May 2017




RSS Atom
Powered by InsaneJournal

May. 29th, 2011


The Meeting (OPEN)

A new round of posters and fliers came out days prior to the event, if just to serve as a friendly reminder or perhaps another purpose entirely.

Mrs. Coulter paced about the room with folded arms, wearing a capped sleeve forest green pencil dress. Time and time she would turn away and try to look at the venue with fresh eyes.

A carpeted meeting room good for 50 persons, rented from the The City Convention Center. Inside the room were curved rows of wooden cushioned chairs. A microphone stand situated at the middle. The arrangement was too functional than aesthetic. It seemed to promise hours of boredom, she herself would step out of it if she would. But she liked to believe that people would come, not because they had nothing else to do or for the free food. They would come because they would be curious. They would come because they needed to know once and for all, she told herself. Anyhow, the lights were bright, the air was cool and the chairs seemed comfortable enough to be sat on for a long period of time should it come to that.

The thought of losing her first venue still disappointed her. She still preferred it, a more calming and familiar space, one that would be conducive to discussions. Yet she had expected to be prevented of its use. By who and what, it was plainly obvious. Nothing else would outgrow that pitiful garden with such speed and only weeks before her convention. Mrs. Coulter shrugged it off, she was prepared with her fall back plans no matter how regretful they'd end up to be. She would have her society come together, even in a broom closet. Her organization, one that she named in the true spirit of her world: the Society for Metropolitan Studies.

Meanwhile, the golden monkey was more interested with the long table behind the room, which contained what the invitation promised: tea cups, tea pitchers, and layers of cakes, biscuits, among other pastry snacks. It had caught Eames’s attention, too. As he nudged the biscuits back into neat circles with the bourbon cream he’d pilfered, he flashed the monkey a quick and cheeky smile.

“Mr. Eames,” Mrs. Coulter’s silky voice echoed across the room, a reflective hand upon her chin, “I honestly do not feel like talking to a voice transmitter device. Do you think my voice is loud enough? I’d rather speak without aid.” She mused while her daemon growled at Eames.

"A microphone," corrected Eames. "And if you can fill this many seats-- well, I'll be surprised."

“Whatever,” Mrs. Coulter waved off. It was not the time for Eames’ vocabulary wars. Those things never end. “If it's only Chiba or whoever she thinks of parading around, so be it. I’m simply not used to settling for anything less.”

Apr. 3rd, 2011


An Empty Lot (Log/Finished)

(Backdated before the Spring Masquerade and after this)

She had barely slept the night before, and had hardly taken a bite of food, but none of this slowed Mrs. Coulter down.

But if weariness she can shrug off, her uneasiness she could not. She would not be still, her speech would quicken and rise, until she would catch herself and attempt to be calm.

The golden monkey was another story altogether, he was a dark cloud in the midst of a thunderstorm. He wore an ugly grimace and was quite unsettled, easy to bare his sharp teeth and glower.

They arrived at the site where there was once a massive compound. A Church-funded experimental station that Mrs. Coulter herself had built in her world’s far North so its important work will be concealed. Mrs. Coulter should already be seeing an avenue of lights, at the end of which should be a high metal fence, leading to a row of connected low buildings.

But there was only a wide, flat, open space.

The golden monkey not gently leapt from his human's clutch to venture forth, and explore the second time around.

"I've walked this whole stretch of this land, and I found nothing." Mrs. Coulter said bitterly, facing her companion, "It's just gone, like a sand castle swept by the waves." Her eyes stared past the horizon, as far as her gaze could take her for an outline, a little sign, or a little interruption of that vacantness. "Not an evidence of debris, or a show of force, it was siphoned like a small thing. Like it never existed!"

He had his hands in his pockets, where he ran the flat of his thumb over the grooves of a poker chip, a habit of his which kicked up when the City was up to its tricks. He looked at Mrs Coulter from the corner of his eye.

Eames had the style of one of her own world's gentlemen explorers-- the tailored tweeds, the Cathay linens and the fine wool sporting coats, even the blue-blooded Jordianian swagger-- and like them, he tended toward the metaphysical, although his was the language of the mind, not the divine. And like those learned gentlemen before him... Eames appeared to have no good advice for Mrs Coulter.

“It might have moved,” he said, doubtfully. )


for everything you gain, you lose something else (Narrative)

(Backdated to before the Spring Masquerade)

It was on its last flight. Once, things like people, automobiles, buildings, other winged creatures, or something as simple as the wind did not trouble it any. It soared across the street, on an unreachable height, on an untouchable speed, harboring ill will, cruel intent, and of course, the information it was tasked to collect. It was usually successful, easily through its inconspicuousness and insignificance.

Not until someone recognized it and knew what should be done with it.

And so, depending on one failing mechanical wing, it laboriously flew towards its source, the world suddenly bigger and far more threatening, more so when its poison was already extinguished. Its stinger stuck in a beggar's hand that made a grab for it. Surely he was already dead.

And it will soon be too.

Finally, it slipped through the slim crack of a window, one that was carefully kept open for its arrival, doubtful as it seemed. It was missing for almost a month. But still, there it was, bumping, buzzing low, spinning at minor collisions, landing on its mistress' lamp table. It tried to crawl to her with as much as one working leg but its golden body would move no more. Its body was now its cage, than its aircraft.

Its incessant buzzing woke its mistress from her shallow sleep, but it was the golden monkey who leapt to it and took it in its hand, quickly the fly spilt what it knew, like a venom, before shaking violently. The black hands of the monkey held it firmly as it did so. The woman was already wide awake enough that she was making sharp exclamations, fearful that the monkey would be stung. When the monkey could not control it any more, it cracked the fly open until it was at last, free.


