Dear Father,
You may or may not be interested to know that I have almost created a tool. Last time I saw my acquaintances from the European government, I mentioned not being armed, and they assured me that things like cheese guns are more pragmatic. Apparently the dangers of the Steamlands are not as bad as I had assumed, nor do they take precedence over more social endeavors. So, in the time before the next Poetry Slam, I scavenged all the projectile devices I could get my hands on and attempted to put together my own cheese gun. This involved twenty-six explosions, three ruined dresses, and only one burn wound (which I expect is not very serious). Before the actual event, I was almost certain the silly thing worked, but this conclusion was premature. (I had already given up on the cheese being of any quality.)
At the actual Poetry Slam, my attempts to use my creation were problematic. Knowing me, I'm sure that does not surprise you in the teeniest, tiniest bit. It got itself most horrifically jammed at the worst times, and my attempts to fish the trusty throwing-books out of my pocket were at first mistaken as an offer to share some poetry. (I am most dreadfully sorry for disappointing such a lofty crowd. I promise I will make it up to them later on, somehow or other.)
Most fortunately for all present, someone else had proper cheese source with them.
There are other things you may want to know, most of which are far less self-indicting. A lady happened to show up with her shirt missing, though everyone was too polite to comment. Later on, a worse manifestation of the same phenomenon occurred when Miss Dreamscape arrived. She was completely mutated from head to toe, to the point where my first instinct was to question my grip on reality until everyone else pointed it out to her. Oddly enough, she behaved as though it were a cause of shame, even though everyone was aware that it was the impersonal forces of the aether that were to blame; she rushed back out for a moment until her physical form was back to the usual. The others discussed a widespread rash of aetheric disturbances in the recent past, although I had just assumed it was my imagination. It will be valuable to keep in mind whatever this tells me about the aether. What does it tell me about the aether? Oh, I wish I were near enough to ask you, although you would probably be swamped with experiments to run and have little time to attend to the silly little black hole that is my mind. In any case, the knowledge would obviously be of much more use to a learned man such as yourself than than to the likes of me. How I wish I could share this strange world with you!
In other technology news, there was a discussion about mechanical dogs, which are apparently very dangerous and live in a castle. I'm told that the best way to get one of one's own is to build it, thus ensuring its loyalty. I don't think that solution would work very well for me, but maybe you would want to try. But Mr. Captain Veles (whom I mentioned in my last letter to Mother) said that "maybe" I could someday get one. That's a wonderful start! Also, the madgirl Miss Weatherwax brought a clank gun with her that shot watermelons. I don't even know how that's physically possible: cheese can be synthesized from organic compounds in natural chemical reactions mimicking what happens in the human body and what happens afterward due to bacterial fermentation; but how do you build a gun that produces whole fresh watermelons? I guess that is what separates a Sparkperson like Miss Weatherwax from an emptyheaded waste of tissue like myself. She was working on calibrating it for use by people as opposed to clanks, but it was big and impressive and most importantly worked, unlike my cheese gun. (Anyhow, the Jaegerpeople--that is, Miss Dreamscape and Mr. Captain--enthusiastically volunteered to help the madgirl with any further testing, so I'm sure her work will function exactly as she likes within no time at all. I don't know whether I have reason to be envious of her success, though of course the daughter of Mr. Ashbourne is above such pettiness.)
These people set a very high standard as far as scientific knowledge goes, but I am sure it's for the best. It is bound to rub off on me, isn't it? Father, I will continue to work on my cheese gun and to write to you whenever I learn anything new about the Steamlands or the Sparks.
Love always,
Shaqad
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Mr. Baron's birthday
Dear Mother,
It almost pains me to attempt to record tonight's happenings. I feel as if I shall never become a proper lady, and more and more people get to see this for themselves. It may not seem as though I have any moral or empathetic capacity given my persistent behavior, but I do indeed feel remorse for letting down the family, neglecting to restore your noble status, and every other miserable thing I have ever done.
