melodicinkysin: (Default)
2013-05-17 10:27 am

(no subject)

 The sun blazed gold, low and as deceptively cold as it was bright.  Day would soon be gone, but until then, the sun gleamed brazen light in the eyes of those who ventured outside.  One of those who sought the cool air was a young man, golden in his youth and still growing into his limbs.  He had his father’s eyes and a high chin, both of which bore a look generations too old for his age.  With time, he too would grow into that, far earlier than any man should.  He would see much and had seen plenty, but even as he stood straight-backed, manhood eluded him.  Men twice his senior still called him sir and loaded his shoulders with all the pressures that would make him.  He hated the tone with which they addressed him, every last man.  The right men didn’t judge him enough; the wrong men spat at his willingness to earn their trust.  He had enlisted to make himself a man worthy of his father’s name and done so against his father’s wishes.  He desired the uniform for his country’s honour and progression through the ranks for his mother’s forgiveness.  He wanted many things, the vast majority of which were currently beyond him.

An arm’s reach away, several officers chatted low by an open doorway, a makeshift officer’s gathering where maps were kept hidden and orders chosen.  That was what the youth wanted now, a glimpse into his superior’s minds.  With envy and resignation, he walked by, careful not to forego the salute expected of him.  Another uniformed man approached him, purpose in his steps.

            “My lord.”

            “Mister Aderlay.”

            “Might I ask what a Lauder has need for ‘round there aways?”

The young Alexander Lauder, heir to the Earl of Edrington smiled briskly at his fellow.

            “I would wager the same as yourself.”

            “No use chomping at the bit, my lord.  They’ll tell us nothing ‘til we can already smell the news.”

            “I assure you, I can already.”

            “Can’t be half as strong as the horses.”

Nathaniel Aderlay, a robust man whose build was broad for even a warhorse, laughed at the sternness in the Alexander’s gaze.  He clapped an arm over the lord’s leaner frame and shook the shoulder.

            “There is good ale to be had and time will see you out there.  Just you wait.”

            “There are maps, Aderlay.”

            “There are women, Lauder, and God bless them all!”

Alexander smiled, amused in spite of himself and the informality of his companion.

            “Perhaps we’ll toast our glorious officers.”

            “Holed up, that lot.”

            “Over the maps I presume I’m not intended to notice?”

            “To hell with the bloody maps, my lord!  We’re fine enlisted men in the Queen’s Bays, the 2nd Dragoon Guards.  Nothing like a tailored uniform to win yourself some company with.  None out there, man.  Not even a poor bastard dressed as a woman.  You’ve my word on that.”

            “As to the location of ‘out there’, might I inquire about your predictions?”

Alexander eyed his companion, who swung open the door of Dorchester’s homeliest inn.  It was a small town with humble lodgings, and this particular establishment was one the lord would not have chosen for himself.  A man of the English countryside who bore its lilt on his tongue was undoubtedly less accustomed to the company of an earl’s eldest son, and the young lord surmised that Aderlay was not a man of much thought outside few subjects.  Those few, however, Alexander valued.  Nathaniel Aderlay was a man whose belt had a wider girth by ten years; he had five years of service to speak of, and little modesty when he did.  Such ill-guarded talk was what Alexander sought now.

            “Come now, man.  You must have some thoughts.”

He selected a somewhat distant table, which afforded the most privacy with so little choice and within an inn brimming with cavalrymen.

            “Like all men do.”


            “A good cut of lamb.  Perhaps a stout.”

The Coronet folded his hands and watched for the approach of the innkeeper. 

            “They’re mapping the movements of the Prussian and Hessian forces.  England is subtly growing the ranks, and while France fancies a Republic, Paris is a bloodbath by no other virtue than the French themselves.”

            “We’ll be at war; soon enough, I say.”

            “Before spring, I would wager.  We seem to be the last to join the soiree.”


“Before spring, you say?”

            “If not by the new year.”

Aderlay gave a cumbersome nod, face laden with thought.  Alexander tugged at the sleeves of a coat that had never seen battle.  “I do wonder about the air in Portsmouth.” 

Aderlay bellowed.  “Leavin’ us already for the navy, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alexander scoffed. “Men crowded for weeks on ships that haven’t left the harbour? Nothing to envy at all. I merely referred to the Admiralty.”

Even as the laughter waned, Aderlay’s eyes sparkled with a hint of permanent chuckle.

“I know your mind, but there’s a good an’ lofty reason why we don’t know theirs. You’ll be trouble for them yet.”

“Mark me, sir: we will be in France before winter sees its end. I want to know where.”

“Before Plough Sunday, perhaps. Perhaps not. You’ll know same as all the men on the eve before we march.”

Alexander knew the man would give him no more, and so they, like all their red-jacketed fellows, drank to quell an itch none could hope to scratch. The nights were cold, but there was drink, and the lord abandoned pondering the fates of England for hearthside stories shared amongst men.

He was awoken at an early hour, startled by an insistent sergeant who urged haste. Alexander could not recall when or how he had boarded a ship, but the floor so heaved beneath him that he swayed astonished until the sergeant tugged him straight by his shirtsleeves.

“You had better wet your face at the basin there, but do hurry up. The Colonel is waiting.”

Alexander shuffled to the squat bowl on the table. The water was cold, and a splash of it sobered him some. He patted his face with the nearest cloth, but was dismayed to find it had been his crumpled cravat. “Mister—”

“Hawthorne. Come now, man. I expected to fetch you, not to dress you.”

Sergeant Hawthorne held Alexander’s coat open, the red cloth somewhat dirtied from its night spent on the floor. Once on, the young ensign briskly scrubbed at its sleeves and held out his blotted cravat.

