The Bear and Barnacle

Tell us about your favorite book. Or your least favorite book. Or your only book. Or a book you once tore to pieces. Anything, really, about books.

August's topic is morality, with the tag as you would expect. Encounter a moral dilemma, rethink your morals, observe someone else's morality or stand your moral ground.

She's been groping in the lower desk drawer for nearly thirty seconds before she tears her eyes from the article she's peer-reviewing for Transfiguration Today and realizes the ginger biscuits are gone again. How does this keep happening?

Also, when did she last remember to eat?

One of the things she misses most about Hogwarts is -- shockingly enough -- mealtimes. For one thing, they were regular. More importantly, they were not cooked by herself.

And most importantly, they were social. She never expected to regret leaving those noisy family-style meals, but sometimes the kitchen seems terribly silent ...

She'll review the article later. She sets it down with a smack that makes It hoot rebukingly from Its cage and goes to the telephone. Maybe Ed's free, or Mina, or Jack and Zelgadis, and would like to come eat with her ... provided she tells them up front that she isn't cooking.

This month the topic is missing things. Miss something. Miss someone. Miss the point. Miss a meeting. Go missing. Find something missing. Miss a bus. Miss a train. End up walking in the rain.

Tag is, bizarrely enough, missing things.

Faramir is completely unfamiliar with the entire concept of pickup lines.

His contact with remotely acceptable romantic possibilities has been nil despite his brother having once bribed the cook's daughter to corner him in the library. His contact with unacceptable ones has been slightly more extant but still not what one might call ... educational in the ways of romance.

The closest Faramir has ever gotten to a pickup line is a wine bottle brought too often near the target of his affections' cup. But he would be the first to say that it works surprisingly well on a surprisingly large percentage of the people he has tried it on.

“I can see the desire in your eyes.”

Nothing.

“You wouldn't want to leave a gentleman hanging, would you?”

Eyeroll.

“Perhaps that was a poor choice of words but the sentiment remains. You have far too much integrity and sense of fair play to ignore me.”

Ignoring.

“Miiiiina.”

( More Whining Within )

Brought to you, under duress, a fine selection of Ed's smoothest verbage with the ladies (mostly):

( Oh, dear God, please shut up...PLEASE... )

Missed it around here! Please excuse my absence. Crazy work + multiple extended illnesses = 1 very useless lady.

Your topic this month is pick-up lines! Use one, hear one, compose one, or tell us the best or worst one you've heard.

He’s not sure what possessed him, other than the thought that it would be amusing and funny. It’s certainly not that he’s bothered at all by Holmes and his pipes. In fact, quite the contrary, he’s even joined in on occasion. But after all, it was April Fools Day, and he just simply couldn’t sit idly by and not play a single prank. Unfortunately, being a bit old and moderately distracted at times, he simply forgot to remove the charm after April the first came and went. And it is very likely, until he is in the same room with Holmes when he takes out his pipe, that he will continue to forget that as soon as flame touches the tobacco in said pipe, it dissolves into an endless stream of multi-colored and rather large bubbles.

There was no denying it, the Joker was bored. Is bored. Will continue to be bored. There is simply no challenge to be found at the moment. And really, there were only so many little insignificant jokes and pranks one could play before they become fed up with the meaninglessness of it all. Because just plain fun, be it harmless or harmful, just isn’t the point at all. The point, the POINT is to mess with the status quo. Get into people’s heads. Create chaos out of order. Open people’s minds and eyes to new ways of thinking. And frankly, right now, his own mind was one big annoying, frustrating, angering BLANK. After a very lengthy conversation with himself and a rather one-sided fight with a wall, he decided on a new course of action – a new form of joke. That maybe, just maybe, it’s time for a partnership. Discreetly, he leaves messages where he knows Gaav and Rodolphus will get them. The notes themselves are short and simple.

I'm not laughing. It’s time for a new order. – Mr. J

It lists a date, time, and location at the bottom. And then all he has to do is wait…

This month the topic is jokes! What type of jokes do you like? What do you think is funny? Tell us your favourite one or make up a new one!

*stage-whispers* You can even tell the naughty ones! I promise not to tell Iago if you say bad words in front of me.


Appropriate to the season, we think! Unsurprisingly the tag is jokes.