I returned to der Hut des Jaeger from my daily wanderings emptyhanded, with not a single poem to show Mr. Baron for his birthday. (Indeed, how could I invent--or find in a small, relatively unfamiliar place--a set of words fit for a ruler of nations? Yet, that was what was required of me...) I committed my first two faux pas before the party even started: I tried to hide on the roof until someone called me out on it, then tried to get down by flinging myself at my seat and fell off very ungracefully. There were a few witnesses to this, though Mr. Baron was not yet present. After this, in my most dramatic show of idiocy thus far, I did not notice the actual arrival of Mr. Baron himself at first. I shan't live that one down any time soon, I should think. Finally, when everything wound down, I don't think I was able to wish Mr. Baron a happy birthday before he was out of earshot. I am truly a terrible subject.
Because all of my follies are irreversible aspects of the past, that it might be best to focus on the positive. There was a lady present--a genie like in the Arabian Nights tales, but vaporous for some health-related reason--who referred to Mr. Baron as "Herr Hotness" with impunity. Though he may be the anthropomorphic personification of dignity, I get the impression that Mr. Baron has a high tolerance for the follies of those around him.
I was referred to as a "regular guest". I'm not sure what that entails. I hope I'm doing a proper job of it.
Several people wrote their own lyrics or modified existing ones to suit the occasion. They are very brave, in my opinion! One person even sang. I honestly believe that by the end of things, my lack of a contribution was not even noticed.
A thing I shall not soon forget about this evening was the presence of an absolutely perfect gentleman--and Heaven knows you did not raise me to abuse superlatives! (Of course, at first all I noticed was that everyone was making a fuss over his lack of hair, while I had never laid eyes on a male of his race and didn't know better. He seems to be of similar ancestry to Ms. Dreamscape and may also possibly be related to some of those whose portraits are on the walls. When I mentioned my inexperience with different races, someone suggested reading "the histories". She wasn't specific about what histories, though I'm pretty sure that Mr. Baron and at least one of the people in a wall portrait are mentioned in those graphical histories that the neighbors gave to Father, which mysteriously disappeared after I tried showed you the pretty princess on the cover of the second volume. So it might have been those. But I trust your judgment; if they are not to be read by impressionable little creatures like me, then impressionable little creatures like me shan't read them. This gentleman eventually passed around a photograph of what he looked like before the haircut anyhow, so now I know how he is "supposed to" look.) His name was Captain Veles, a solider under Mr. Baron. After the initial perplexity at coming across someone new to me, I could not help but notice his manners, which I believe are suggestive of exquisite breeding. Now, do not mistake me! Of all the horrible things one might fall into, I would gladly choose fire and acid and poison over love! I merely, humbly, submit that it may be beneficial to the family to research the marital, social, and financial statuses of his near kindred in light of the estimable heritage suggested by his behavior. (In any case, he says he is "just going on six hundred", so he himself most likely already has a most charming bride.)
One person showed up with a cheese gun, about which I became a bit curious. Then when I realized that I didn't yet own any real defensive weapons, I was assured that cheese guns are much more practical to use when friends are about, so I suppose self-defense is not as high a priority in these parts as I had imagined. That is a relief, as I'd been wandering around paranoid all the time.
The end of the party was rather confusing. People kept disappearing into thin air. I guess it's what happens when a bunch of Sparkpeople set their minds to transportation problems, but it certainly takes some adjustment for newcomers. In Boston a person might fetch their hat and coat and walk in the direction of the door; here they mention that they will be leaving shortly, then suddenly just vanish. It's difficult to bid them farewell in a timely enough manner. How do they get used to this?
Mother, while it cannot be denied that I've failed miserably at this whole socialization thingy, it must be said that the folks here, from the highest to the lowest, are inhumanly graceful about such matters. Please take that into consideration when you decide what must be done with your wild little lady.
Love forever,
Your Shaqad
It almost pains me to attempt to record tonight's happenings. I feel as if I shall never become a proper lady, and more and more people get to see this for themselves. It may not seem as though I have any moral or empathetic capacity given my persistent behavior, but I do indeed feel remorse for letting down the family, neglecting to restore your noble status, and every other miserable thing I have ever done.
