A stuffed raccoon

Dear Mother and Father,

I regret to say that I have missed my current social obligation. I am presently in the middle of an unknown forest on the trail of a wild super-bird that stole the raccoon I had planned to stuff. I am almost certain that the raccoon is rightfully mine, as it was unattended when I first discovered it. (On the other hand, if that sort of bird is mainly a scavenger, I'm not going to starve it, am I? I do hope I'm not being unreasonable!)
In case you are unsure why I would want to stuff a raccoon, Miss Dreamscape mentioned that the "military" sort of lodgings above her tavern would perhaps be more pleasant to sleep in with a stuffed raccoon. So I went out to get one, even though the aether around these parts feels...slimy, somehow.
Although I am not familiar with this particular forest, please be assured that I will return to civilization safely. At least I have a nearby place to return to! It isn't a particularly frightening forest, either. It seems to be very large, but a forest is a forest and it's hard to get lost in a place where no two locations look identical. (In that way it's almost the exact opposite of a city.) There are plenty of flowers to eat. Part of me wishes we had stayed in Dunwich a little bit longer so that I would remember more about forests, but I know your judgment was sound, as it always is.
Some wicked little part of me also wishes that I still thought well of insects, and did not realize that they carry disease which can ruin my chances of marrying well. Ignorance is bliss--until, of course, its consequences play out. Don't mourn for my mental state; you really did teach me in this area.
I hope the wild bird is not too angry with me when I catch up with it! I haven't quite plotted out what I shall do in order to reclaim my raccoon.
I wonder if Miss Dreamscape or anyone else knows I've gone. It seems unlikely. (Of course you two have obviously noticed my absence many months ago! Forgive me for that.)

Love,
Shaqad Ashbourne

Yes, there's a photograph

Mother and Father,

It has come to my attention that there is a photograph circulating in one or more publications in which you can see me in the same room as several Persons of Great Importance. I can imagine your reactions. You will have seen the photograph long before you get any of these letters, and most likely before I have even sent them. You are wondering about all this, and you are mad at me for getting myself into that situation without taking advantage of it. You are wondering why I haven't contacted you. Mother, you are wondering why I am not betrothed to Mr. Baron Wulfenbach's next of kin, and Father, you are wondering why I am not in a good school or apprenticed to a brilliant Sparkperson.
Well, I don't know how, alright? Forgive my rudeness, but I don't know how. If I knew how to do the things you want me to, I would have. I don't know how to interact with these people. I don't know how to get things I want out of them. I barely even know how to get enough food to eat. I am stupid, yes, and you knew as much. Don't be mad at me. Don't hate me. Don't hate me, please. See here: If you give me time, I will eventually get my life in order, and then you will see my picture with a wedding or achievement announcement. Then you will see what you want. Just stop telling me, in the back of my mind, that I have failed you. I don't need to be told. Please read all of my letters before you make a judgment! Please!
I know it is proper for adults to speak and children to listen, but sometimes I just wish the memories of you in the back of my mind would quiet down for once so I could hear myself think. (No "You'd be able to hear a pin drop" jokes, please.) You are never silent. You are always with me. The refining crucible has never cooled; so perhaps it is your persistent guidance that troubles me. I am the foolish offspring in the Book of Proverbs. But really, it comes down to this: I don't have what it takes to be your daughter. I never did, and I suspect I never shall.
I wish I could switch places with any girl in the world. You are loving parents, so I'm sure she would be happy, and any girl in the world would be a better daughter than me, so you would be happy, too. But maybe this is the first step. Please, clear me out of your world to make room for someone better. I cannot do this anymore.