“Mister Hawthorne, have you a spare?”

“Oh, and an iron on the fire to press it with!” The Sergeant laughed coarsely. “Pull yourself together. You’ll go as you are and be a lesser drinker for it.”

With clumsy fingers and solemn disappointment, Alexander buttoned and buckled as they walked. They left the inn to the chill of dawn, squinting against the pale light. Sergeant Hawthorne sighed loudly and extended his cocked hat.

“Make sure it’s off your head when you stand in front of your officers.”

The young lord nodded silently, hastily tucking the cap beneath his arm. He had forgotten his own. He felt a fool; vanity had made him a sharply dressed young man in the social circles entertained on the Edrington Estate. Now he walked as an ill representation of his name, and berated himself within his mind for sporting so unsightly a state in peacetime. He found it difficult to muster his pride, and instead bowed his head. It did not help that the solid stone beneath his feet seemingly roiled. In watching the ground to steady his steps, he also hid a deep grimace.

They reached two solid oak doors, an infantryman beside each. With a nod, they opened the doors, while Alexander fumbled the cocked hat to his head. He entered, looking back over his shoulder when Hawthorne did not follow. The man was gone, and the doors shut. Alexander turned toward the officers before him and his borrowed cap slid—far too large for his crown—over his eyes. He hastily removed it, and stood unnaturally straight.

Colonel Thew rose from his desk, open palms leaning heavily on the wood to support his broad frame. Every inch of him was hard. Angled and worn, his face spoke of war. Even the Colonel’s long-healed scar was sharp, a thin line that tore from the bridge of his nose beneath his brow and pulled the left eyelid tight. It gave him the illusion of madness, the eye always kept wide, but Colonel Thew was known for being cool-headed, methodical, and swift. He looked over Alexander and leaned against the polished desk, clearing his throat.

“Coronet Lauder.”

The young nobleman nodded respectfully. “Sir.”

The Colonel straightened, and Alexander instinctively glanced at the charts on the desk before resuming eye contact with his superior. Colonel Thew raised his chin, looking down his sharp nose.

“So thirsty for battle?”

Alexander stiffened, and his head pounded at the body’s sudden jolt. It did not help that his eyes watered from the sunrise that had begun to stream in the windows, for the image of his Colonel wavered from it. Even his mouth tasted foul, but he held his posture.

“No, sir.”

“Does it make you ill then, Lauder?”

“No, sir.”

“I daresay you look it.”

Alexander swallowed. An apology was on his tongue, but he thought better to hold it. It was better to divert the conversation elsewhere.

“While not seasoned in battle I… I am accustomed to its parts through the stories of my father. He spoke of Cherbourg in France, Villinghousen in Germany, and what it meant to serve beneath General Cornwallis in the Colonies.”


“Foot Guard Battalion. Scots Guards.”

Colonel Thew studied his subordinate, and while his one eye could not narrow, it pierced nonetheless by the strength and authority of the Colonel’s gaze. Alexander shifted when he heard the man mutter his family name in a succession.

“Accustomed to the parts of war.” Colonel Thew clasped his hands at his back. “Very well then. Step forward, sir.”

Alexander obeyed.

“Tell me what you make of these.”

The young lord glanced at the desk. “They are maps, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Very well, but what do you make of them? I am not the first to notice that you tend to dawdle and stare where there are charts present.”

What already made Alexander feel ill from a night of too much drink was expounded by his nerves as he looked down at the maps made hazy by his sight. Damn my eyes, he thought, and studied the paper and its markings carefully. At least the northeasterly border of France was clear enough, as well as the countries that touched there and extended further east. There, the borders grew more frantic within the Austrian Netherlands and the various states of the Holy Roman Empire. Alexander traced a red line that lead from Metz to Sainte-Menehould.

“The French, there…”

Another line of blue swept through Longwy and Verdun, and then turned back.

“…and the Prussians, there.”

The two lines intersected at Valmy, then scampered eastward. The Rhine chased south and east, and the marked lines of the two armies followed its curves while another red line aimed for Frankfurt. Alexander did not know what comprised them completely, but he could make enough of the writing that marked the columns of each side. The French were numerous, a combination of two newly-raised groups under separate command that combined to 47,000 men. The allied Prussian and Hessian forces were a smaller 35,000 but Prussian Hussars and Hessian Dragoons were cavalry to be feared. The French now pursued the embarrassing retreat of those forces, who undoubtedly had fled far into the German states.

Alexander’s fingers traced back to Valmy, lingering over the change in course prior to the battle of the Prussians.

“What else, then?”

The combination of the press in the Colonel’s voice and his nauseous state made Alexander hesitate, but his mouth spoke to fill the wretched pause he had taken, and did so hastily.

“I don’t know what in God’s name the Prussian Duke was thinking.”

He kept his head down and eyes on that map, worried he would vomit if he saw his commanding officer’s face. The Colonel was silent, and so the young lord’s tongue wagged to explain himself.

“He—the Duke. The Duke of Brunswick was closer to Paris than the French, and by the looks of the geography, he was well-covered by wood. The first army he engaged was bound to send for reinforcements, if the news of that commander’s defeat did not automatically rally another to his aid. Yet by the Prussian’s movements, Paris should have been the target, not the ragged Republican force. Yet he moved to ride behind them, engaged them, and then moved to take their reinforced position near Sainte-Menehould with the other French commander.”

“What purpose had the Duke of Brunswick not to engage the French?”

The thought came to Alexander, clear and level, piercing his haze like the dawn.

“Perhaps the Duke had no knowledge of how little time there was. If the reports are true, however, France declared themselves a republic the day after the Duke’s defeat. That allied army’s failure secured that the remnants of the French monarchy have no crown to return to. It wasn’t to be an engagement, sir. It was an invasion.”