I returned to der Hut des Jaeger from my daily wanderings emptyhanded, with not a single poem to show Mr. Baron for his birthday. (Indeed, how could I invent--or find in a small, relatively unfamiliar place--a set of words fit for a ruler of nations? Yet, that was what was required of me...) I committed my first two faux pas before the party even started: I tried to hide on the roof until someone called me out on it, then tried to get down by flinging myself at my seat and fell off very ungracefully. There were a few witnesses to this, though Mr. Baron was not yet present. After this, in my most dramatic show of idiocy thus far, I did not notice the actual arrival of Mr. Baron himself at first. I shan't live that one down any time soon, I should think. Finally, when everything wound down, I don't think I was able to wish Mr. Baron a happy birthday before he was out of earshot. I am truly a terrible subject.
Because all of my follies are irreversible aspects of the past, that it might be best to focus on the positive. There was a lady present--a genie like in the Arabian Nights tales, but vaporous for some health-related reason--who referred to Mr. Baron as "Herr Hotness" with impunity. Though he may be the anthropomorphic personification of dignity, I get the impression that Mr. Baron has a high tolerance for the follies of those around him.
I was referred to as a "regular guest". I'm not sure what that entails. I hope I'm doing a proper job of it.
Several people wrote their own lyrics or modified existing ones to suit the occasion. They are very brave, in my opinion! One person even sang. I honestly believe that by the end of things, my lack of a contribution was not even noticed.
A thing I shall not soon forget about this evening was the presence of an absolutely perfect gentleman--and Heaven knows you did not raise me to abuse superlatives! (Of course, at first all I noticed was that everyone was making a fuss over his lack of hair, while I had never laid eyes on a male of his race and didn't know better. He seems to be of similar ancestry to Ms. Dreamscape and may also possibly be related to some of those whose portraits are on the walls. When I mentioned my inexperience with different races, someone suggested reading "the histories". She wasn't specific about what histories, though I'm pretty sure that Mr. Baron and at least one of the people in a wall portrait are mentioned in those graphical histories that the neighbors gave to Father, which mysteriously disappeared after I tried showed you the pretty princess on the cover of the second volume. So it might have been those. But I trust your judgment; if they are not to be read by impressionable little creatures like me, then impressionable little creatures like me shan't read them. This gentleman eventually passed around a photograph of what he looked like before the haircut anyhow, so now I know how he is "supposed to" look.) His name was Captain Veles, a solider under Mr. Baron. After the initial perplexity at coming across someone new to me, I could not help but notice his manners, which I believe are suggestive of exquisite breeding. Now, do not mistake me! Of all the horrible things one might fall into, I would gladly choose fire and acid and poison over love! I merely, humbly, submit that it may be beneficial to the family to research the marital, social, and financial statuses of his near kindred in light of the estimable heritage suggested by his behavior. (In any case, he says he is "just going on six hundred", so he himself most likely already has a most charming bride.)
One person showed up with a cheese gun, about which I became a bit curious. Then when I realized that I didn't yet own any real defensive weapons, I was assured that cheese guns are much more practical to use when friends are about, so I suppose self-defense is not as high a priority in these parts as I had imagined. That is a relief, as I'd been wandering around paranoid all the time.
The end of the party was rather confusing. People kept disappearing into thin air. I guess it's what happens when a bunch of Sparkpeople set their minds to transportation problems, but it certainly takes some adjustment for newcomers. In Boston a person might fetch their hat and coat and walk in the direction of the door; here they mention that they will be leaving shortly, then suddenly just vanish. It's difficult to bid them farewell in a timely enough manner. How do they get used to this?
Mother, while it cannot be denied that I've failed miserably at this whole socialization thingy, it must be said that the folks here, from the highest to the lowest, are inhumanly graceful about such matters. Please take that into consideration when you decide what must be done with your wild little lady.
Love forever,
Your Shaqad
Thursday, July 15, 2010
No white rabbits, just opossums
Two weeks after Canada Day
Dear Mother and Father,
You will be pleased to know that I did make it back to the tavern where the important folks gather, but Mr. Baron was not present this last time. I did meet some very interesting individuals, however, and in the process became further educated about the Steamlands.