Shaqad

Darling

Dear Mother and Father,

I slept in a real live bed!
I suppose I ought to backtrack a little. Yesterday morning, the aetheric anomaly let me go earlier than usual. I took it as a sign of improvement and tried my best to wash out any remaining contamination from my clothes. I also looked everywhere for my Landmark in case I had dropped it somewhere other than Winterfell, but I didn't find it. In the evening, I wasn't sure where to go, but I wandered back and forth throughout the city in search of a place to spend the night. I heard voices in one place that was called "Mama Valdy's". Valdyr is Miss Dreamscape's first name. I had no business going inside, but several people noticed me on the lawn and invited me in--including Miss Dreamscape herself! She survived the fall no worse for the wear! What are Jaegerpeople made of, I wonder?
Inside, there was a party going on, and I made an idiot of myself as usual. Are you quite accustomed to that yet? I'm so sorry. Someday things will get better, I hope. My first misstep involved looking for a knowing-how-to-dance machine and knocking on a circle-adorned knife-throwing target thing instead. That was embarrassing. (Furthermore, when I did find the knowing-how-to-dance machine, I wasn't able to get it to work.) Mr. Baron was there, as well as almost everyone I know and a boy not much older than me who was important enough for the European government to have personal interest in. Could I have possibly had a worse audience for my folly? Then I tried to take a piece of cake that was sitting on the counter, and I ended up tripping and falling out a window which was neither anywhere near the counter nor open at the time. I'm glad it was on the ground floor; it hurt a lot less than my hysteria surgery, and I doubt there will be any permanent marks! But as the gentleman near my age observed, "That takes talent." I believe I have reduced my pool of future suitors. Worse, I learned from the conversation that Mr. Baron has a (barely) unmarried son. You probably knew that already, but if I had known it earlier, perhaps he wouldn't be so close to whomever it is he has it in mind to marry. Ha, listen to my absurd optimism. I couldn't charm my way out of a paper bag and we all know it.
I'm getting to the part about the bed.
The event ended after the younger people's bedtime, so they had to leave early. If it was after their bedtime, it was almost certainly after mine. I considered finding an airship or some such to take me back to Winterfell so as to sleep in the back of Der Hut des Jaeger as I've done in the past. (It's warm there and the fire in the hearth easily stays lit all night.) But some people were going back to Winterfell. I was really not sure how I would be able to sleep there discreetly. After all, I have never been sure if "I leave the place to you," and "Stay as long as you like," can be accurately interpreted as "Feel free to spend the night."
Then Mama Miss Dreamscape jumped in and offered to let me stay upstairs where there are military barracks. She had a bed! It's been so long. There were even blankets on the bed! She said it might be more comfortable with a stuffed raccoon, but either way it was much better than the little seating things at the Winterfell tavern. I don't understand how any of this happened. I didn't do anything for her. I never earned the right to stay on her property. I didn't earn anything. In fact, I fell through her window! All I could come up with was that she meant to kill me in my sleep and sell my insides to science in order to pay for any damage I may have done. But here I am awake and alive; she didn't hurt me in the tiniest bit. I am now thoroughly convinced that regardless of any feral quirks in her race's appearance or mannerisms, she is no less noble than the most upstanding human beings and would never, ever, ever hurt me unless I truly deserved it. I figure I have at least another month.
And yet this matter does not end there. It does not end with a real bed in a real building on The Grid that I am explicitly allowed to sleep in. On my way upstairs to find the sleeping quarters, Mama Miss Dreamscape addressed me as "Darling" for some reason. I don't understand why she did that. This is all so surreal. I would dismiss it as an overly long dream, but my dreams are never this mild, even since coming to Steelhead and having my nighttime delusions overwhelmed with mundane brain-licking alien phantasms. Part of me believes she meant it and wants to live the rest of my life holding on to that arrogant presumption. Part of me wants to stop time right here and now and try to bask in this vanity forever. I am seriously wondering if any of the Sparkpeople have devices that can stop time. Or perhaps they can loop it back on itself. They could find the spot in the future where she finally loses patience with me and loop the day before it back around to yesterday evening. Or maybe the world will end in the near future. With so many mad scientists running around, that isn't a farfetched possibility, is it? The downside of that is that I would never see you again. Please forgive my wicked insolence. Oh, Mother and Father, I know that you love me more than anyone else on either side of Heaven or Earth ever can or will, but Mama Miss Dreamscape called me "Darling"!
But do not think I am so utterly myopic as to have ignored the negatives. Do you remember Porridge the cat? More specifically, do you remember her first owner, and do you remember her home? The poor woman had barely enough money to feed herself, yet she kept shelves and shelves of ornate heirlooms, many of them delicate glass. So when Porridge wanted to get from one end of a shelf to the other, she would tippy-toe on her little fuzzy paws between the ornaments with the skill and grace of a tightrope walker, never displacing a single thing. It occurs to me that it must take great courage to do that, when a single misstep could lead to an irrevocable, sharp, ugly mess of glass and blood. My point is that I feel a lot like Porridge right now, on a shelf surrounded by such beauty as could shatter spectacularly if I jostled it the wrong way--yet Providence has not endowed me with feline grace. So help me, I have no idea how far this shelf goes nor whether I shall make it to the end. There are so many missteps to be taken. It's more lovely than I can bear, and it could be all over so simply. May God in Heaven be with me as soon as He gets over the doily incident that tarnished His favor six years ago.