The Colonel nodded solemnly. “Where is the founding for your theory in those charts?”

Alexander breathed, and thought carefully. “The curve, there, where the Prussians turned from Paris to go back east.”

“That is hardly founding enough for proving it was an invasion.”

“They had already captured two forts, neither of which is known to be heavily fortified, yet both lead toward Paris.”

“Is there no strategy in capturing fortifications while they are weak?”

“There is no strategy in circling so largely with a highly skilled cavalry if the mere purpose of their force was to pursue the French troops. A commander should always take a fort when it is weak. By that same advice, why not take Paris, while it is plunged in chaos?”

“You mean to say that the Prussian and Hessian allied force intended to restore the monarchy alone?”

“No, sir. They must have—they had a small number of French Royalists.”

“These Royalists are marked where?”

Alexander swallowed. “They are not marked…specifically, sir.”

“Yet you would say they were there.”

“Yes sir, lead by the Prussian Duke.”

The Colonel cleared his throat and walked behind his desk. “You’ve not convinced me.”

Alexander looked down at the charts, blinking at them. Against what judgment may have stopped him were he sober, he spoke boldly.

“What purpose would the Prussians have to march on Paris without French Royalists? Unless the Prussian Duke of Brunswick was making sport of this GeneralDumouriez, I cannot see the Duke’s plan as anything less than marching to Paris. An invasion without the French Royalists would be folly. They would be few, but any amount of logic would deem them necessary.”


Alexander blinked. “Sir?”

The Colonel ignored his question. “What of the allied forces’ defeat?”

“I think it unexpected, sir.”

“Indeed. It was highly unexpected.”

“We will soon be at war with the French Republic?”

“We are not at war yet, Lauder, but the French have taken Frankfurt. Perhaps the Republican army is not so ‘ragged’, as you called them.”

The Colonel eyed him accusingly, and Alexander remembered his uniform.

“Forgive me, sir.”

“You have impressed me, and so I will overlook your presentation. Such a sorry affair,” Colonel Thew sighed tersely. “Effective immediately, you will be expected to serve as a Captain of the 2nd Regiment of Dragoon Guards. Your duties begin after you are dismissed, and you will ready your Troop for parade by the trumpet. Your promotion to Lieutenant has henceforth been active since the first of March this year, though you will not see it in your pay.”

Alexander stood agape with shock, but thrust his shoulders back and raised his head to assume a posture more befitting of a newly appointed Captain. “I humbly thank you, sir!”

Colonel Thew’s rugged mouth turned, and Alexander thought it perhaps a short crack of a grin. It was just as soon gone. “See the Quartermaster for your epaulette. Sober up, and write your father. The Honourable Colonel Lauder of the Scots Guards will no doubt want to hear the news from his own son.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” He paused. “You know my father then, Colonel?”

“Indeed I do, Captain Lauder. Dismissed.”

Alexander saluted and turned to leave, the cocked hat under his arm shaking. The doors were closed behind him.

Colonel Thew took his seat behind the desk with a grunt of agedness, and that weary sound called another officer. From behind a privacy screen, a blonde officer of the 51stRegiment of Foot emerged. The Colonel harrumphed something akin to a laugh.

“I’m sure this is exactly what you had in mind when you travelled from Gibraltar.”

The officer grinned. “Garrison duty even in the tropics loses its charm. Tell me, Colonel, who was that?”

“Robert Lauder, the Earl of Edrington’s eldest. The Earl was a good military man, but has since he lost his leg.”

“Representative of a Scottish Borough in Parliament. Yes, I know him. The son looked three sheets to the wind, or at least still suffering from it.”


“Yet he still had something of a clear mind.”

“Well, Mister Moore, I’ve just promoted him twice and he hasn’t fought a day in his little life. I pray to god I haven’t made a mistake.”

“I’d like to see such a mind in the field.”

Thew shook his head and frowned, though there was a friendliness there that Moore knew and marked with a wider smile and a laugh. “We’ll all be fighting soon. The boy was not wrong.”

“Try not to make pickings of my men before the damned war, Mister Moore.”

“An infantryman cannot be taught to charge on horse, but a cavalryman can be taught to march and fight on foot. Strategy may be taught, but only the talented can wield it, or so they say.”

“Lieutenant-Colonel or not, I still out rank you and I intend to keep my best.”

“You consider that green-colored young man your best?”

“God above, of course not. But damn me, he could be made into one if he keeps his head.”

Lieutenant-Colonel John Moore sat and chuckled.

A R Lauder of 2nd Dragoon Guards to the Right Honble. Earl of Edrington

Dorchester, England, 14th November 1792

Father –

It gives me great pride to have occasion to write you, as this letter bears great news. I humbly request that you tell my two dear sisters, young George and Mother that I have been granted captaincy of a Troop within the esteemed 2nd Dragoon Guards. I suspect my progression – while not taken without great appreciation and humility – also bears a warning that you may know already if my news does not foretell it now. I assure my enlistment during peacetime was, even now, the only worthy choice as a King’s man, and while I wish you no pains or disappointment, I will see my duty through the war England must join. Our march from Exeter to Dorchester followed the King of France and his flight; while my time here has been well utilized, it will soon end. Colonel Thew has made little effort to hide our station’s preparations for a man of superior rank; this lauded man will see us to France before winter’s end.