First of all, I was greeted early on by an intelligent opossum. I mean this in the same sense that I would say "an intelligent human". He was, as it were, a professor at a university and was highly educated in the field of literature and linguistics. That surprised me quite a bit, as I had never before seen a non-human with the same or greater intelligence as a human! I learned from my own mistake that individuals such as this Professor are not to be called animals. (What an embarrassing mistake to have made!) Instead, they are referred to as "Tinies", and indeed the opossum was very tiny compared to human beings, as I suppose most opossums are. He was also finely dressed. (It makes one a bit self-conscious to see small furry beings better dressed than oneself! But perhaps before long I will have cast off my racism entirely and made peace with that.) I don't think you have ever met a Tinyperson before, have you? I wonder how many of these people there are.
I also wonder if there is any possibility of inducing him to educate me. Father, you always wished I might enroll in the Miskatonic University someday--or whatever Boston or some other place has to offer--but heaven knows I'm hardly qualified for it. I know that for the sake of my development and future, I must at some point inquire as to where he teaches and how I might get into it. Perhaps we shall find that my getting lost in the Steamlands was Providence, like in the story of Joseph, and I shall be more educated and productive as a result! Of course, that all depends on my own interaction with my circumstances, in which I have considerably less faith.
There was another stranger here as well, perhaps less "strange" to my background than the Professor, but I believe I learned an equally valuable lesson from her presence.
Allow me to describe this lady's appearance. She was wearing a uniform that might have belonged to a militia of some sort, complete with a very formal-looking hat. Her ears were pointed like an elf's in a storybook. She had long hair, tied loosely back if I remember correctly, which was vivid purple and white. Her skin was light purple, and her eyes were purple in the iris but black where a human's eyes are white. I'm almost certain she had pointy clawlike fingernails. I must say I was a trifle more nervous than usual, although the friends I had already made were perfectly comfortable around her. When she saw me she smiled. I am not exaggerating when I say she had very, very, very sharp teeth--more than anything I can think of for comparison. (I also do not mean just the canines, like vampires have in illustrations.) But everyone else trusted her. In fact, they seemed to already know here very well. I don't know what she was. I don't remember any stories about people like her, either from books for from the merchant sailors next door. No one else speaks like her; she sounds German or Dutch, so perhaps she is a long way from home and the neighbors never encountered anyone like her even in the Steamlands. I would like to say that I was on my best behavior, but to be perfectly honest, I could barely think. (I probably behaved, as no one scolded me.) This mysterious soldier woman was only there a brief time, and then she left to go find something to eat. I must confess that I was relieved beyond words when this happened, not because she was a nuisance in any way, but because she had gone away completely of her own free will to eat something other than us! That has to be a good sign. Just because she looked frightening did not mean she intended any harm. Perhaps in the Steamlands there is little or no correlation between appearance and danger. Or perhaps she only looks like that as nature's technique to keep away real predators. And perhaps, there is also some importance in the detail of "dangerous to whom": Porridge, as you recall, was a grave threat to mice, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, bats, and anything else smaller than herself, but was perfectly docile around us.
If I see her again, or someone else like her, I will have to remember not act like a paranoid bunny, or at least only as much like a paranoid bunny as I do toward everyone else.
Actually, I should work on not acting like a paranoid bunny toward anyone. It would greatly improve my life in many aspects.
I can scarcely remember what else happened.
I learned that Miss Nacht, whom I met the first time, writes her own poems to recite, and yet speaks English as a second language. (Her first language is French. I wonder if she is from France, or if I am somewhere near Quebec?) Why is a non-native speaker better the language than I am? I can really see why I have disappointed you each so much over the years.
I also learned that Mr. Baron is having a birthday celebration next week. I asked if there would be a parade, but they said that he prefers more private, dignified affairs. Thus, everyone who knows him is going to come and read him splendid poems. How in the world would I get a poem worthy of a world leader? If anything brings out the paranoid bunny in me, it is tasks like that. If I tried to compose a poem, it would likely turn out as well as my infamous effort to fix that silly broken locomotive seven years ago; and where would I go to find one written by someone else? I think I shall spend the rest of the week in a haze of anxiety. (Please note that that is not a deliberate plan, but rather an unfortunate prediction.) I know that isn't what either of you would want. Father, I know you are going to want me to impress Mr. Baron and any other leaders present, and Mother, you are going to expect me to mingle and find a husband. All I can promise is that I will try. I don't wish to disappoint you or my new friends.