Shaqad

Fhtagn

Dear Mother and Father,

I regret to say that although I have technically gotten back to The Grid more than once, this strange extra-Grid region always pulls me back well before sundown. I suspect that I have become contaminated by it somehow. This must be reversible, mustn't it? I hope so, because I cannot think of what I might by myself do in order to atone for my profound stupidity.
My dreams have been fluctuating between the usual kind and the new calm ones where nothing worse happens that evil alien monsters stealing my head off. I get the feeling that the place I am in right now is deeply unstable for my subconscious to shift back and forth like that. (Yes, I'm blaming the environment for my mental states. Sadly typical of me, isn't it?)
I figured out that much of the moving scenery is alive, but only in the sense that vegetables or Dr. Pasteur's Microbes are alive. I've stepped on a few by accident and broken them. I must say, although I don't know what I am looking at, they are a marvel to behold. I've taken to collecting the pieces. I don't have an actual use for them, but as long as I keep getting sent back to this place, I might as well have something to show for it, and I may in the future come up with a use. Father, maybe you would know what to do with these.I finally ran into an alien, but you will be relieved to know that nothing too bad happened. A lot of aimless wandering brought me to a place full of giant stony walls, and in between some of them was an unconscious biped. I tried to wake it up, but to no avail. I fear it may be grievously sick or injured. I wish I could have done something for it, but even with my book about how to sew people, there's no guarantee that I'd be able to guess its anatomy, as it was a plump, scaly thing with spiny wings and a beard of long, noodly feelers. Worse yet, even if I'd had the knowledge, it was about the length of Boston lying down and I'd not have had large enough equipment to do anything for it. I hope it'll be alright. I feel so helpless in situations like that.
Until something beyond my control changes, I don't know what I'll do but continue to endure this. I hope I'm not missing anything of great importance back home on The Grid! Please know that even if I get stuck here or stuck in this transitional sort of existence forever, I will always love you and my heart will always be wherever you are.

Love always,
Your Shaqad

Outside The Grid

Dear Mother and Father,

I wish I could report on the latest Poetry Slam, but something unfortunate has happened. I appear to have stranded myself outside The Grid entirely. (I wonder what the inhabitants of this universe call it in their language. It probably has an equivalent of "The" in it somewhere unless they are avid aetheric travelers, because to them it would indeed be "The" surrounding universe.) I have no idea where I am, but after a few days of blind terror, I have realized that this place is so quiet that I am not in any immediate danger. I've used the extra time to tweak my cheese gun so that it works more consistently, thus preventing starvation in the near future. I wish I could simply use the Landmark device to poof back to Winterfell, but I'm almost certain I had it outside my pocket when I was poofed up to the dance place, and in any case it isn't there now.
I can't decide whether this universe is beautiful or hideous. It reminds me, vaguely, of the side effects of that one anti-shyness medicine that was bubbly and thin and changed colors frequently. I can't tell if there is anything alive around here, but some of the scenery is moving.
In case you are wondering how I got here, I'm not fully certain myself, but I saw a strange little cloudy thing I lack the vocabulary to describe well in a corner of the alley I'd been sleeping in, and I suppose I got a little bit too close.
If I ever get out of this place, which I must have already done if you have received and are reading this letter, I will have taken away a very important lesson: There are some things man was never meant to poke with a stick.