After months of idleness and little duty, this place grows in the numbers and talk of men. I have been urged to make haste in seeing my company prepared; my lieutenancy was made active since our leave from Exeter, granted only at dawn on this day of my commission as captain. I am relieved to report the horses are docile beasts and I reason they will answer to my command regardless of their riders’ intentions. Perhaps they know my mind; I will see to it that the men know it better, and quickly. I believe I will find it probable before long strong command a necessity – I pray I hear word of new reports before long. Glancing at the maps of those higher ranked than myself is not likely welcomed or becoming of a man in my station.

I humbly beg to hear from you and wish to know how my dear sisters and Mother fair in my absence. I eagerly await news from Berwickshire, if not a modest tale of young George’s role as now eldest son presently on the estate. I will pray for your good health as well as theirs; it is my worry mother’s will falter if she is told of what I believe to be our fine country’s mind.

I must still my pen. We are called to ready for parade by trumpet, and my epaulette requires a few stitches more. I haply endure the tedium of sewing for more matters of this nature. I leave to my Troop.

I have the honour to be –

Your son –


Captain A. Lauder

Alexander set the letter aside without a seal. He would see it off tomorrow, and he had good reason to hurry. His fingers rushed through a few more crooked stitches before he slipped on the coat. It had been tediously re-groomed, his whole uniform, but the coat was buttoned just as hastily as that morning while he left the inn to gather his Troop of men and ready for parade. Once retrieved from the stables, he mounted his horse—a fine, Andalusian Bay—and rode until one of his sergeants met him on the road.


melodicinkysin: (but I'm missing the wings.)
2012-09-25 09:18 pm

Another year, another pardon. Hear me out?

 It's been a year, a whole year since my last journal entry that held the very same purpose as this one does.  Nothing in that regard has changed, but, as people are oft to do, I have changed myself.

Yep.  It's Yom Kippur.  (Already!  Lunar calendars.  Got to love them.)

I'll start off, once again, by stating that I'm not a very religious person.  I'm the sort of Jew who says she's Jew-ish, heavy on the ish.  I don't keep kosher or follow really any of the rules.  I can count the number of times I go to services on a single hand, and don't use all the fingers.  For me, this time of year isn't about the observance.  Rather, it's a personal tradition that I seek out those I might have wronged because... well, because I believe it's a good thing to do.  The principals behind the holiday, at least, have some merit.  So here I am.

In the last year, I've made a good lot of mistakes.  I'd like to think that this year has been better than the last, and that I've grown as a human being, but that is heresay and likely up for debate.  What I do know is that as a person, I have changed.  In changing, I've faced new decisions, revisited old ones, faced new problems, and battled old personal demons.  I haven't always made the right choice, which is exactly why I'm asking you to read this.  This is for you, because I have no doubt in my mind that at some point, my choices have wronged you.

This year, my letter is shorter, but my plea is no less genuine.  I haven't always been honest.  I've lied, I've evaded and ducked the company of people who cared about me, and I've been flaky.  I've given excuses.  I've allowed myself to succumb to dismay, and asked you to help shoulder the burden of my emotional state and the process of getting myself back up.  I've gossiped.  I've said things I desperately regret.  I've held my tongue when I desperately needed to speak, and should have.  I've done things I'm not proud of.  I've done things I'm ashamed of.  I've done things I have trouble forgiving myself for.

For all the times I have knowingly wronged you, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.  I'm sorry for hurting you, no matter how cruel I had intended to be, I'm an emotional trainwreck.  I free myself of those emotions, I look back, and I regret things.  Sometimes I acted against you, sometimes I did not act and my inaction caused pain.  I promise that I regret what I have done.  For all these things, I beg forgiveness.

For all the times I have unknowingly wronged you, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.  My actions may have wounded when I had no intention of doing so, but that did not spare you from any anger, pain, disappointment, or resentment you felt in the wake of them.  In my effort to be a good and decent and empathetic and accepting human being, I sometimes falter.  I don't always know the consequences of my actions, and sometimes, they have hurt you.  For all these unconscious ways I have wronged you, I beg forgiveness.

For all the times in the future I will do you wrong, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.  I am human, and I'm a mad one at that.  I'm a messy girl who's trying her damndest to get her life together at 24, and I screw up.  Too much, probably.  In the next year that lies ahead of us, I will -- knowingly or unkowingly -- hurt you.  I hope that I can write you next holiday and beg your forgiveness then, but I also am here before you now and beg forgiveness for what I will do.

Lastly... for all who have in any way hurt me, angered me, upset me, or wronged me:  I forgive you.  I will do my utmost to hold no grudges against you, and I wish you the best for this year.


melodicinkysin: (Happy ways in all dog days.)
2012-09-05 10:58 am

Contact Me

Who am I?

Name :           Mel
Age :               24

To get ahold of me, I present you the following:

Email :       

Journal :             [personal profile] melodicinkysin

AIM :                     melmal03

Skype :                melmal3

Plurk :                 [ profile] melodicinkysin

I prefer Plurks and IM's, but any of these methods work as well.
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2012-03-19 10:36 pm
Entry tags:

Character Exercises - Music

Goal: Pick a playlist. Stick it on shuffle. Write a drabble for a character in the time it takes for the song to play. (I let it play twice.) When the song stops, so do you.

Song : November- Max Richter
He hadn't expected something cataclysmic when he Fell. )


Song : Ponds - Biggi Hilmar
Elizabeth had many things she missed, that her heart ached for. )


Song : No Cars Go (Arcade Fire Cover) - Maxence Cyrin
William's first crush had been a girl who had piano lessons just before he did. )


Song : The Tin Can Parade - Your Hand In Mine
Every man that Guy had ever loved had a single piece of him, in truth. )
melodicinkysin: (A silly girl.)
2011-12-05 10:49 am

An explanation, of sorts, if you will.

