"Paul’s Early Blush" - a short story.
Written on the spot by Christina N as she realizes she didn’t post on Wednesday and feels bad.
The sad thing about Paul is that he doesn’t believe in anything, least of all himself. One day, when he was eight and he fell over and hurt his knee, his mother cradled him and softly stroked his hair, saying ‘Shhh, everything will be fine’. Even then, through the tears and snot streaming down his face, Paul had whispered ‘You don’t know that’. His knee healed, but to this day, he still finds it hard to put faith in anything.
Now in his early thirties, Paul is a suspicious man. The weatherman and the lady who lives across the street are some of his regular targets; their promises seem as empty as the glass sitting in front of Paul at this very moment:
She is late.
The pulp is still sticking to the inside of the tiny glass - why do they serve orange juice in such tiny glasses? are they playing a practical joke? - but the plate of food is untouched. Paul doesn’t buy into the idea of buffets, so he always picks just one meal. How preposterous, to think people would want more than one kind of eggs on their plate at a time! He checks his watch. He taps his fingers against the glass of pulp, thinking, with a jolt of remorse, if he should’ve stayed up in the room with her. No, no, she sent him away. She said she’d be right down. And yet, after twenty minutes of waiting, there is still no sign of her.
Somehow, through the clinking of cutlery against china and the sounds of people chattering and eating, he can hear her footsteps as she approached the door of the dining hall. He looks down at the empty glass and realizs how rude it must seem to her that he had gulped down the juice already. That he couldn’t even wait for her, that he didn’t trust her. The doors open, she steps in, and even before she begins to smile, Paul blushes.

"Paul’s Early Blush" - a short story.

Written on the spot by Christina N as she realizes she didn’t post on Wednesday and feels bad.

The sad thing about Paul is that he doesn’t believe in anything, least of all himself. One day, when he was eight and he fell over and hurt his knee, his mother cradled him and softly stroked his hair, saying ‘Shhh, everything will be fine’. Even then, through the tears and snot streaming down his face, Paul had whispered ‘You don’t know that’. His knee healed, but to this day, he still finds it hard to put faith in anything.

Now in his early thirties, Paul is a suspicious man. The weatherman and the lady who lives across the street are some of his regular targets; their promises seem as empty as the glass sitting in front of Paul at this very moment:

She is late.

The pulp is still sticking to the inside of the tiny glass - why do they serve orange juice in such tiny glasses? are they playing a practical joke? - but the plate of food is untouched. Paul doesn’t buy into the idea of buffets, so he always picks just one meal. How preposterous, to think people would want more than one kind of eggs on their plate at a time! He checks his watch. He taps his fingers against the glass of pulp, thinking, with a jolt of remorse, if he should’ve stayed up in the room with her. No, no, she sent him away. She said she’d be right down. And yet, after twenty minutes of waiting, there is still no sign of her.

Somehow, through the clinking of cutlery against china and the sounds of people chattering and eating, he can hear her footsteps as she approached the door of the dining hall. He looks down at the empty glass and realizs how rude it must seem to her that he had gulped down the juice already. That he couldn’t even wait for her, that he didn’t trust her. The doors open, she steps in, and even before she begins to smile, Paul blushes.


File under: Shit that actually happened.
(To clarify… we don’t have a thought control machine.)

File under: Shit that actually happened.

(To clarify… we don’t have a thought control machine.)


2
Aug 19

Hello friends, I’ve had mock exams all week so I haven’t really had time to put anything together. I have, however, had time to begin lining the walls of my room with notes.
These notes are organised as follows:

  • English notes are by my desk (so I can ponder Othello while on Tumblr)
  • Classics notes are by my bed (so I can wake up every morning to the sweet smell of Aristophanes’ comedies)
  • And right now my Media notes are in the bathroom (so I can think about the music industry while lathering myself up in the shower)
  • Also, there’s a whole bunch of Photography and Design stuff scattered across my floor/my physical desktop/my computer’s desktop.

BONUS POST
To make up for my absence last week, here’s a picture of me at a superhero themed party I recently attended. The title of my costume was Things That Would Happen if Magneto and Charles Xavier had a Child.


(the girl standing next to me is Wolverine)
P.S. Here’s my friend Rasmus as Rorschach

P.P.S. Here are my friends Fulton and Matt and Beast and Nightcrawler


Trying and Troublesome: An Acrostic Poem (or, “Life Lessons”) by Cody Shuttleworth

Trying and Troublesome: An Acrostic Poem (or, “Life Lessons”) by Cody Shuttleworth


I was trying to make a riddle. Then I failed. Then I wrote some words. Then I drew a plait that turned into a rope.
Sounds pretty troublesome to me!

I was trying to make a riddle. Then I failed. Then I wrote some words. Then I drew a plait that turned into a rope.

Sounds pretty troublesome to me!


A wee cross stitch I made for those trying and troublesome visitors.

Displayed lovingly in my hallway.

A wee cross stitch I made for those trying and troublesome visitors.

Displayed lovingly in my hallway.


Aug 07
Oh man. Oh no. Oh sweet Mother of Jesus.I didn’t post anything this week. I can’t even come up with a passable excuse.
Uhh. Anyway.Here’s the new theme.

Oh man. Oh no. Oh sweet Mother of Jesus.
I didn’t post anything this week.
I can’t even come up with a passable excuse.

Uhh. Anyway.
Here’s the new theme.


A pilot, a clown and a gay walk into a bar…

A pilot, a clown and a gay walk into a bar…


Nothing says “dressed up” like a glamorous red pout. It’s possible I’ve taken my collection just a leetle too far. That probably won’t stop me from adding to it frequently though.

Nothing says “dressed up” like a glamorous red pout. It’s possible I’ve taken my collection just a leetle too far. That probably won’t stop me from adding to it frequently though.


Guess who!
We have so many disguises. Some have become obsolete, we have shed them like a snake sheds its skin. Some are used every day, to let others know who we think we are.
Who is this person?

Guess who!

We have so many disguises. Some have become obsolete, we have shed them like a snake sheds its skin. Some are used every day, to let others know who we think we are.

Who is this person?