seize the dave

ink review: rohrer and klingner scabiosa

2012-02-16T18:13:00.000-05:00

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We writers often struggle with the concept that our words might not survive us. Thousands of artists have produced countless poems and plays and prose over the years, of which but a few remain in the popular consciousness. What will remain of our words when we pass beyond the veil? A poem? A story? Will a collection of ink reviews define my literary existence for future generations?

Complicating our ennui is the medium that we choose. Writers of our era produce most of our words on a computer, which, when reduced to their base components are simply patterns encoded as zeroes and ones — ephemeral bits floating in a sea of magnetic media covered by a fog of electrons.

I'm not a luddite (precisely the opposite, in fact), but I think that the virtual nature of our work is why so many of us find comfort in writing with a fountain pen on good quality paper. There is a palpable sense of history in a pen and paper. Sure — paper can burn or moulder, but it is one of the few things that we as a society strive to preserve.

Writing with a physical instrument on a medium that's been in use for thousands of years connects us to other writers, connects us to a history of the written word that will endure collectively, even when our individual contributions are forgotten. Our words have a physical presence in our notebooks that, depending upon the quality of the ink and paper, could outlast us.

The choice of ink, then, defines a lot about how you, as a writer, relate to the word on the page. For those of us that embrace impermanence, there are inks that will feather and run with the addition of the smallest amount of moisture, but for those that are caught in the grip of an existential crisis, there are permanent, waterproof inks — inks like iron gall.

For those unfamiliar with iron gall, it was the most common form of ink used in Europe from the 12th through the 19th centuries. When used on vellum or paper, it cannot be removed by rubbing or washing – only be scraping away a layer of the writing surface.

Traditional iron gall ink has one very specific caveat. It is produced by combining iron salts with tannic acid extracted from various vegetable sources (traditionally from oak galls, which are hard, brown spheres that grow on oak trees and house wasp larvae – for real – nature is weird), which means that it is not pH neutral. Over time, the acidic nature of the ink will gradually eat away at vellum and paper, and could contribute to the corrosion of any steel components on a fountain pen. Perhaps that feeling of permanence is illusory after all.

Fortunately, modern formulations of iron gall ink are safe for fountain pens. The levels of acid are low and should not be a cause for concern for most users. The main drawback to iron gall inks these days is the limited choice of color. Every iron gall ink I've seen has been a blue black — but then I was introduced to Rohrer and Klingner Scabiosa.

Scabiosa is a pretty, dusky purple comparable to Diamine Damson and J. Herbin Poussiere de Lune. Named after the eponymous flower, it has a low level of saturation which results in a moderate level of shading in a fine-nib pen. In a broad calligraphy pen, the shading is accentuated, and it results in a very lovely line full of depth and character.

Iron gall inks are traditionally dry-writing, and therefore behave well on most paper. Scabiosa is no exception. The show-through was minimal on all of the paper I tested, and I detected bleed-through only on the cheap copier paper that would let a pencil bleed-through.

Dry time was very good across the board, ranging from 3 seconds on the cheap copier paper to 12 seconds on the Rhodia paper. The outlier was staples bagasse, on which it took a full 16 seconds to dry. Feathering was also consistently low relative to the character of every paper; there were no surprises.

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As an iron gall ink, Scabiosa has extraordinary water resistance. It's almost not worth showing the results, as it is incredibly difficult to tell that I did any testing at all. However, for the sake of completeness, I've included it above.

The drip test, in which I let several drops of water sit on the page before blotting them up, shows no effect at all. While I was able to transfer a little bit of ink that hadn't bonded to the writing paper on to the blotting paper, the line that remains is identical to the original.

For the smear test, in which I run a wet finger across the page, the results were almost the same. If you look very, very closely, you can see a very fine purple haze where the ink that hadn't bonded to the Rhodia travelled across it.

