The Nutshell

The Nutshell is a creative collective under the government of Holly-Rose and Hannah-Rose with ODD and SPONTANEOUS tamperings by Logie-Bear; made up of writers, musicians, and artists. Here teacups are rife and insanity is always technicoloured.
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Goddess Devine
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Goddess DevineSupreme OverLady

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Registration date : 2008-03-01

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PostSubject: Candle-wax   Candle-wax Icon_minitimeSat 1 Mar 2008 - 7:24

So, the idea with this was to take a quote from somewhere and use as a starting point to see what would happen... This happened, as it happens.

Quote taken from René Descartes ‘Meditations on First Philosophy’ (second meditation)

Whatever came under taste, smell, sight, touch or hearing has now altered – yet the wax remains. In its newfound form it rolls down the candle’s side and pools at the base, congealing red once more on the rim of candle-holder. Yet more wax at the tip of the tapering shaft melted into the oblivion of its previous form, and spilled over the dip in the boiling lake’s rim, the little curling like the spout of a jug carved in the path of hot liquid.

She sat at the table closest to the door, where she could see the street and the people on it, and where she was close enough to watch the dj tap instructions into his laptop. The place was mostly dim, with the occasional burst of warm light flaring up the dark red wallpaper. It struck at dramatic angles on the spray-painted canvases that tore bright coloured holes in the textured wallpaper. The music now was much louder then during the day, because night conversations are louder.

She extended a delicate, feminine finger, and punctured a little slit half-way up the candle with a black-lacquered nail. The drop of wax slid onto her fingertip, punctuating her nail with a big red dot. She left it long enough to dry, then, snapped it off from the cooling umbilical cord of residual wax, tying it to the candle’s tip.

To anyone’s eye she was a striking figure; some natural, pedestrian beauty, amplified and atypified by way of lavish, black-dyed tresses and elegant, though copious, piercings; Surrounding smoky eyes with thick spikes of eyeliner and burgundy lips. At present, she was thinking about nothing, not the absolute nothing of nirvana, but almost nothing – so close utter blankness. She watched the flame flicker, looking right through it to fix on the blackened wick, its yellow-gold surround quivering with her breath. She breathed out slowly, trying to make the flame stutter as much as possible without going out entirely. Just as she was about to fall into the flare, a hand cut into her line of sight, slicing through the heat-rippled dim and calling her back into herself. She looked up.


He was a dapper neo-dandy in a cocoa-coloured waistcoat, a perfect match with the pile of loose curls that graced the top of his head. The blue eyed smile was irresistible; she smiled back.

“My god, I barely recognised you! Haven’t seen you since – that time at Mikey’s … remember that?”

She tilted her head vaguely, as if considering, and smiled; and obscure smile – to be interpreted at will. He kept talking.

“You look different … your hair wasn’t always that colour, was it?”
“No, it was brown.”
“That’s right! It looks good though, suits you.”
“So, can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m not one to refuse”
“Still the same old Veronica”

He grinned and disappeared, swallowed up by a flock of bejewelled young girls that had just fluttered in the door, leaving behind the impression of his charming grin like the Cheshire cat. She smiled back at it, making a quick mental note; whoever Veronica was, she owed her a drink.
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