Dearest, darlingest, lovely players:

I seem to have mastered a dance between being ever-present and forever disappearing.  I skirt that unreliable borderline between having the potential to be a good castmate/CR and being utterly befuddling and frustrating.  Most of you know the reasons for my ephemeral presence in Luceti with both of my poor characters, and some of you may not.

Regardless of such, I don't feel the need to go into exquisite details about what has been putting my drive to tag through the wringer.  If you've followed my plurks or have had the chance to speak with me personally, you know that I have had something simple and inherent to life as a human being happening repeatedly:  life coming at me from every which way.  My choices are, as a woman of decent heart and stout bosom, is to take it or to let it defeat me.  I have to take what life throws at me and make something out of it; I have to pack such difficulties in my stride.  Each surmounted obstacle should be my starting block, from where I push off in that desperate caw and claw to better myself.

So what does this have to do with you, per se?

Everything that has been making my shoulders its mantelpiece has been an added burden and pressure.  Each one is a challenge that I plan to reconstruct into a building block by which I can build my life as I want it to be.  Unfortunately, that takes time.  It's not, as it is for some people, an overnight transformation or the breath inside the euphoria of an epiphany.  I have, without a doubt, a handful of tasks on my plate, responsibilities and personal burdens that I have taken up, just as everyone else who has their beautiful lives outside the computer screen.  It's become a convoluted mess, and it's more than high time that I make hay while the sun shines.  To be completely less cliché and pathetic sounding:  I'm taking control, and I'm about to make life my own.  That isn't to say it always hasn't been, but really, it hasn't in a few ways.  No more.  It's mine for the taking.

Abridged version:  Life hasn't been easy, and in prioritizing who I am and what I need to be in these months, RP has taken the hit.  I'm doing what I can to reorganize, and I'll find my way back.

Highly abridged version:  I haven't been around.  I'm sorry.  I won't be for a little while longer.

Three words:  I'll be back.

I think it's about time I take a break from this.  This feels like the sort of relationship where I give the lame excuse as a pleading girl with wide eyes and a crumpled lip, fingers steepled and shaking, "It's not you, it's me."  Well, it isn't.  I thought you all had best know that.  You've been wonderful to me, patient, lovely, the listening ear I needed at times and the sweet souls that have allowed me my houdini act when it best suited me, regardless of what it cost.

Taking a hiatus may come as no surprise, and perhaps it's no big deal, but I feel as though you deserved an explanation.  A vague one at that, but something.  That isn't to say I won't be tagging, either.  I simply feel that I'd best tackle what I've involved myself in, first.  I haven't yet decided where they'll be going, but assume that my cantankerous lot of characters have taken up some sort of purpose.

“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.”

--Henri Bergson, French philosopher

It all boils down to this:

I'm taking a break, and I apologize it took me this long to let you all know.


melodicinkysin: (A silly girl.)
2011-10-04 11:49 am
Entry tags:

A year of apologies to make.

Dear friends of mine:
I’m not the most religious person in the world, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see the merit in some of what makes my foundation.  For those of you who have no idea what exactly it is I affiliate myself with—more by cultural standards and personal connection than anything deeply spiritual—it shouldn’t really matter.  Though for the purposes of what this whole thing is about, I suppose I should give you a little bit of background.
There’s a holiday approaching, and some of you will know what it is.  Yom Kippur.  Holiest day of the year for the Jews of the world.  That’s not the point of this.  The point is that Yom Kippur is a day of introspection, of asking for forgiveness for the things we’ve done.  It’s about focus, about not only asking for forgiveness but forgiving those that have wronged you, and not only looking for redemption from somebody upstairs but all the people on ground level with you.
My purpose is now out.  I’m here to ask for forgiveness for all the mistakes I’ve made, consciously or unconsciously.  This isn’t about the holiday, about what I’ve been raised as, or even God.  It never was.
I just felt like now is as good of a time as any to set things straight.
To those of you I have offended:  I get carried away sometimes; that’s nothing new.  Whether I’ve offended you with something I’ve ran on about or I’ve deliberately insulted you—to your face, or to your back—I apologize.  I’m a passionate person about so very many things, and my passions can get the best of me.  I know there are people I’ve said horrible things about.  There’s likely a turnaround to that, and perhaps I’ve deserved it.  I can be judgmental and crass; I can get stuck in an emotion and buried by it.  Sometimes these states produce the most horrible things, and I say them without thought.  Or maybe I have thought about it, pithily crafted some biting phrase and thrown it out there with intent to wound.  Maybe I hid behind anonymity.  Maybe it was said to someone else, and you never heard it at all.  It doesn’t matter.  What I want you to know is that I apologize for it, that I feel badly for it, and shoulder the responsibility for making it right.
To those of you I have been a burden to:  Someone once said to me that I not only live like I’m strapped in a rollercoaster, but that my life seems to peak and fall from crisis to crisis.  Sometimes, it feels like that.  I know my worries and issues and what tend to make me vulnerable aren’t the most awful trials one can face in life.  The world is full of devastatingly real problems, ones that seem insurmountable and shattering.  I’m lucky to say that I don’t face any of those, that in many ways, I’m in a position to help those who truly suffer.  Sometimes I try to.  Yet even when the most ridiculous things happen, when once again I find myself emotionally in a slump, there are those of you who sweep to my sides and try to help me back up.  You listen patiently, you tell me that it might not be all right at the moment, but there’s no reason in the world it won’t be.  You let me say illogical things, and gently remind me I’m being unreasonable, with a smile.  I’m a volatile girl.  I’m shaky, at best.  I say I’m bat shit crazy as a joke, but I’m sure it truly seems it at times.  For all of you who have been my shoulder to lean on, who have spared me their ears and given me hugs—real or not—I’m thankful for your support.  Yet I also feel that I should apologize for placing my struggles on your shoulders.  I’m sorry for my instability, for leaning on you so much.  I’ve taken massive strides from the wreck I used to be, and you’ve helped.  I want you to know that I’m doing my best not to become too much, to still be lucky, but stronger.
To those of you I abandoned:  Drifting apart is something that happens between friends and acquaintances, when mutual interests fizzle out and there’s little left to talk about.  Sometimes ‘real life’ gets in the way of simple pleasures and indulgences.  Sometimes we just don’t feel like talking to one another anymore.  Sometimes… we purposely walk away.  I know that there was a time this year I made it a point to not be around in some places.  I distanced myself from certain circles because I wanted to avoid the discomfort of drama and heat from several sides.  I walked away from good people, from a lot of fun I had.  I stopped talking with former confidants.  The reasons don’t matter, good or bad.  The wrong here was that I never explained myself.  I just backed slowly away until I was forgotten about.  For those of you I’ve gotten back in contact with:  I’m sorry I ever pushed you away in the first place.  Thank you for still being who you are, for letting me back in and letting me reestablish the good things.  For those of you I never spoke to again:  I apologize that I didn’t even give you the courtesy of a why.  I’m sorry that in some cases, I lied about the reasons altogether.  Perhaps I still stick by those reasons; perhaps I left for a good one.  That doesn’t change that you deserved the truth, and I held that from you and gave you no option to walk away yourself.
To those of you I lied to:  There’s no excuse for this.  I’d like to think myself an open book, someone that isn’t really afraid to hide many things.  Yet I know I’m not transparent.  There are those of you I’ve lied to, and regardless of whether or not you were given the truth later, you deserve to know it.   I apologize for withholding my trust, for feeding you false information, for steering you the wrong direction, for diverting blame, for shirking away from the truth myself.  The worst of it is this:  there are people in my life I know I will continue to lie to.  I’m sorry that I feel the need to do this.  If I haven't fessed up, I’m sorry that we both are not in a place where I feel I can trust you with this, and hopefully, one day, there will be a point where I can come clean, and you will forgive me for it.
To those of you I have kept waiting,
To those of you I disappointed,
To those of you I made promises to and did not keep them,
To those of you I have intimidated,
To those of you I have annoyed,
To those of you I flaked out on,
To those of you I was not there for when you needed me,
To those of you I lacked faith in,
To those of you who I gave little reason to have faith in me,
To those of you who have been effected by my poor choices and suffered for them,
To those of you who I will never know, or do not know, how I have wronged,
To those of you I will wrong this coming year,
I’m sorry.  Forgive me?