Finally, the soak test, in which I run the paper under water for thirty seconds, resulted in a very gradual lightening of the lines, as all the ink that hadn't bonded was washed away. What remains, though, is completely and easily readable.

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Rohrer and Klingner inks come in a 50ml glass bottle with a screw-on, metal lid. The color featured on the label in intended to mimic the color of the ink within. They're neither unattractive nor exceptionally pretty; instead they're merely functional, and remind me of art supplies. Unless you're an artist, they're not the kind of bottle you're likely to feature in a prominent place on your desk.

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One final word about the water resistance of Scabiosa - it does a pretty good job of clinging to skin. This took a few washes to get completely off.

Rohrer and Klingner Scabiosa is a wonderful ink that I will not hesitate to recommend. It is the only purple iron-gall ink that I know of, it behaves admirably on all paper, and it is lovely to write with. If you like dusky purple inks like J.Herbin Poussiere de Lune or Diamine Damson, or you like your ink to have better staying power than the average ink, be sure to check out Scabiosa.

Review notes: The widest lines were made with two Pilot Parallel calligraphy pens: one with a steel 6.0mm nib and the other with a steel 3.8mm nib. The medium lines were made with a Lamy Joy Safari with a 1.9mm steel calligraphy nib. The narrow lines were created with a Visconti Homo Sapiens with an EF palladium nib. The paper is Rhodia 80 gsm from a Rhodia Bloc No. 18. The featured script is Fractur.

addict?

2012-01-31T08:39:00.000-05:00

Apparently I earned the distinction of being the notebook addict of the week over at Notebook Stories. If you haven't checked out Nifty's blog, be sure to do so - it contains a veritable treasure trove of notebook related news, reviews, and links. Nifty is also the founder of the Carnival of Pen, Pencil, and Paper, where I've had a few ink reviews featured.

inkventory 2012

2012-01-26T22:29:00.001-05:00

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Over the past two years or so, I've acquired a lot of ink. The collection above represents my inkventory as of January 2012, not including a rack full of samples. So, I thought I'd catalog my collection just for fun. Below are the bottles of ink that I own, linked to the reviews that I've done for each.

Diamine
Damson
Imperial Purple
Indigo
Jet Black
Midnight
Monaco Red
Oxblood
Red Dragon
Registrar's Ink
Sepia

Everflo
Blue Black
Orchid

Iroshizuku
Kiri-same
Kon-peki
Momiji
Shin-ryoku
Tsukushi
Yama-budo
Yu-yake

Herbin
1670
Bleu Myosotis
Cafe des Iles
Eclat de Saphir
Encre Invisible
Orange Indien
Poussiere de Lune
Rouge Caroubier
Rouge Opera
Terre de Feu
Vert Empire
Vert Olive

Lamy
Blue

Noodler's
Baystate Blue
Black
Black Swan in Australian Roses
Black Swan in English Roses
Dragon's Napalm
Kung Te-Cheng
Navaho Turquoise
Shah's Rose
Tiananmen
Widowmaker

Parker
Quink Blue Black

Pelikan
Blue Black
Edelstein Ruby

Platinum
Carbon Black
Pigment Rose Red

Private Reserve
Chocolate
Orange Crush

Sailor
Jentle Blue Black

Waterman
Florida Blue
Purple

I've also written a handful of reviews based on samples provided by others or purchased on my own. Since the collection wouldn't be complete without them, I've listed them below. There are many more waiting where they came from.

Samples
Rohrer and Klingner Morinda
Rohrer and Klingner Verdigris
Sailor Ultramarine

So, fellow pen people, what does your inkventory look like?

ink review: rohrer and klingner verdigris

2012-01-22T15:11:00.000-05:00

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Thanks to the generosity of the Fountain Pen Network member, Jared, I received set of ink samples. Among them were several vials of Rohrer and Klingner ink, which is a German brand that has recently become available in the US. I previously reviewed Morinda, which is a pretty, vibrant, candy-red ink. The second vial I opened was Verdigris, which is one of the more interesting inks I've had the pleasure of using.