Rincewind had been sent to clean the bathrooms; on the theory that there wasn’t much in there he could break. He had however, been informed in no uncertain terms, that if he broke the mirror, seven years bad luck would be just the beginning of his troubles. He trundled the mop and bucket into the dank room and looked around with a scowl. “Call this a bathroom?” he muttered as he savagely swilled the mop in the bucket. “This isn’t a patch on Johnson’s Patent ‘Typhoon’ Superior Indoor Ablutorium with Automatic Soap Dish (Rubber Duck Optional but Recommended), a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper.” Rincewind sighed, wrung out the mop and started to work by the door. “It had boilers and tanks and pipes!” he muttered, carefully moving around the sinks. “Brass taps that looked like mermaids and shells,” he moved the bin out of the way, picking up a few wadded pieces of paper towels as he did. “An amazing bathroom,” Rincewind went on, trying not to look at the urinals as he mopped up around them. He had to do it twice. “It had a whole wardrobe for dressing gowns and a big blower thingy so you got bubbly water without eating starchy food.” Rincewind tried mopping the graffiti off the walls, after spending some moments trying to work out the anatomy. It didn’t work, so he shrugged and moved on. “It even had a special pot for your toenail clippings so they didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Not a thing like this!” He looked around the pub’s bathroom, then sighed again as he realised he’d mopped himself into a corner. “Of course, it was a Johnson,” he said as he waited for the floor to dry so he could leave. “He did the University Organ as well and to him, pipes were pipes. I wonder what really happened when the Archchancellor was taking a shower while the Librarian was playing Bubbla’s Catastrophe Suite? He never said.”

 
She's beautiful and he just... Can't. Get her. Out. Of. His. Head.
Oh, hell, not again.

Shit. Shit. Shit.
You're a pervert. Pervert, Ed. Per. Vert.
No. It's fine. It's really fine. It's just-
Shut up. Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup.

Oh, fuck.


The wall is cool against his cheek, damp with condensation from the shower.
The breath is still hitching in his chest and he really wants to just slam his forehead into the wall over and over and over. It wouldn't help. He knows that. Even if he knocked himself out, it still wouldn't help, so instead he wipes a hand over his face and - shakily - finishes dressing.

The second he makes unexpected eye contact with Zelgadis in the hallway, he goes scarlet and bolts into his room, muttering incoherently about having forgotten shoes. It's anyone's guess as to what Ed is on about as he is very clearly already wearing his boots.
 

This month's topic is bathrooms. Tell us what yours looks like, your dream bath, things you done in them, the contents of your shower, bathing habits, sharing a bathroom, etc! If it involves bathrooms, baths, or showers, it's fair game!


Yeah, I'm sure everyone's glad that the 6 year old is back to picking topics. :P And yes, the tag for this month is bathrooms. We do encourage memories, art, plots, and random explanations!

Late at night, the Joker sits cross-legged on the floor of the warehouse, looking for all intents like a child at a slumber party. Or he would, if not for the blood on the floor, and the body that is doing much more than sleeping beside him, a metal spoon sticking out of his neck. The Joker looks down, makes a "tsk" noise, and yanks the spoon out, sending another gurgle of blood onto the floor.

"Oh, not done yet? My whole FLOOR will be red soon, Steve." The Joker regards the spoon in his hand solemnly. "It's a very, very serious matter, choosing one's weapon. Oh, you might THINK I've just grabbed whatever was, ah, handy...but really, even when it happens quickly, it's done with very careful calculation. For example, while yes, I often prefer knives for their...art, sometimes a nice Uzi is just more appropriate to the situation, you know?" He chuckles as he continues, scar stretching upward. "And sometimes, more creative measures are called for. When you want it to hurt more. Or be more surprising for the victim. Hell, you probably EXPECTED a knife, didn't you, Steve?" The man does not respond, having passed over quite a few minutes ago. As such, he can't respond that his name isn't Steve. Not that it matters. "But sometimes it's better to go for the unexpected! The spoons, like this one, and the pencils, the pool cues, the barbecue tongs...oh, there WAS that one time with the tv antenna..." he continues smiling.

"But you know what my absolute favorite weapon is, Steve?" He waits, then frowns. "Oh come on, at least TRY to guess." He waits a moment longer, then shrugs. "My very special favorite? It's the mind! Not MINE, but yours! Well, ah, any persons. Use their OWN BRAIN against them, make them second guess, make them jump, make them anticipate. So by the time we even GET to the knives, or the whatever else, they're already half broken before I've so much as laid a FINGER on them!" He laughs loudly at his joke, slapping his hand down on the ground for emphasis. It makes a squelching noise as it hits the puddle of blood.

He grins down again at the body. "I like you, Steve...you're a good listener. It's, uh, a quality I admire."

Faramir was given his first sword so long ago he doesn't remember not owning one and while he was at first much more interested in his books than in weaponry it was not long before the influence of his adored brother began to set in. Boromir is ten years his senior and Faramir has spent the entirety of his sixteen years thinking his brother a god.

In some ways the two could not seem more different even though they look so much alike. Even as children it was so. As Boromir sat beside their father Denethor in court and eagerly learned from the citadel guard all he could discover and some things he shouldn't have repeated, Faramir spent his time following the keeper of Gondor's ancient library and doing odd jobs for the Wardens of the Houses of Healing. He was at his father's knee only to ask for answers and stories rather than to absorb and adopt the ways of the ruler. By the time the brothers were eight and eighteen Boromir had picked up many mannerisms of their father and commanded his first expeditions with a tone and mind very familiar to the men in his service. Faramir was said to resemble his mother or neither parent in his shy nature and his willingness to listen to any snippet of lore or history that someone would tell him.

So it startled a few of his tutors and the servants of the house when at thirteen quiet, bookish Faramir began challenging Boromir to practice swordsmanship with him. Boromir indulged him and Faramir always lost.