3 AM in the morning, Mrs. Coulter's face was pale against the lamp light. Her eyes were still and unblinking at the golden monkey who held the broken remains of her final spy fly. He had no choice, it would harm them if he did not break it. The spirit must be released.

But what occupied Mrs. Coulter's mind now was not so much her faithful servant's demise, but what it died transmitting.

There was a child and a daemon in the City. )

Feb. 20th, 2011


One day, a lady and a golden monkey rode a bus (Open)

How ironic that she should find some solitude in a public transit. Mrs. Coulter! In a public transit! When she had her own flying zeppelin and a whole staff catering to her needs and now she travels with the masses.

But it did not really matter in a world who did not know who she was. Well, certainly not until that scandalous press release from the daily periodical, which continued to flood her apartment and cause incessant ringing of that communicative device, the 'phone'.

It was not the slightest bit amusing. It did not tickle her fancy those flirtatious phrases and the excruciating cliches. If anything, they were honey coated knives.

Those pamphlets so harmless, so common, so ubiquitous the past few days held information. Secrets, insider information, shamelessly displayed for all to see. Daemon the word flashed at her at the edge of the page. Never, had she even imagined of disclosing the nature of the golden monkey to anyone in that world, as was only wise. He was a 'pet', an animal companion, a poodle trotting after his mistress, one that just happened to be very intelligent one it seemed it had a mind of it own, and in which it did, but no one was supposed to know that. It should end in speculation.

Yet someone in the City has uncovered it, and published it so.

Mrs. Coulter should not be too worried yet, it was not as though it linked the word to the monkey, but any moment, it would, it could...They will see the monkey for what it is. Her heartbeat.

How much did the City know about her? About them? Was there an intention behind their placement? Were they not there by accident? By unfortunate circumstances? Experiments gone out of hand?

The nagging questions set her in a foul mood in that City bus, and her temper was already sore to begin with since her faithful spyflies remained missing for already the fourth day. She had no new information, no new names and places, the gathering of which has not--and likely will never--conclude as the City continues to shift like a child's daemon. But if her precious flies, her eyes in the City, were utterly paralyzed then it would be much akin to blindness. A certain danger in a City that probes and spies back with increasing and malicious fervour.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the bus stopped to accomodate new passengers. There was plenty of space at the back where she was seated, and the lady Coulter had such a comely face, if not just for the monkey on her lap who glared at everything.

Jan. 23rd, 2011


give me liberty or give me a phone [Open to Mrs. Coulter + Anyone!]

The road was wide, paved, quiet and lonely. Half a day was about to go by and yet this placed they called "The City" still assumed a lazy atmosphere that reminded her of an early weekend morning. Or maybe it was just this side of "The City", she thought.

But wherever it was, whatever it was called, Atsuko hadn't the foggiest of a clue. One thing was for sure, though: this was no longer Japan if the cab style was any indication.

"If you head straight and turn right at the second corner, you'll find an apartment building."

"Thank you. That's helpful," Atsuko said plainly to her good driver as she pushed the door open and stepped out. He must have caught her thoughts, she figured: she wanted a bath, a change of clothes, a chair to prop her feet up and a quiet place to think about her random circumstance.

Clutching the folder of papers she had been given for her release (at least she was still sane. Suddenly, that was a relief to know), she stepped onto the sidewalk as the cab drove off and turned the corner to her right. After its disappearance, she popped open her purse bag, slung comfortably over her left shoulder and sorted through it. Her vanity kit was there, so were her glasses, her ID tag, her handkerchief, her breath mints and her flattened wallet.

A sigh slipped out of Atsuko's nostrils as she went through her personal belongings for the third time that hour. "They didn't give me back my phone, either." She closed her bag. No money, no phone -- how was she going to start?

Well, at least they left her license and her credit card alone...

A vehicle honked in the distance as she turned around her heels and looked up to the wide window that served as her background, tinted black with the name of a pawnshop pasted against it. As she read the name, she found herself looking into her reflection.

The brunette stared back at her and blinked with her.

Not Paprika, but Atsuko, she thought to herself as she stood straighter, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin a little, her reflection doing the same. This was one strange dream...or reality? Really, it's been hard to tell between these two this late...

The bell rang as she stepped into the ample, dim space behind the window, the walls covered partly by mirrors and glass shelves and barricaded by separate counters of display. The shop owner was an aging man with a happy smile and a pair of thick glasses on his nose and he received the doctor right when she stepped into his humble store. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

Atsuko had already formed her inquiry in her mind and had moaned out the first half-syllable of it but she caught herself before she spilled the rest and conscious of the folder she held, she lowered it away from his gaze and rethought about her question. Where is this place? she wanted to ask -- but who in the right mind in a very well-respected costume would suddenly forget the name of the place she was in? She worried that it might suggest to the curious owner a defect in thinking, so she clammed up.

Instead, she asked him, "Where is the nearest phone shop?" Now that sounds like a "sane" question to her.

Jan. 16th, 2011


Opportunists (Narrative)

Mrs. Coulter was ill.

It seemed to start at day one, when doctors came to first inspect her. She was pale and shivering in the corner, her forehead damp with cold sweat. The poor woman sobbed when she begged them not to hurt her or put those needles in her. It was quickly apparent that this woman was helpless and did not need restraining. She was quick to obey orders, and submitted like a good vapid girl. The days continued, and her condition appeared to take a strange turn. Her symptoms bordered to catatonia, with her rigid limbs and obliviousness. She wouldn't make eye contact and was completely quiet. Yet her physical examination were negative. Then finally she was just mostly asleep. She was allowed to be alone.

She was asleep when the last nurse left. Minutes passed, until Mrs. Coulter's eyes flew open. )