Love always,
Shaqad
Postscript: Mrs. Lowey said I could stay in this tavern as long as I liked. I don't believe she meant overnight, but I don't believe she'll notice if I sleep here, either. She also said I "did well" with regard to tonight's social interaction. I suppose she's one of those people who lie to make others feel better, but I can hardly judge such a pleasant and well-meaning individual for that kind of behavior.
You will be pleased to know that I did make it back to the tavern where the important folks gather, but Mr. Baron was not present this last time. I did meet some very interesting individuals, however, and in the process became further educated about the Steamlands.
First of all, I was greeted early on by an intelligent opossum. I mean this in the same sense that I would say "an intelligent human". He was, as it were, a professor at a university and was highly educated in the field of literature and linguistics. That surprised me quite a bit, as I had never before seen a non-human with the same or greater intelligence as a human! I learned from my own mistake that individuals such as this Professor are not to be called animals. (What an embarrassing mistake to have made!) Instead, they are referred to as "Tinies", and indeed the opossum was very tiny compared to human beings, as I suppose most opossums are. He was also finely dressed. (It makes one a bit self-conscious to see small furry beings better dressed than oneself! But perhaps before long I will have cast off my racism entirely and made peace with that.) I don't think you have ever met a Tinyperson before, have you? I wonder how many of these people there are.
I also wonder if there is any possibility of inducing him to educate me. Father, you always wished I might enroll in the Miskatonic University someday--or whatever Boston or some other place has to offer--but heaven knows I'm hardly qualified for it. I know that for the sake of my development and future, I must at some point inquire as to where he teaches and how I might get into it. Perhaps we shall find that my getting lost in the Steamlands was Providence, like in the story of Joseph, and I shall be more educated and productive as a result! Of course, that all depends on my own interaction with my circumstances, in which I have considerably less faith.
There was another stranger here as well, perhaps less "strange" to my background than the Professor, but I believe I learned an equally valuable lesson from her presence.
Allow me to describe this lady's appearance. She was wearing a uniform that might have belonged to a militia of some sort, complete with a very formal-looking hat. Her ears were pointed like an elf's in a storybook. She had long hair, tied loosely back if I remember correctly, which was vivid purple and white. Her skin was light purple, and her eyes were purple in the iris but black where a human's eyes are white. I'm almost certain she had pointy clawlike fingernails. I must say I was a trifle more nervous than usual, although the friends I had already made were perfectly comfortable around her. When she saw me she smiled. I am not exaggerating when I say she had very, very, very sharp teeth--more than anything I can think of for comparison. (I also do not mean just the canines, like vampires have in illustrations.) But everyone else trusted her. In fact, they seemed to already know here very well. I don't know what she was. I don't remember any stories about people like her, either from books for from the merchant sailors next door. No one else speaks like her; she sounds German or Dutch, so perhaps she is a long way from home and the neighbors never encountered anyone like her even in the Steamlands. I would like to say that I was on my best behavior, but to be perfectly honest, I could barely think. (I probably behaved, as no one scolded me.) This mysterious soldier woman was only there a brief time, and then she left to go find something to eat. I must confess that I was relieved beyond words when this happened, not because she was a nuisance in any way, but because she had gone away completely of her own free will to eat something other than us! That has to be a good sign. Just because she looked frightening did not mean she intended any harm. Perhaps in the Steamlands there is little or no correlation between appearance and danger. Or perhaps she only looks like that as nature's technique to keep away real predators. And perhaps, there is also some importance in the detail of "dangerous to whom": Porridge, as you recall, was a grave threat to mice, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, bats, and anything else smaller than herself, but was perfectly docile around us.
If I see her again, or someone else like her, I will have to remember not act like a paranoid bunny, or at least only as much like a paranoid bunny as I do toward everyone else.
Actually, I should work on not acting like a paranoid bunny toward anyone. It would greatly improve my life in many aspects.
I can scarcely remember what else happened.