But he persevered and refused when Boromir kept offering to go easy on him. He learned more from the losing than he would have from a swordsman of his own ability and soon that ability was greatly expanded. Their illmatched practice never seemed to draw more than half curious glances from Denethor, but Boromir's laughter and the rough hand ruffling Faramir's hair – those gave the boy a warm, steady glow that no other's praise and no other's touch could equal.

Now that he is uprooted from home and far from the warmth of his brother's love and the long-held hope of his father's approval, Faramir carries his sword close by him even though he's already noticed that very few in this place go armed. Its weight at his side is comforting as he pushes into the Pub having come on Mina's recommendation. Here in this strange and frightening place it is a touch of home and a memory of his brother that he cannot imagine doing without.

Jack is on very good terms with the neighbors … even after Val's thieving of their post, Val's inventive torment of the little dog belonging to the Fitzwilliams in the next house on the right, and the time they let Val give Moira Brown, the girl from the family that lives on the other side, the flu.

The Fitzwilliams are an older couple and Jack doesn't know if they've caught on, or if they, like some of his older customers, have somehow gotten the idea that he and Zel are brothers – but the Browns definitely know that Zel and Jack are … together (he's never quite sure what their shared adjective should be, though he's pretty much settled on “partner” for a noun). They don't seem to mind, as Jack still tends to half-expect. Zel is still tutoring Thomas in maths, anyway, though that might be less a matter of tolerance and more a matter of the difficulty of finding someone else who can do parabolic equations in his head.

More strange is the fact that none of the neighbors have ever asked which one of them Val belongs to, ( but today ... )

“There are guns, knives of all sorts, spears, bows and arrows, and of course, your wand,” Rodolphus says, slowly getting to his feet and making his way to the bar. “But I want to remind you that anything, anything! can be used as a weapon, either for offense or defense. Even rocks, though their range and accuracy is limited. This for example.” He picks up a chopstick from the bar and holds it up, examining it. “Even this can be used as a weapon.” He saunters back to his table, where two people are seated, immobile, staring at nothing. “Don’t believe me?” he grins around. “Watch!” And he places the chopstick at the eye of the bushy-haired girl and pushes slowly, with steady pressure. There isn’t an audible sound, but the end of the chopstick disappears. The girl doesn’t react at all; she just continues sitting and staring, a half-centimeter of chopstick embedded in her eye. “You have to be careful not to go too far, too fast,” Rodolphus explains, a professor delivering a lecture. “Or you’ll penetrate the brain case before you’re ready.” He withdraws the chopstick, its end now glistening with eyeball jelly. “There aren’t many things worse than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Rodolphus chuckles. “But there are things just as bad.” And he takes the chopstick and jams it into the ear of the gangly red-headed boy at the table. The chopstick goes in a bit farther this time. Again, there is no reaction to the assault. Rodolphus pulls out the now-sticky chopstick. “Have to see if the Bertie Bott’s people might want this,” he says, appraising the goo. “So you see,” he goes on, propping his elbow on the head of the girl, who now has a shiny trail running down her face. “Just about anything you can put your hands on can be used as a weapon.” He tosses the chopstick on the table. “As for my favourite,” he shrugs, “whatever does the most damage.”

I am informed that Iago will be returning soon. Then this is the last of these godforsaken topics I must give, yes?

If you must have something, tell of your weapon of choice. Then order, eat, and get out.

Um ... what she said! :D Tag is "weapons."

Rodolphus normally paid about as much attention to the weather as he did to the state of his fingernails. But now, finished with the young man snatched because of his resemblance to Harry Potter (he had dark hair and green eyes. Close enough), he realised it was stifling in the little shack on the beach he’d appropriated for his own. There weren’t any windows and the only door was shut and sealed so he wouldn’t be interrupted. Of course, there was a silencing charm on the place. It wouldn’t do for the screams of his victims to be heard. He surveyed the blood-soaked room, extremely pleased with himself. But Merlin it was hot! Normally, dismembering didn’t work up nearly this much of a sweat. He ran his arm across his forehead, leaving a red smear behind. He decided to go for a swim, just as soon as he put the crowning touch on the afternoon. Rodolphus picked up the skull at set it almost reverently on the shelf he’d prepared. It was the first of many he planned to decorate the shack with, and his only regret was that it wasn't the real thing. Rodolphus smiled into the green eyes he’d preserved in the skull, settling a pair of glasses procured for the occasion precariously on the face. It was hard to balance them properly as there wasn't any nose. “Don’t worry Harry,” he crooned, patting the bony, bloody cheek. “You won’t be alone for long.” Bugger all but this heat was murder! Rodolphus opened the door, squinting into the blazing sun. It was lower than he’d expected. He’d spent more time with Harry than he’d realised. He also realised that it was far hotter than it ought to be for January. Not his problem. He’d earned a respite and the water would cool him off as well as wash away all the blood. Amazing how far the stuff sprayed. Rodolphus stripped down and headed for the surf. He'd tidy up later. Maybe.