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[open post; but especially seeking Fortinbras]
She has been hiding out in her room for no small length of time, keeping to herself and to her little windowbox garden, containing a few over-watered blooms - she is a gardener more conscientious than sensible. But the wind has changed, and she's begun to creep downstairs into the Mansion again, once or twice at least, then with greater frequency. ( Read more... ) -
genderswitchings
*is, somehow, female again, and not questioning it; Fortinbras said he would make things right, and so he has, and she touches her once-again-long hair with obvious relief (but if she should continue, for some time, to wear her brother's clothes, consider it simply an echo of that curious freedom)* -
(lyrical)
Ophelia was a bride of god ( Read more... ) -
anti-otp: rosencrantz and ophelia are ... gardening?
Some days are kinder than others. Some days, she can feel life like sunlight, warm on her face and the back of her neck, warm on the top of her head as it is bowed over the flowers she's planting. Life like the seeds in her protective palms, like the earth beneath her careful, digging fingers, the stems and petals and tentative sprouts. (Days like ( Read more... ) -
anti-otp: horatiophelia.
One thing Ophelia has always loved, has always been entranced and enchanted by, is poetry. Words, the way they fall and rise across the page or along a voice; the images, the trembling sounds, the very idea of poetry bewitches ( Read more... ) -
(but is their beauty what she needs?)
(She is a bit saner today. Life has been rather kinder than usual.)*a bit shaken, a bit weary, but with remarkably clear eyes* It would be nice, I do believe, to have a garden. Methinks I have too much spare time and too little purpose; the devil, it hath been said, doth love idle hands, and mine have been too long so ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
It is so cold, so very very cold, in this place... I feel I have fallen into a pit of ice, and the clinging arms, the fingers, claws, to drag me down, it is filthy with eyes and teeth...
There are too many people, and none to do more for me but look and stare and laugh and claw and cold so cold... -
Come unto th' East
'Tis cold as winter, though th' sun is high and fair...
Oh! to have seen it...
Last night again the roses sang.
Typist: This is what happens when Skish starts out cheerfully writing in iambic pentameter.
...She gives up.