I learned that Miss Nacht, whom I met the first time, writes her own poems to recite, and yet speaks English as a second language. (Her first language is French. I wonder if she is from France, or if I am somewhere near Quebec?) Why is a non-native speaker better the language than I am? I can really see why I have disappointed you each so much over the years.
I also learned that Mr. Baron is having a birthday celebration next week. I asked if there would be a parade, but they said that he prefers more private, dignified affairs. Thus, everyone who knows him is going to come and read him splendid poems. How in the world would I get a poem worthy of a world leader? If anything brings out the paranoid bunny in me, it is tasks like that. If I tried to compose a poem, it would likely turn out as well as my infamous effort to fix that silly broken locomotive seven years ago; and where would I go to find one written by someone else? I think I shall spend the rest of the week in a haze of anxiety. (Please note that that is not a deliberate plan, but rather an unfortunate prediction.) I know that isn't what either of you would want. Father, I know you are going to want me to impress Mr. Baron and any other leaders present, and Mother, you are going to expect me to mingle and find a husband. All I can promise is that I will try. I don't wish to disappoint you or my new friends.
Love always,
Shaqad
Postscript: Mrs. Lowey said I could stay in this tavern as long as I liked. I don't believe she meant overnight, but I don't believe she'll notice if I sleep here, either. She also said I "did well" with regard to tonight's social interaction. I suppose she's one of those people who lie to make others feel better, but I can hardly judge such a pleasant and well-meaning individual for that kind of behavior.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Arrival in Winterfell
Canada Day
My Dearest and Most Beloved Mother and Father,
I've got paper to write on! Isn't that wonderful? I shall tell you how I got it further on!
First of all, I must sincerely apologize for running off the way I did. Please know that it was never, ever, ever, ever, ever my intention to abandon you. I only meant to go out for a brief stroll--first before the flat exploded to take my mind off of our tiny quarrel, and then afterward to take a rest from all the strangers asking me what business I had sitting on my own doorstep for three days. (With my luck, you both returned home shortly after I left.) Anyhow, you know how I am in cities. I got myself terribly lost terribly fast. Thereafter, all my efforts to find either you or the neighborhood were in vain. I do miss you almost more than I can bear. But please don't fret, because one way or another, I will come home! I know how much you love me, and I'll not leave you to pine for me in torment.
(Please know that in spite of my behavior, I really do love you back, both of you.
Now, you are probably wondering about my whereabouts. I'm actually wondering that myself. My best guess is currently "Winterfell, Canada" because I saw a sign that said "Winterfell" and met some people celebrating Canada Day. (It was they who gave me the paper!) There are a few things about this place that might make it a bit more easily identifiable to those more educated than myself. I arrived here via water, and this whole side of town seems to be a harbor. There also appears to be a waterfall not too far away, but I haven't gotten a close look at it. For another thing, the sun has neither risen nor set since I arrived here a few hours ago. That seems a bit peculiar to me, as I'm almost sure sunrises and sunsets don't usually last that long. The sun is rising or setting over the water, so I guess the harbor is either due east or due west, if that helps at all. Another thing of note is that this part of town appears to be absolutely infested with furry little elephants the size of mice. I didn't realize that baby elephants were that tiny--and where are the adults? Are they indigenous to this area, or are they some silly little runaway science project that will be cleaned up by the end of the week?
I do hope you can find me or vice versa! It isn't fitting for someone as young and flighty as myself to be wandering alone. I can't believe I've survived this long, in fact. The calendars in the place I got the paper from say that Canada day is July first. It was the end of March when the flat was razed, wasn't it?
Anyhow, on to the subject of the origins of this paper! I had been walking up and down the quiet streets of this Winterfell place when I smelt the vapors of fresh gingerbread. I went close to the building for observation, as I'd been living on lemon drops and weeds for the past few months and had recently run out of lemon drops. The building was a tavern, and it had some cookies on the counter for guests to take freely. But there were people about, and you know how I feel about people, so I attempted to wait inside for them to go. But instead of them going, I was invited inside by the next patron to arrive. You shall never guess who that was! Do you remember the name "Baron Wulfenbach" from the newspapers? I don't remember whether he was the President of Europe or the President of the Sparkpeople, but either way, it was him! Of course I had to go inside after that.