Historically, verdigris refers to the green patina that forms on copper, brass, or bronze as it weathers. Since the time of the ancient Greeks, artists have used that patina as a pigment, and it frequently was used in paintings.

This Verdigris captures the character of a weathered bronze statue admirably. In the bottle, the green is quite pronounced, but it dries a dark, blue-green black on the page. It is of medium-high saturation, though not to the level of many Noodler's inks, and produces moderate shading, especially when used with a broad nib.

The dry time was quick, coming in at 3 seconds on Rhodia paper, and even less on Staples Bagasse and garden-variety copier paper. It also exhibited acceptable levels of bleed-through on each of the papers I tested it with, though it did show-though quite a bit on all but the thickest of papers.

Feathering was not an issue in each of my tests. The noticeable feathering on the decorative capital "V" on the writing example was due to my pen putting down far more ink than even the mighty Rhodia paper could handle.

Verdigris is quite a lovely color, and is better behaved on the page than it's cousin Morinda. I have yet to test out other R & K inks, but if they're of the calibre of this one, then I will be quite pleased. If you're a fan of uniquely colored inks, then Rohrer and Klingner is one you should definitely check out.

Review notes: for the thin lines, I used a Lamy Safari with a steel EF nib. For the medium lines, I used a Lamy Joy with a steel 1.9mm italic nib. The broad lines were produced using a Pilot Parallel pen with a 3.8 mm steel nib. The paper is 80 gsm Rhodia.

ink review: diamine damson

2012-01-15T17:49:00.001-05:00

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Diamine Damson is the color a ninja fruit would wear when trying to sneak into an orchard under the cover of darkness. Named for fruit it resembles, Damson is a dark, dusky plum that turns nearly black when used in a wet-writing pen. In a dry-writing pen, it produces a washed-out gray-purple line. It's a moderately saturated ink - neither as rich as other Diamine inks, like Imperial Purple, or as light as J. Herbin Poussiere de Lune, which it closely resembles. When written with a broad nib, Damson produces some nice shading, but delivers a fairly consistent line in a fine nib.

Drying time is well within the realm of acceptability: on Rhodia paper, it was dry to the touch in 8 seconds, while on Staples Bagasse and cheap copier paper, it dried in 3 seconds. Feathering, too, I had no trouble with when using an extra-fine nib; the ink exhibited low feathering relative to each of the papers on which I tested it.

Purple, at least in the United States, isn't typically considered a standard ink color. Our conservative business standards are boring blue and black. Diamine Damson, though, is subtle and subdued enough that you might be able to get away with it - particularly in a wet-writing pen, like the Visconti Homo Sapiens. When used with an instrument of that sort, the color is nearly indistinguishable from black at first glance.

Diamine inks are available in a 30ml plastic bottle, which is utilitarian in appearance, and an 80ml glass bottle, which is slightly less so. The smaller plastic bottle has a neck that is very small in diameter. I found that some of my larger pens, like a Lamy 2000, would not fit all the way in, which made getting to the ink a bit of a challenge. My recommendation would be to go for the larger bottle.

Damson is an interesting ink that behaves well on a variety of paper - something I've come to expect from Diamine inks. While it's not quite vibrant enough to make it into my daily rotation of inks, I could certainly see it being exactly what someone in a more conservative business environment is looking for. If that describes you, then consider this a recommendation.

