Topher Lydon
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Tabby's journey was the lesson Granny needed to teach him. By Keeping Alvin behind, Tabby had to face his separation from the first roots he's ever, really, put down. And it answered the question for Tabby that staying never could. What's more important, a home and love, or the road and idealized freedom? A question he now has the answer for.
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None, utterly concise, a message delivered with fanfare, and signed in blood. Ben's utter ruthlessness on display and painted in Kier's colours for Dyson to see. A declaration of war, crisp and clear. But Kier is getting so close to being exactly what Ben wants him to be. If only he hadn't hesitated...
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Chapter Fourteen: The Border and the Blood The border between Cradle Grove and the Blackwood estate wasn’t drawn on any council map. It was a scar in the turf, written in neglect and contested fear. It ran through a desolate patch of scrubland known with grim local irony as "The Green." It was a no-man’s-land of bald earth, broken glass that glittered like malignant dew, and the coiled, pale sausages of dog shit. Council mowers gave it a wide berth. It was a dumping ground for the es
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Captain vs Goofball is another light Merrickville story - Brian is our resident Giraffe Pastry Chef The Coyote stories are also about Brian - Brian earns his Ninja nickname making him the Ninja Giraffe Pastry Chef. The earlier Carter books are all set in Merrickville and deal with the parents of many of the characters you read about in the modern books.
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Ben is going to surprise you.
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it can be said that a Solipsist is also a sociotpath, it's a particular breed. Where they believe only they are real, and that everyone else is a character in their story, NPC's in a game. that they are irrelevant like video game characters.
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:: lifts rock and looks for precious feedback ::
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Oh Ben definately knows what Kier is doing with Lee. out of the two, Riley and Lee, Ben understands Lee's attractiveness to Kier better. Riley makes zero sense to Ben, he's a cockroach made of rubber and no matter how many times Riley gets stepped on, he bounces back. That confuses the hell out of a solipsist like Ben.
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I could complain about the cost of running the heating on Electric. It's bordering on a Pound an hour. But with a 79 pound standing charge for gas (per month BEFORE using any) I prefer to stick to the Electric, at least I control when it's on and off that way.
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:: inclines head :: Winters end.
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**Chapter 13: The Crack in the Ice & The Returning Sun** The bridge over the Rideau Canal was suspended in a state of gray, misty waiting. It was the fragile, breath-held hour of the morning, the world still draped in a veil of silver frost, deciding whether or not to wake up. The air held the sharp, crystalline bite of a winter not yet ready to fully relinquish its grasp, but the sun, a pale gold coin cresting the black fringe of the treeline, felt different. It wasn't the weak,
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Ben is intrigued by Kieran. He can stir the situation, watch what happens. Ants in an ant farm that he can control. He is intriguing to write, his experiments, his lies, and his masks.
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With the energy prices round these parts? BWHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA :: wipes tears :: oh my... the electricity board man would salivate and raise my rates if he saw me withing 500 meters of a place that sells one. We're paying some of the highest rates in the country round these parts. The annoying side of being technically inside of Stratford-upon-Avon. Far too many rich people driving the prices up to crazy levels. Don't get me started on the Council Tax hikes, or the water rates.... I swear the taxes we're paying are insane.
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I think they'd take one look at my little cottage, turn up their noses, and set off to warmer climates... my cottage is a rather damp affair, annoyingly. (So damp my kitchen stove rusts despite being only a couple of years old) no cast would be caught anywhere near.
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Will do, it's ruddy cold over here, I am actively hugging my little heater
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Riley is *still* Winning No matter what Lee thinks.
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Good morning
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Chapter Thirteen: The Heart and The Claw Cradle Grove woke damp and twitchy, its concrete skin itching with a new, bizarre rash of imitation. The rain had stopped near dawn, leaving the estate waterlogged, heavy with the memory of the deluge and the solitary figure who had walked through it. But in the sodden hours that followed, a mutation had occurred. It wasn't just gossip that spread; it was an aesthetic. A cargo-cult fashion trend, born in the charity shops and bathroom cabinets
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Ploughing?