Inside, there were several people reciting poetry. I didn't have any poetry to recite (which is just as well because in their culture, you show appreciation for a performance by throwing things), which I think disappointed them, but I did get to learn a little bit more about the rabbit hole I've fallen down. They confirmed that I'm in the Steamlands. Most of the stories the neighbors told us were about the Steamlands, weren't they? I did make a mistake and start prattling about the stories a bit. Now a group of adults, some of them clearly very important, including the President of Europe, has been made keenly aware of my stupidity. I know this is quite regrettable, and I've cut off some once-in-a-lifetime marriage opportunities by crushing any illusions about myself that these noble households might have developed. But on the bright side, there are plenty more people who haven't heard me prattle yet! Queen Victoria hasn't, and neither has President Harrison. In fact, I bet there are many well-to-do families in America, Europe, the Steamlands, and beyond who have yet to develop an appropriately negative opinion of me! Please don't be mad. I'm very sorry, though. Really, I am. I'm going to go find a corner to stand in right now and think about what I've done, alright?
I'm back from standing in the corner now. Continuing with the subject at hand, I received three books to throw at people reciting poems. A lady by the name of Lowey--who may or may not have been the Vice President of Europe--handed me a copy of Coffeehouse Reading, and Mr. Baron himself gave me two textbooks! I shall have to have a look at them later. Unfortunately, I never did get the hang of throwing books correctly, further adding to the level of incompetence those present observed. But the non-textbook had some blank pages in the back, and that is where I got this paper! (In case you were wondering, I also got some gingerbread. It tastes much better than flowers.)
Shortly after my prattling, someone told me something useful: The Steamlands really are "wild" as the stories say. I don't know in what ways that is, and I don't know if every story is correct, but that's good to know. They also said that there are colorful beings about. I hope they don't mean the evil aliens from the story of Princess Canolli, which forced her to build a music box and trapped her inside. That is one story I would not like to see brought to life. I would hate to spend my life in a music box even if I knew how to dance correctly. Another thing they said was that the mice around here carry defensive weapons, and the cats respect them. I really do feel as though I've stepped into a dream! I wonder if I shall meet any of these mice.
At the end of the evening, Mr. Baron set off some beautiful fireworks. I almost cried because they made me miss home so much, but I don't think I showed any signs of it. See, Mother, there's hope for me yet!
They told me I could come back next week, though I don't know if I can find poetry for them--or if I can find the building, for that matter, since this isn't exactly the Dunwich swamps and I'm highly likely to get lost among all the boxy buildings before too long. But if I don't get lost again, and if I'm not on my way back to Boston, I'll probably try to get back to that place and have more gingerbread.
You know, the people were all very nice even when I didn't deserve it. Mr. Baron himself is the anthropomorphization of dignity, and I'm sure you would get something out of meeting him, Father, especially if you'd like to rule something in the future. I hope that if I happen to be around these folks more, I pick up something of their manner myself!
I still hope to see you very, very soon! At the very least, I hope that I will figure out where to send this letter and others now that we no longer have a flat!
Love always and forever,
Your Shaqad
I've got paper to write on! Isn't that wonderful? I shall tell you how I got it further on!
First of all, I must sincerely apologize for running off the way I did. Please know that it was never, ever, ever, ever, ever my intention to abandon you. I only meant to go out for a brief stroll--first before the flat exploded to take my mind off of our tiny quarrel, and then afterward to take a rest from all the strangers asking me what business I had sitting on my own doorstep for three days.
(Please know that in spite of my behavior, I really do love you back, both of you.
Now, you are probably wondering about my whereabouts. I'm actually wondering that myself. My best guess is currently "Winterfell, Canada" because I saw a sign that said "Winterfell" and met some people celebrating Canada Day. (It was they who gave me the paper!) There are a few things about this place that might make it a bit more easily identifiable to those more educated than myself. I arrived here via water, and this whole side of town seems to be a harbor. There also appears to be a waterfall not too far away, but I haven't gotten a close look at it. For another thing, the sun has neither risen nor set since I arrived here a few hours ago. That seems a bit peculiar to me, as I'm almost sure sunrises and sunsets don't usually last that long. The sun is rising or setting over the water, so I guess the harbor is either due east or due west, if that helps at all. Another thing of note is that this part of town appears to be absolutely infested with furry little elephants the size of mice.