Review notes: I used a Pilot Parallel 3.8mm pen with a steel nib for the widest lines, a Lamy Joy Safari with a 1.9mm steel nib for the medium lines, and a Lamy Safari with an EF steel nib for the narrow lines. The paper is bright white 80 gsm from a Rhodia Bloc No 18.

paper review: moleskine cahier

2011-12-05T18:31:00.001-05:00

Amongst fountain pen aficionados, Moleskine is known primarily for the inconsistency of their paper. For a long time, I'd had pretty good experiences with Moleskines and fountain pens, especially as someone who favors dry-writing, narrow nibs. While I've switched to Rhodia notebooks for most of my personal writing, I'm still using extra-large Moleskine Cahiers at work. The 7.5 by 10 inch, cardboard-covered notebooks provide great value for the money: a three pack of the extra-large cahiers, each with 120 pages, runs about $19 online.

(about two years worth of notes)

Over the course of the past two years, I've amassed quite a collection. I fill roughly one notebook a month with the notes I take for all of the meetings that I sit through on a daily basis. Typically, the paper is smooth, thin, and slightly absorbent. When I purchased my wet-writing Visconti Homo Sapiens, I was pleased to find that I saw very little bleed through and only mild feathering - that is, until I finished my last notebook and had to buy a new pack.

(old notebook - nice and crisp lines)

(new notebook - feathertastic!)

(new notebook - terrible bleedthrough!)

The paper in the new notebooks still looks like the same thin, ivory paper I'd been used to. Now, however, it has a bit of a tooth and is extremely absorbent - so much so that my wet writing pen creates a feathery mess on the page. Bleed-through and show-through, which used to be minimal, are now commonplace. I feel like I'm writing with a Sharpie.

What's more distressing is that even within the same notebook, I get slightly different results from page to page. Some pages behave like my last notebook, while others exhibit the aforementioned feathering, show-through, and bleed-through.

I use a fountain pen because I enjoy a superior writing experience when using it. Unfortunately, the inconsistent quality of paper in the Moleskine Cahier means that it doesn't deliver on its end of the bargain. Therefore, I'm making the switch to Clairefontaine notebooks. I just ordered three of them from Goulet Pens, and, while they contain less paper for the same cost, I know that I'll enjoy using them ever so much more.

Moleskine notebooks are available just about anywhere.

pen review: visconti homo sapiens

2011-11-19T19:21:00.000-05:00

Let me start by stating that the Visconti Homo Sapiens is the nicest pen I own, hands down. It's been on my "to covet" list for a while, and I decided to treat myself recently, as a reward for a promotion at work.

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The body is constructed from a dense black material that is a combination of basaltic lava and resin. It is slightly hygroscopic, meaning that it will absorb a light amount of moisture, and it's easy to grip, so it's a pleasure to hold for longer writing sessions. The trim, including the spring-loaded clip, is constructed entirely from solid bronze, and appears to be developing a lovely patina as the days wear on. While the pen comes packed with a cleaning cloth for the bronze, I don't envision myself using it any time soon.

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The Homo Sapiens comes with a new 23k palladium "dream touch" nib, which is available in EF, F, M, B, BB, and Stub widths. I purchased the EF nib, which is apparently considered a specialty item, so you may not be able to find it at all retailers.

Unfortunately, I ran into trouble with the nib when I first got the pen. When I pulled it out of the box for the first time, I noticed that the nib and feed were misaligned. It wrote, but the pen was fairly dry, was a bit of a hard starter, and felt scratchy, due to a lack of lubrication from the ink. Goldspot Pens, who I ordered the pen from, arranged for me to send it back to the distributor for a nib swap. They would have done it themselves, but since the EF nib is considered a specialty item, they didn't have any spares in-house.

When I got the pen back from the distributor, I was dismayed - it looked like the nib and feed were still slightly misaligned. I inked it up to test it, and was immediately relieved. Yes, the alignment still appears to be slightly off, but now the pen writes like a dream (living up to the "dream touch" moniker). It has become a wet writer, and it simply glides across the surface of the page.

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On Rhodia paper, the EF nib produces a line very similar to the gold EF nib on my Lamy 2000. However, the extra ink it puts down results in a much darker line; both writing samples above were written with Diamine Imperial Purple, and the Visconti is clearly darker. On more absorbent papers, like that in a Moleskine cahier, the line ends up being somewhat thicker - acting more like a fine nib.