Love,
Your Shaqad

Having a ball

Dear Mother,

I went to a ball! I even danced--correctly, thanks to the Sparkpeople's technology!
Now for the less pleasant news: I am still not ready to dance with anyone, and I had no clean dresses to wear. (It was a theme masquerade, and I was able to find only a single cape sort of thing in a rubbish bin. I hope that was better than nothing. I mean, I did make the effort. But shortly after I arrived, there was a discussion of how impractical capes can be.) But think of this as a transitional step. The tiniest bit more practice, and I shall bring home the grandest of suitors! That is a promise.
There were many gentlemen there, but none close to my age. I do not know the exact ages of those present, especially considering what I learned about Jaegerpeople's ages, but I don't remember seeing anyone who might reach marrying age around the same time I do. In any case, many already had dance partners, and the very handsomest gentleman there gave Miss Dreamscape a kiss long enough to make quintuplets! (Forgive me for mentioning such vulgar matters. I shall go and stand in the corner now.) Mr. Captain danced with Miss Weatherwax the madgirl the whole night. (I wish I were a tall, beautiful Spark!) A few people looked vaguely regal, but with everyone dressed up, some or all of that may have been artificial. In fact, it was honestly very difficult to distinguish the strangers' costumes from their natural appearances. Such is the nature of the Steamlands, I suppose.
Speaking of the nature of the Steamlands, the aether last night was bending sound movement and toying with the wardrobes of those who had clothing to select costumes from. I do hope these disturbances never do anything irreversible to me. I wouldn't know what to do.
I deeply regret to say that I wasn't able to conversationally "mingle" very well. Much of the discussion centered on, of all things, graphical histories and moving pictures made in the future. No wonder it's so difficult to understand and assimilate into their culture: A lot of them have been back and forth through time! That explains a sign I saw in Winterfell: A store's name was displayed, followed by "since 2010". (When I first saw it, I was worried that I had been asleep for a hundred and twenty years! That would have been bad.) I cannot imagine what remarkable perspective this must give them to see the past, present, and future out of sequence. It must be very mind-expanding.
Because the lady who had poofed me up to the flying dance place left before I did, and because my Landmark wasn't with me, I was at first at a loss for how to get back to civilization. The place the ball was held happened to be so high in the air that I couldn't see anything below, and part of it was on fire (though I'm pretty sure that was originally meant to be decorative). So, staying there was out of the question, but so was leaving. Finally, Miss Dreamscape asked a gentleman who could fly unaided if he would take me down to the ground. He agreed to do so, and thus although I accidentally lost my grip on his hand before we had finished our descent, I was able to land in the water from a safe altitude. I never got to thank him, though. I hope he doesn't take it personally!
I remain concerned for Miss Dreamscape. She was still on the flying dance island when we left. She said she wanted to jump off and hit the ground, and from the way she talked, she didn't sound suicidal, but instead convinced she would survive. I hope to God in Heaven she was right! She's not human, after all, so she may not share our limitations. But part of me still thinks that even a block of solid steel couldn't fall from that height undamaged. I can't think of anything to do but wait and see if she ever turns up again. (She was, when I think of it, indirectly responsible for my own getting down safely. This is not a matter I can easily dismiss as being some stranger's concern.)
After getting out of the water, I ended up in a big city like Boston. I know it's not Boston, but it's still big like Boston and easy to get lost in--which I did promptly, as I'm sure you expected. I found a sheltered little alley as soon as feasible, though, and spent the night just about as safe and comfortable as I've ever been since running away from home. The surrounding aether feels off-kilter somehow, but that's to be expected in a large city full of mad scientists.
I had trouble falling asleep at first thanks to a mechanical clown a short distance away that kept speaking and telling spooky jokes, but once I did, I had a surprisingly gentle dream. In this one, I was playing croquet with the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland, and I accidentally stepped on the hem of her dress, and she yelled, "Off with her head!" Then before I could do anything, a shadowy being tore my head off and ran away with it. And that was it: No drama, no trauma, no heartache, no unspeakable mind-rending apocalypse. The two of you didn't even get hurt. I could get used to this.
I hope I will continue to make social progress. It seems that wonderful opportunities are before me if only I think to use them. Next time there is a ball, perhaps I'll have the courage to dance with a gentleman! I can't guarantee that I'll progress quite that quickly, though.

Love eternal and enduring,
Your little lady Shaqad

Cheese gun fail

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