Additional note:  To those of you who have done any wrong by me, to those of you I have held grudges against, I forgive you, and will take strides to keep myself from being unjustly angered with you from now on.
melodicinkysin: (A silly girl.)
2011-09-30 02:24 pm
Entry tags:

Layers meme~

11 Layers Meme

Layer One: On the Inside

Name: Melissa
Birthday: March 18th
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Blonde
Righty or Lefty: Righty!
Zodiac Sign: Pisces and Year of the Dragon!

Layer Two: On the Outside

Your Fears: Spiders and loneliness
Your Weakness:  Tailored menswear on either sex, coffee, wine, and antiques.

Layer Three: Today

Your thoughts first waking up:   "... I can hit snooze.  Can't I?  I think I can.  Hrrrrnghlh."
Your bedtime:  Whenever common sense dawns on me enough to go OH SHIT, THE TIME!  I HAVE TO WAKE UP IN THE MORNING
Your most missed memory:   Being on stage.  I miss every sort of performance I used to do.

Layer Four: Your Pick

Pepsi or Coke: Coke
McDonald's or Burger King:   Wack Arnold's. (as my brother calls it)  Hands down.
Single or Group dates:  Single.  If I want a date, I want to have my date to myself.
Adidas or Nike: CONVERSE!
Lipton Tea or Nestea:  I don't drink iced tea.  Ever.  It's gross.  I like my tea black, with cream, with sugar, and really hot.  (very English, yes)
Chocolate or Vanilla:   ... swirl?
Cappuccino or Coffee:  Cappuccino. I admit it. I like froo-froo coffee.  With caramel.  MMN.

Layer Five: Do You?

Smoke:  I don't smoke cigarettes, but I had my pot head days.  
Have a crush:  Oh, hell yes.  She's short, she's terribly evil, has a killer grin and smacks me when I deserve it.  The goofball.
Want to get married:   I think so.
Believe in yourself:   For the most part. Everyone has their insecurities, and I have mine.
Think you're a health freak:    HAHA. Oh no. I eat things that would make a health freak cry and poop their pants.

Layer Six: In the Past Month

Drank alcohol: Yup! Wine, beer, and the occasional martini and margarita.  
Gone to the mall:   I don't think it counts as a mall, but Lynn and I went to the Dress Barn the other day.  
Eaten Sushi: Many times. Yummmmm
Dyed your hair:   I've temp dyed it once red and I've been DYING to go permanently red for ages.  So. So. SO TEMPTED.

Layer Seven: Have Your Ever?

Played a stripping game: Strip Mario Kart. Oh YEAH.
Gotten beaten up:   Thankfully, no.  Though I did have an old college room mate threaten to stab me with my own keys.  She deserved the subsequent pranks that sent her running for the damned hills.
Changed who you were to fit in:   I am completely and utterly bat shit nuts.  Hardly one to change anything about myself.

Layer Eight: Getting Old

Age your hoping to be married:   I don't think marriage requires an age cap on it.  There's no point in life where we go WELP.  PAST MY PRIME.    Although since I'm fairly sure I wanna have kids one day, I'd like to be in the sort of relationship when I'm young enough for that to happen.