The Homo Sapiens uses a vacuum power filler that's made from titanium. While I have heard other people complain that it doesn't draw much ink, I haven't had any trouble with it. It is definitely a bit trickier to get the maximum fill from this pen than one with a piston fill mechanism, but once you get the hang of it, it works quite well.

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At 5.75 inches, the Visconti is just a bit longer than a Lamy Safari (or an Al-Star, pictured here). However, it is quite a bit heavier, weighing in at 1.6 ounces - a full ounce heavier than the Safari. Those that prefer their pens light may want to test drive one before purchasing. The cap is heavy enough that it does not lend itself to posting, but at 5.625 inches long unposted, I can hold it comfortably in my gorilla-sized hands.

I can certainly see why the Homo Sapiens received a number of pen of the year accolades for 2010. It's a beautiful, elegant, and well-crafted pen. It took a little bit of effort to get the nib tuned right, but it was worth the effort. It was worth every penny of the $595.00 it cost. I can highly recommend it for those who are looking for a high-end fountain pen.

The Visconti Homo Sapiens is available from:

Goldspot Pens

chili limerick

2011-11-18T19:33:00.000-05:00

Oh, cumin and spice make a flavor

That's incredibly easy to savor

When consumed with a spoon

It is gone far too soon

But it's worth all the hours of labor

pen review: twsbi diamond 540

2011-11-01T10:00:00.000-04:00

Many excellent things have been written about the TWSBI Diamond 530. A clear, piston-fill, steel-nib demonstrator available for US$40, it was one of the best pens in its price range. It was also constructed to be completely user-serviceable -- it came with instructions on disassembly and reassembly, along with a tub of silicone grease and a purpose-built wrench for removing the piston.

(image courtesy of TWSBI)

I used my 530 extensively - it was a workhorse of a pen that I could have easily held onto for years. That is, until TWSBI came out with its successor, the Diamond 540. Despite being a well engineered pen that featured a great design, the 530 had two minor issues that kept it from being a classic: the threading on the cap was very tight -- enough so that to remove and replace the cap took more effort than one would expect; the piston was likewise stiff, and would occasionally stick -- I would worry that I was going to damage the mechanism when filling it with ink.

I'm pleased to report that the 540 fixes both of those problems. The cap still feels secure on the pen, but it now twists on and off with ease. The piston was also fixed. Now it moves through its entire range of motion without issue. Additionally, they've increased the ink capacity of the pen to a notable degree. The pen almost holds a full 2 ml at capacity.

(image courtesy of TWSBI)

The steel EF nib is the same one that shipped with the 530 -- in fact, the nib units are interchangeable and available from TWSBI separately. It's a stiff nail, so there is neither flex nor spring, but it does write smoothly and reliably. It's an easy starter, and can take being uncapped for a few minutes without much issue.

While the price has gone up by $10 over the 530, it is still an excellent value at this price point. The only improvements I could suggest now would be a spring-loaded clip and the option for a gold nib - both things I would only expect on a pen costing twice as much.

I can't recommend the Diamond 540 enough. It's one of the best values for its price, and nearly rivals pens costing more than twice as much.

The TWSBI Diamond 540 is available from:

pens for sale

2011-10-16T14:09:00.000-04:00

There comes a time in every pen collector's life when they must clean out their old, unused pens to make way for the new. That time has come for me. I have a small selection of pens that, for various reasons, are not what I am looking for in a writing instrument. They may, however, be exactly what you are looking for. If so, then I'm sure we can make a deal.

Each of the pens listed below has been inked and lightly used, but is in otherwise excellent condition.

If you are interested, please email me at carpedavid@gmail.com. (UPDATE: fixed email link) Payment via Paypal. Shipping included in cost within the continental US.

