wizzard890

Another small preamble to the picspam: I couldn't believe how damn green this place was. I mean, even if I wasn't from the desert, the English countryside still would have floored me. But as it is, fields of wildflowers are a far cry from saguaros.





( Moar picspam? )

Gorgeous, yeah?


+

Okay. I'm going to try not to blather too much in this post. I've got a zillion pictures here, so let's let them speak for themselves, yeah? I spent about a month in a hostel in England, in a little town called Liss. It's about forty miles out of London, so the trip into the city was pretty easy (if a bit expensive).

Have a teaser photo of Confused!Em at a train station in the morning on her way to London. Freaking trains. I feel like I've been proven to be rather unintelligent by my inability to figure out England's transportation system.





( Some Moar? )

Stay tuned for Part 2. There will be glorious English countryside. Cross my heart.


+

You know what sucks?

No?

Well, I'll tell you.

What sucks is spending a zillion freaking years in the Houston airport yesterday, only to get home and be informed that your uncle has been having a string of affairs over the past ten years, told his wife in a screaming argument in front of your cousins, and was summarily written out of The Will (yes, it merits the capital letters) by your grandfather.

It's all very Italian.

So, guess who has to fly her ass back out to Texas? Yup. I don't really have to, per se, but I feel I've got a responsibility to be there for my cousins. My computer and I are shacking up in some Holiday Inn until this whole thing smoothes over.

Fuck. I hate this so much.


+

Internet cafe.

Tottenham Court Road, London.

I've just paid a pound for an hour and am feeling rather thrifty.

Was up until two last night writing Hetalia femmeslash. So, yeah. My time here is not being ill-spent.

Abbey Road later, and St. Paul's after that.

I fucking love this place.



+

Title: Love Is Not All
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Russia/America
Summary: 1922: Despite the cessation of diplomatic contact, American aid pours into Russia in his time of need. America camps out at Russia's house to take care of him, and to those of you who stopped reading the instant you saw the rating: the answer to your question is yes, they do.

Hi all! wizzard890 is still on vacation, but like the Red Menace, TCE marches on! I'll be posting one of our stockpiled fics every 4-5 days while she's away. This one goes on her journal, so the distribution of joint posts remains equitable while she's away. -PyrrhicComedy

( This wasn't like the last time Russia went hungry. )

This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.

Title: Interregnum
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG
Summary: "These new guys--they're kinda, uh, they're kinda weird, about how much they'd like to 'spread the revolution.' That's, like…that's not the kind of thing the rest of us like to hear, you know? We don't need any revolutions, thanks." (The American embassy in Moscow closes its doors, and Russia comes to say goodbye.)



+++


( America pulled his things down from the shelves of the Moscow embassy and tried not to hate himself for it. )

+++


Reviews are greatly appreciated!


+

I'm not much for video games. They were utterly discouraged in my house when I was growing up, and now that I'm living on my own, I'd rather read a book. Still, I can't help but feel that if I'd played Tetris when I was Skinny, Freckled, Little!Emily, this entire day would have gone a bit more smoothly.

For today is moving day, and I've just spent the past six hours packing up all the shit in my dorm. I was making damn good time, actually...until I turned to my closet.

Now, I have the exact same amount of clothing today as I did when I came up here. The only misguided purchase I made this year was a plunging-neckline top that I'd planned to wear for my friend's bachelorette party. Unfortunately, it had been designed for a girl with a rather more, um, willowy figure than I myself possess. Long story short, I looked like a barmaid. It was bad.

Anyway, other than that, my wardrobe has remained in stasis, awaiting the day I have a steady income again. So I don't understand how it doesn't FIT. Same box, same clothes...Ugh. Putting stuff in giant things of Tupperware shouldn't be this headache-inducing.


To-Do List. Of Awesome.

Real Life

-Finish packing before 6:30 this evening.

-Try to scrub the lyrics to Tangled Up In Blue off your mirror. The college will charge you.

