critical failure

(( Parts One and Two can be found in Journal Entry of Scandalous Thoughts ... which is a horribly named blog. ))

Journal,

Remind me to never expect anything of men; romantics are long gone, in the past, and ancient history. If men are all the same, which they are beginning to look like it, then I might just give up on emotions and become the cat librarian.

The boy, Red, decided to send me roses with a letter attached. The colour in the flower, an orange/coral, conveys desire and is so very much like that of his hair I almost want to burn them and see if they change to the black of death.

Relax.

This would be easy.  Super-easy, even.  Nothing to it.  Just one vial into the other, no drips, nice and quick, like a bandage.  She checked the time.  It was still five minutes until it would be ready, about five seconds since the last time she'd checked.  Muscles clenched in her back, persistently reminding her that for the past hour, she had been sitting straight-backed in a wooden chair, huddled over a desk, watching two vials for the slightest hint of a color change.  Vial still clutched in hand, she rubbed the haze from her eyes before continuing her vigil.  Stilll blue..a little patch of sky in a bottle.  They looked almost pretty, illuminated by the lamp light.  If only the job that involved them wasn't so important.  She frowned at the little blue vials, accusingly.  So pleasant in its looks, but deep down, not nearly so good, like the sparkly city of Silvermoon or the stars who could afford houses named after seasons.  It made sense, that term, stars.  High, lofty, beautiful, sparkling, always looking down on everyone and nothing to give but their shine.  Tiavara decided then that she hated stars.

Purple!