Layer Nine: Perfect Mate

Best Eye Color: I’m not picky… but green are just delicious.
Best Hair Color:   I don't really have a preference.  Though I'm stupidly drawn to red hair.  *A*
Short or Long Hair: Whatever works for that particular person. Because some hairstyles just do not work on certain people, despite that the are drop dead smoking UNGH on others.

Layer Ten: What were you doing...

1 MINUTE AGO:  Fiddling with the CSS of this very journal.
1 HOUR AGO:  Running an errand for my mother.
1 DAY AGO:  Probably tagging XD
1 YEAR AGO:  In class at UMKC.  Coming over to the dark side of becoming an English major~

Layer Eleven: Finish the Sentence

I LOVE: music with every pore of my body, words with every sound I make, and the chance to be alive every morning.
I FEEL: stupidly sleeping, braindead, and stuffed.  (Dangit Grammy, your cooking is too fabulous)
I HATE: intentional ignorance, the completely close minded, blind obedience, and unjustified discrimination and judgement.
I HIDE: my darker past, my more stupid mistakes, and mysensitivity.
I MISS: the streets of Paris, being on stage, San Diego, and my dearest friends who don't live here.  (KIMMY ;A;)
I NEED: enough money to move out, more time to spend with my sweethearts (all of you), more time to write, and the words to keep doing it.
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2011-08-30 09:53 pm
Entry tags:

Muse list~

.: Muse List :.

Guy Burgess
Cambridge Spies

[personal profile] thatmadbastard

@ L U C E T I

Elizabeth Swann
Pirates of the Caribbean

[personal profile] nocorsetsplease

@ L U C E T I

William Lawedre
Original Character

[personal profile] goldenlawedre

@ U N I V E R S A L I S
(apprentice minder to michael)

Archangel Uriel

[personal profile] apreparescuer

@ U N I V E R S A L I S

Adelaide Hoyt
Original Character

[personal profile] thatmadbastard

@ U N I V E R S A L I S
(master minder to Mammon)

Lord Edrington
Horatio Hornblower Series

[personal profile] mylordtoyou

@ M U S E B O X

Darien Fawkes
Invisible Man

[personal profile] silver_fawkes

@ H O M E L E S S
Boatswain Matthews
Horatio Hornblower Series

[personal profile] yessirayeayesir

@ M U S E B O X

.: Additional Muses :.

Midshipman William Blakeney
Master and Commander: Far Side of the World

Joshua Strongbear Sweet

Atlantis: The Lost Empire

Captain Edward Pellew

Inigo Montoya
The Princess Bride
melodicinkysin: (but I'm missing the wings.)
2011-03-08 12:55 am
Entry tags:

atherton pier

“I heard a Fly buzz—when  I died—”   –Emily Dickinson

Strewn belongings left
to the apartment:
rent long overdue, rude black-on-white
stapled to the door.
He—the King
could  not be witnessed in a room
no longer mine.
                            Not that I expected Him to visit.

My feeble frame—disability services refused to pay,
split in halves at nineteen—sagged
on my one, good, arm.
I dragged my useless appendages
down the Atherton Pier,
alone, [no sobbing parents to
dote on their child, Everything will be fine]
with deathly resolve.

The pier gave out,
plashless I footed into the brackish
icewater of the bay.
                                        I belonged there,
with the corpses of the whores and criminals,
                       forgotten fish food.

Woven threads of my sweater
buoyed about me as stormclouds heaving
in the murk, tugging toward the surface.
No fly bequeathed its
                                      —uncertain, stumbling Buzz
The bay would drown it, I am sure.

The cold set in,
and fear,
as rippling currents
pulled at my ankles.
            Down I go.
My lungs drew in the polluted bay;
 I quaked—I can’t do this
in muffled burbles. 
I reached toward the tossing wraiths
of orange city light,
the rippled hulls of barnacled tugboats,
summoning an empty prayer
at the bottom.  Pull me out.

No buzz. 

I’m sure I washed ashore that night,
my prayer answered.
Was it the hand of God
that thrust his cold palm
into mine, or…
                            I could not see to see—
melodicinkysin: (I like tiles.)
2011-03-08 12:24 am
Entry tags:

Will You--

shovel a horde
of lemonheads between
your tongue-slick lips,
squeak and resist the urge
to spit them out.
                             choke, for
             the feeling in my gut
      is the pull at your cheeks
and the burning, acidic singe
                  of your tastebuds.
                              I recollect
      the contents of my lunch,
                 hoping not to find     
           them on the sidewalk,
and try my best not to stutter.
fumble around
your room, sink
a pushpin into your heel.
You choke bombs
you long to drop
and barricade them behind your teeth,
bobble on the carpet and pluck
the tack from your heel.
                               am silent,
       swallowing and internally
                              on the bob
                of my adam’s apple
and the scratch of my tongue.
stand in the cold
for hours for the snow,
the movement of my hands
would be the quake
of your muscles.
You stamp your feet and try
to will them— obey —
to cease their vibrations,
                                 while I,
                       feeling the rouge of my knee
        abrading the sidewalk, hold your gaze
                                 to the quivering image
                                      of a red velvet box.
              I pull the lid open, nearly dropping
                          it, plead you with my eyes,
                         unable to ask the question
                                you knew was coming.
melodicinkysin: (...for ETERNITY.)
2010-11-17 08:37 pm
Entry tags:

Pentel R.S.V.P. Medium Black

Reaching for the instrument
long cast aside, he grumbles.
He longs in haste
to displace his sighs
into substance,
papered verbosity.  He loops
his eyes and marvels
in being tongue-tied,
hands still.