I do hope you can find me or vice versa! It isn't fitting for someone as young and flighty as myself to be wandering alone. I can't believe I've survived this long, in fact. The calendars in the place I got the paper from say that Canada day is July first. It was the end of March when the flat was razed, wasn't it?
Anyhow, on to the subject of the origins of this paper! I had been walking up and down the quiet streets of this Winterfell place when I smelt the vapors of fresh gingerbread. I went close to the building for observation, as I'd been living on lemon drops and weeds for the past few months and had recently run out of lemon drops. The building was a tavern, and it had some cookies on the counter for guests to take freely. But there were people about, and you know how I feel about people, so I attempted to wait inside for them to go. But instead of them going, I was invited inside by the next patron to arrive. You shall never guess who that was! Do you remember the name "Baron Wulfenbach" from the newspapers? I don't remember whether he was the President of Europe or the President of the Sparkpeople, but either way, it was him!
Inside, there were several people reciting poetry. I didn't have any poetry to recite (which is just as well because in their culture, you show appreciation for a performance by throwing things), which I think disappointed them, but I did get to learn a little bit more about the rabbit hole I've fallen down. They confirmed that I'm in the Steamlands. Most of the stories the neighbors told us were about the Steamlands, weren't they? I did make a mistake and start prattling about the stories a bit. Now a group of adults, some of them clearly very important, including the President of Europe, has been made keenly aware of my stupidity. I know this is quite regrettable, and I've cut off some once-in-a-lifetime marriage opportunities by crushing any illusions about myself that these noble households might have developed. But on the bright side, there are plenty more people who haven't heard me prattle yet! Queen Victoria hasn't, and neither has President Harrison. In fact, I bet there are many well-to-do families in America, Europe, the Steamlands, and beyond who have yet to develop an appropriately negative opinion of me! Please don't be mad. I'm very sorry, though. Really, I am. I'm going to go find a corner to stand in right now and think about what I've done, alright?
I'm back from standing in the corner now. Continuing with the subject at hand, I received three books to throw at people reciting poems. A lady by the name of Lowey--who may or may not have been the Vice President of Europe--handed me a copy of Coffeehouse Reading, and Mr. Baron himself gave me two textbooks! I shall have to have a look at them later. Unfortunately, I never did get the hang of throwing books correctly, further adding to the level of incompetence those present observed. But the non-textbook had some blank pages in the back, and that is where I got this paper! (In case you were wondering, I also got some gingerbread. It tastes much better than flowers.)
Shortly after my prattling, someone told me something useful: The Steamlands really are "wild" as the stories say. I don't know in what ways that is, and I don't know if every story is correct, but that's good to know. They also said that there are colorful beings about. I hope they don't mean the evil aliens from the story of Princess Canolli, which forced her to build a music box and trapped her inside. That is one story I would not like to see brought to life. I would hate to spend my life in a music box even if I knew how to dance correctly. Another thing they said was that the mice around here carry defensive weapons, and the cats respect them. I really do feel as though I've stepped into a dream! I wonder if I shall meet any of these mice.
At the end of the evening, Mr. Baron set off some beautiful fireworks. I almost cried because they made me miss home so much, but I don't think I showed any signs of it. See, Mother, there's hope for me yet!
They told me I could come back next week, though I don't know if I can find poetry for them--or if I can find the building, for that matter, since this isn't exactly the Dunwich swamps and I'm highly likely to get lost among all the boxy buildings before too long. But if I don't get lost again, and if I'm not on my way back to Boston, I'll probably try to get back to that place and have more gingerbread.
You know, the people were all very nice even when I didn't deserve it. Mr. Baron himself is the anthropomorphization of dignity, and I'm sure you would get something out of meeting him, Father, especially if you'd like to rule something in the future. I hope that if I happen to be around these folks more, I pick up something of their manner myself!
I still hope to see you very, very soon! At the very least, I hope that I will figure out where to send this letter and others now that we no longer have a flat!
Love always and forever,
Your Shaqad
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