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Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Oct. 2nd, 2008 12:55 pmOh, this graph is so accurate. XD
(I LOVE fantasy and speculative fiction, not least because they both often have lots of good slavery, but! How often does it look like this! "The swaggering annuntiptorius looked down at his trembling, manacled mesticima with a cruel expression. 'Fowclestes,' he sneered, using the pejorative term for a frail young boy-slave intended for use in the bed of a burly pederast, 'see that you do not misbehave before his exaltedness the bundlefret, or your back shall surely bleed from my spinnaminder, which is like a whip, but lashier...'")
Also, y'all, I am catastrophically behind on comments again, but y'all know I always catch up eventually, right? And that I value each and every one of your comments, and replying to them, and the conversations we start that way, beyond any possible measure, y'all know that, right? I've been sick and sleepy and busy with work, but I will get caught up, because I want to get caught up, but I also want to go ahead and post this story now because I already missed the actual equinox.
So, even though I vaguely feel that it is rude to keep posting stories when I haven't replied to all the comments from the last one (kind of like getting married again before you've written all the thank-you notes for the gifts from your first wedding), here is the last in the series of stories set on the yearly festivals: winter solstice, vernal equinox, summer solstice, Bran's birthday, and:
( Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?/ Think not of them, thou hast thy music too... )
(I LOVE fantasy and speculative fiction, not least because they both often have lots of good slavery, but! How often does it look like this! "The swaggering annuntiptorius looked down at his trembling, manacled mesticima with a cruel expression. 'Fowclestes,' he sneered, using the pejorative term for a frail young boy-slave intended for use in the bed of a burly pederast, 'see that you do not misbehave before his exaltedness the bundlefret, or your back shall surely bleed from my spinnaminder, which is like a whip, but lashier...'")
Also, y'all, I am catastrophically behind on comments again, but y'all know I always catch up eventually, right? And that I value each and every one of your comments, and replying to them, and the conversations we start that way, beyond any possible measure, y'all know that, right? I've been sick and sleepy and busy with work, but I will get caught up, because I want to get caught up, but I also want to go ahead and post this story now because I already missed the actual equinox.
So, even though I vaguely feel that it is rude to keep posting stories when I haven't replied to all the comments from the last one (kind of like getting married again before you've written all the thank-you notes for the gifts from your first wedding), here is the last in the series of stories set on the yearly festivals: winter solstice, vernal equinox, summer solstice, Bran's birthday, and:
( Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?/ Think not of them, thou hast thy music too... )
