin, and a fifth year, and is definitely a INTP-T (The Logician) and true to her birth cards, XVII The Star and VIII Strength.

Agnes can be found outside and usually in a garden, giving tarot readings or privately consulting her cards, in some holed-up place alone and writing, in the library, or arguing with her siblings.

Agnes needs friends, enemies, rivals, kindred spirits, drama and angst, love interests.


code by the lovely ronnie jay
"i feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth."


Code: [Select]
[center][div style="width:400px; height:300px; font-family:times; text-align:justify; color:black;"][div style="float:right; width:280px; color:tan; font-family:windsong; font-size:48px; border-bottom:7px double #00004d; text-align:right; padding:10px;"][b]Name Here[/b][/div][div style="float:right; width:300px; color:tan; font-size:10px; border-bottom:2px solid #00004d; text-align:right; height:15px; text-transform:uppercase;"][i][b]HOUSE - CAMP - BLOOD - ORIGIN[/b][/i][/div][div style="float:right; margin-top:5px; width:300px; height:120px; overflow-y:auto;"]words and plots and such here!!![/div][/center]
"some days in late august at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar..."

4
1949 / desperate times [charlotte]
« on: 12/03/2016 at 01:02 »
“All right there, Charlie, plop yourself on down.”

Agnes had, her behind resting on the dense grass at the edge of a large wheat field.  In front of her, she had just set out and smoothed down a cloth.  It was thin and light, woven of pale blue cotton and printed with miniature white and yellow flowers, their dark green stems fading from age. Once, the fabric had another life as a dress the girl herself had worn--several summers before now, when she had been eleven and when she had been in the land of amber, waving grains--but had long since been cut into squares for rags.

Onto this surface, she turned out her cards, giving them a tap against the ground before collecting them again.  With a turn of her thumbs, she sent them shuffling; their worn and cracking stock did not protest, but arched gracefully in her hands.  Her nails were trimmed, unpainted atop her fingers, and in them she held a mission.

Charlotte Marin had told her that her cards were “imprecise” and she had set the both of them down to prove to her otherwise.

“Go on now,” she said, flipping the cards again before holding them out to the girl.  Typically, she let no one else touch her cards--not these ones, particularly, because of her two decks this was her most true, and she did not want to lose the feel they had for each other--but desperate times, as they said, called for desperate measures.  “Cut ‘em.  Twice for all I care. To your precise heart’s content.”

Her tone was not unkind, but as they said--desperate times.  Agnes raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll take ‘em back when you’re done.  I’ll wait.”

5
Hi, I’m Agnes but you can call me Princess Pringles.  Just kidding, don’t actually call me that, it’s what I call the possum who lives in the front ditch.

*not actually the princess herself but she is a survivor.

+I AM a Sagittarius with Cancer ascendant and moon in Cancer, an ENFP, not a Slytherin, and my birth cards are XVI: The Tower and VII: The Chariot which fit me more perfectly than I am comfortable admitting.

+I AM CURRENTLY READING Stories of the Modern South to study for Agnes (see below).  I’m contemplating a re-read of As I Lay Dying for the same reason, but also The Slow Regard of Silent Things because it’s writing goals.

+I AM CURRENTLY WATCHING...if I am going to be honest, the last thing I watched on Netflix was ... 72 Cutest Animals.

+I AM CURRENTLY PLAYING Pokemon Moon and reveling in giving my team members names like Mickey Bu Bu, That Pink Guy, and Jessica.

+I AM CURRENTLY LISTENING TO “Damn Shame” by Jolie Holland.

I AM CURRENTLY WRITING a girl called Agnes Ogden.  She’s fifteen, unsorted but I suspect anything but Hufflepuff, and from Savannah, Georgia.  She likes to work in the garden, consults her tarot cards more than she should for more reasons than she should, and fancies herself a writer.  She will be played as having been at Hogwarts last term, so let’s create some history together.  I am currently building a kingdom of ruin around her and I humbly ask you to consider joining it.

You all seem so lovely and I can’t wait to write together.

Love,
Agnes/Princess Pringles (still not really, though)

6
1949 / research [pearce]
« on: 12/01/2016 at 00:15 »
Slowly, she poured her second cup of coffee, careful not to spill a drop even when she lifted the carafe from the lip of her mug, and with so much less care she lifted the plain white cup to her lips, taking a gulp.  It was hot--too hot, perhaps, to be palatable, for it was only temperature that she tasted.  This, though, was her routine for mornings such as this.  After another swallow, she put it down, then returned to her work, fitting her pencil against the callouses of her fore- and middle-fingers.

Over brown eyes, her lids pulled down, unassuming as if she might simply be writing a letter to a loved one or otherwise some bland diary entry.  Neither, of course, was the case.  As sure as her hand scratched out a rhythm on the page, her eyes scanned the whole of the dining hall, looking for someone suitable.

There was an art to it, she supposed--to people watching.  Agnes Ogden was more skilled than most.  And so it was skillfully that her eyes scanned the room, passing up the more obvious options, the younger years with their loud voices and grubby hands, the rising seventh year boys strutting about in displays that would make even her most cocky rooster seem tame.  After a few moments they settled on a boy about halfway down the table, solitary like herself.  Without looking up, she spoke to her selected subject.

“Pass the milk, won’t you?”

She took her coffee black.

7
1949 / in the cards [open]
« on: 12/01/2016 at 00:10 »
With her back pressed against the picket fence, she sat among the lilacs and she laid them out in triplicate.

The Chariot, caught mid-placement by a tug of the wind and skewed sideways--rushing head-long and in no particular direction.

Fair.  She was, after all, fifteen.

The Six of Wands, Reversed and straight as a rail--trepidation.

Agnes frowned, her head shaking imperceptibly and to herself.  Typically she strayed away from reversals, but the deck in her hands was the harsher of the two she owned.  It had been gifted to her by the wall-eyed grandmother of a family that had lived a floor down in their tenement back home, a frail old slip of a woman already paper-white like the ghost she surely went on to become (the girl herself would never find out; the family moved out as quickly and as unremarkably as they had moved in), and ever as she peered down at the card, she was unsure that the bequeathment had really been a gift at all.  Markedly, this deck, with with its unkind and inconsistently bordered imagery, was rude.

Tarot cards could be tricky, but she always went to these ones when she needed the truth.  She flipped another.

The Queen of Wands--supreme creativity and supreme narcissism.

Well.  That was writing, wasn’t it?

With a wry look to her cards, Agnes picked up her paper-bound notebook, shuffling to a blank page to record the bad news: this summer didn’t look terribly promising.

“Did you want me to read yours?”  Writing with her right hand, she waved left dismissively at the cards before her.  There had been a rustling coming down the nearby path loud enough for even a city girl to pick out from the birdsong and gnome murmurs.  “Or are you just going to keep clattering around over there?”

She flipped a page, tucked her pencil into the notebook's binding, and collected her cards.

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