-Go on a Ben & Jerry's run. Oh ho ho yes.

-Sell back books, cross fingers, hope they don't shank you like last time. Because I really fucking wanted to keep the collected works of Anna Swir.

-Fangirl over LOST at 8:00 sharp.


Concerning England

-Figure out what the weather is like, and dress hotly accordingly.

-Tell the bank I'll be traveling abroad.

-Buy a large, spiral-bound notebook for the purpose of recording sudden inspiration. And, um, fic.


Fandom

-You know the Bolsheviks and shit? Yeah. That.

-William Blake + England.

-Shameless Israel/Babylon femmeslash. Aaannd, I only just noticed that they're both OCs...Goddammit. Cameos from legit characters will be forthcoming.

-Birthday present for the greatness that is pyrrhiccomedy.

-Also, try to prepare for the withdrawal symptoms that will arise upon my being deprived of the Internet for a month.


All right, no more procrastinating. *goes back to pondering the impossibility that is her dorm closet*


+

So after panicking for a few solid hours this afternoon, I decided the best thing to do would to go out and lie on the grass next to my dorm in this glorious spring weather, just like every other granola-munching, Birkenstocks-wearing, tattooed-with-Hindi kid on this campus.

It was just what the doctor ordered.

Me, my camera, and Dylan's Blood on the Tracks playing on my iPod: a total breath of fresh air.

I has pictures.





( And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue/Do paint the meadows with delight... )

+

Title: An Understanding
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "The papers said you ate him...I don't know if I believe that, but a murder is a murder. What happens to the body is beside the point." (April, 1903. The implications of the Kishinev Pogrom sweep through Russia, and America gets to be a hero.)


+++


( Israel wasn't sure which hurt worse... )

+++


Reviews are greatly appreciated!


+

I feel pretty good. But I look like I just rolled out of bed. All the time. Suppose I should take what I can get, really.

So I'm finally back on my feet again, although I'm not going to start hitting up classes until tomorrow. The past few days have been basically make-up fests, with me trying to catch up on all the homework/essays/lectures I missed. I've got this epic 15-page research paper looming over me, but I don't think there's a chance in hell I'll finish it before the end of the year. I mean, reading week starts on monday, and then...finals. There's not going to be time for me to try to think up a shit-ton of information on the inherent spirituality in apocalyptic films and literature. (If you see this essay prompt for what it is, i.e. an excuse to watch an epic number of zombie flicks and then try to superimpose some kind of higher meaning onto them, then you get points.)

At the moment, I'm trying to explain the nature of Stonehenge in a paper I should have turned in last Friday. But the professor is very understanding. Um. Awesomely/creepily so.

Me: *drags self into office, weak and sickly* "Professor...I kind of have something I need to talk to you about."

My Art History Professor: *stares at me for a moment* "What class are you in again?"

Me: *facepalm* "Prehistoric to Early Renaissance."

My Art History Professor: "You're the one with the big hair who actually participates, right?"

Me: *wonders if she will forever be "the one with the big hair"* "Yeah."

My Art History Professor: "Well, you've been absent lately."

Me: "Yeah, about that. I'm sort of in a condition."

My Art History Professor: *looks me up and down* "I'm about eighty-seven percent sure you're not carrying my child, so it's got to be some other medical thing, right?"

Me: *blinks* "I...uh...what?" *decides the reins of this conversation have just been jerked out of her hands* "Only eighty-seven percent?"

My Art History Professor: *shrugs* "Anything's possible."

Me: "Yeah. Um. Anyway, I need an extension on that paper. I'm having surgery."

My Art History Professor: "Oh. 'Kay."

And that was that. It was a rather odd exchange. But then again, he's a hippie who lives in Sedona and takes the class on guided meditations every other Wednesday, so I don't really know what I was expecting.

In other news, next week promises to be, if nothing else, a non-stop writing jubilee. Because I'm heading off to England in May, pyrrhiccomedy and I are going to frontload a ton of installments of The Chosen End. It's going to rock.


+