He rakes fingernails across
his cheek, feeling their crescent
moons slide down blushing
flesh, while reaching,
fingering the pen
that will liberate
his thought.

Punishing the cap,
his incisors gnash its frame,
a barbaric clash
of dentine and plastic.
He pulls it between his lips
into the open air to admire
           his work,
humming in approval
at the marred plastic, coated
in trails of liquid

He flicks the end
against the tabletop, drumming
an unknown beat of persistence
in mottled taps,

Suspended in air, the pen
is spared its beating.
Cast aside, the cap watches
Ball-point-tip swoop
down to the paper.
Silken lines--midnight
mutterings--are drawn,
as he finds the words
penned across the page.
        At last,
                    his story.
melodicinkysin: (but I'm missing the wings.)
2010-11-07 08:32 pm
Entry tags:

botanical gardens

He pulled butterflies by their wings
from her back as she grappled
with finding fingerholds
in the trees they shared.
A stumbling buzz--blue winged--
skirted the air between
her rising cries and the undulation
that was his windowpane.
Their toes were curved
into the earth, bark-wedged.
And they rocked, to tipped and--
like the moonscaped tide--
pulled and collided.
He coaxed her voice with his movements,
she was winged by the butterflies
and called his name.
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2010-11-07 08:21 pm
Entry tags:


I sink into streaks of rust
and scum, lock my sagging door
and smirk.  I cringe
at the seething tiles that hold
my feet and green fur
that adorns the toilet.
Yet, in this surrounding filth,
I jut my lip out
        [I want
              this too badly
and bite down,

Reach into my pocket, pluck
the small, two-tone paper
tube from its cardboard house.
Cheeks round and pull.
I want to watch it burn.

Slip the paper between my lips,
lick the end
and feel the spread
of lipstick folding into the paper.
The taste of red that rings
its body is of clotted skin.  In longing
for charcoal and heat,
I light its head ablaze.

Suck, drawing
in the steady burn
of toxins across my tongue,
saliva laving the spongy tip.
The cigarette curls
its toes and sputters
trails of white heat.
                             [God, yes.]

I ignite in the surge of chemical
clots, press against
the wall, pant and puff
the poison out, eyes lolling in the flicker
of lights above me.

Flicked into the toilet bowl,
I watch it turn
on itself,
hear it wither
in a cloak of hiss. Bent,
its ashen face looks
at me through the foggy water.
I choke a garbled sigh, moan
that it is over.

I am unsatisfied, but it is spent.              
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2010-11-07 07:52 pm
Entry tags:


I cannot name the needle
that sews my fingernails,
the blinded burble pull
that seems between my teeth.
It is a sentiment, a requirement
that is not desire.
It is a brittle leaf.  It crawls
as veins lashed and twisted.
To leave me, it sands.  Then with eyes
of ruptured pools, I become oil
filled, hot and beaded.
I cannot call it with
the curve of a fingertip.
So it slithers atop the water
and abandons me,
like a fish.
melodicinkysin: (inkdrop)
2010-10-22 09:36 am
Entry tags:


                                         I reached for you as a beam
                                         of pine, supple and sanded,
dipped my cheek into
your cautious breath.

There were paper kites and brush strokes,

and an empty bottle of whiskey,
the last amber rivulets pooled
over your wilted pout.

I used to bend,

roll my hips into
the ebb and billow

of your most tatter-torn
quilt on nights the floor was ours.

We carried our doubts in pockets
packed with lies and candy wrappers,
licked the melted remains

only when your lips,
pursed and buzzing told me

how the pages of your book
violently rowed together in the wind.

You left me wanting, scratched
my thighs.  I made you bite your lip
and whisper oh damn into folded
napkins.  We were redwoods,

swaying in breezes of nothing

and letters with extra postage required.
I sent you away with a dimple
in my cheek and a lilly behind my ear.

When you say 'the sparrow skims
the morn and we are the wrinkled
sea beneath him'  it tells me:

We will not flock.  We throw our breadcrumbs
behind us, but never look back.
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2010-10-14 10:46 am
Entry tags:


....So I like poetry.  I like writing poetry.

Expect a lot of it.  I have no other place to put it, and it makes me giddy just to think it's been "published" somewhere.

Not that I haven't other things to do.  
(still got 11 poems to post yet, and that doesn't count the ones I plan to write.  There'll be prose too.  And ramblings.  Yesssss lots of those.)

melodicinkysin: (Default)
2010-10-14 10:39 am
Entry tags:


To wait is to wound,
cut in the skyline and count flashes.
It is to feel the sloven
warmth, the spider crawl
of bristled, strike and wonder--
to where does the bolt ground?
In what grasses does
the mother hide?  The tiniest
of green creatures stroked
me, wove its way between patches
of pale skin in twilight.
As it reached my fingertip, I blew--
sent it humming into the night.
Rage, I urged.  Feel the rainfall,
hear the distant peels and lie,
cutting night with silver wings
and wait.
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2010-10-14 10:36 am
Entry tags:


You stare at me, your feathered
pupils pulsating in the hum
of sticky breath.  Your brows
pleat deep into mares of skin,
freckle peppered in mulchy hues.
I cannot reach your leafy
limbs, your tiers of tender plum
and greening skin.
So fold, twist and burn until--
like a match head set ablaze--
we glide across our cedar plank,
veins deep in murmurs
of climax and the flicker
just before
we are smoke.
melodicinkysin: (Default)
2010-10-12 07:36 pm

Friends only, lovelies~

Some of my journal is for friends only, mostly because I don't want just anybody reading what I write.  I like to know these things!

So, drop me a comment here and add me!  Chances are, I'm likely to add you back.

Don't be shy!