Montegrappa Stradaveri Limited Edition (1298/2000)
Medium 18k white gold nib
Piston-fill
Platinum and resin. Cap topped with a topaz.
Comes with original packaging

This was the second fountain pen I ever purchased, and it has only been inked a handful of times. I learned very quickly that I don't like medium nibs, which is a shame, because it gets lots of compliments. It is now out of production, I believe.

List price: $1000. Asking $800.

Waterman Phileas
Medium gold-plated steel nib
Cartridge/converter - converter included
Pen only

This is one of the smoothest writing pens I own. I've inked it less than ten times, though. The trouble is that it's a medium nib. I plan on buying a new Waterman with a fine nib to replace it.

List price: $75. Asking $50. UPDATE: SOLD.

Pelikan M205 Blue Demonstrator
Medium steel nib
Piston-fill
Pen only

Unlike just about everyone else in the fountain pen using world, I'm not a huge fan of Pelikan pens. I just don't like the character of the line they produce. The medium nib on the Pelikan is just slightly broader than a fine line on a Lamy. This has been inked an used several times, but is in excellent condition. The piston, in particular, is one of the smoothest I've ever seen.

List price: $115. Asking $80.

Pilot Falcon
Soft-Medium 14k gold nib
Cartridge/Converter - converter included
Pen only

I really love this pen. I just don't love the medium nib. It's an extremely wet writer, so I never end up using it. Otherwise, it's a brilliant pen. I plan on finding another pilot pen with a fine nib to replace it.

Lightly used and semi broken-in. The converter has a few drops of ink that have crept past the seal on the plunger.

List price: $300. Asking $200.

TWSBI Diamond 530
Extra-fine Steel nib
Piston-fill
Comes with original packaging

The TWSBI Diamond 530 is the first generation of the Diamond line. It's an all-around great pen, but they recently brought out a new version in the 540. The 530's cap is a little tight, so it takes a bit of effort to screw and unscrew it. The 540 improves the feel of the cap and holds slightly more ink. This is a good opportunity to get a great deal on what it sure to become a classic pen.

If the new model hadn't been released, I wouldn't be interested in getting rid of it. It's a workhorse of a pen, and is the most used of the pens listed here.

List price: $40. Asking $20. UPDATE: SOLD.

cats

2011-10-14T19:45:00.002-04:00

Three cats cried out
in the middle of the night.

One hissed.

Then all was silent.

pen review: platinum preppy

2011-10-03T10:00:00.000-04:00

After a year or so of doing pen and ink reviews, I decided that I needed to establish a set of reference inks - those inks that I would use to evaluate others against. Once I picked out the colors, I then decided that it would be nice to have pens that I could keep inked wit these reference colors that, presumably, I would be using all of the time. Enter the Platinum Preppy.

The Preppy is a budget-level fountain pen with above-budget level price. The first one I owned was a de-labeled one that came with a bottle of Noodler's Kung-Te Cheng ink. It had been converted into an eyedropper-filled pen with an o-ring a bit of silicone grease and functioned as one of the coolest looking demonstrator pens that one could find. Each converted Preppy holds upwards of 3 ml of ink - a prodigious amount. I figured that doing something similar would be a great way to have each of my reference inks close at hand without breaking the bank.

A little bit of googling revealed that, with the right materials, the process of converting a Preppy into an eyedropper-filled pen is extremely straightforward. Brian Goulet, of the Goulet Pen Company, has an excellent instructional video on how to convert your own, for those that are curious.

So, feeling confident, I ordered ten or so Preppys plus the neccessary ingredients, and then proceeded to convert them. The process was quick and easy, and I was quite happy with the result - a handful of pens filled with a rainbow of fruit flavors.

Then I hit a creative drought, and the pens sat on the shelf for a good six months without being touched. This is every fountain pen owner's worst nightmare. Would the ink have dried in the nib? Would the pens be unusable? Could I get them to write, but be faced with hard starts, skipping, and the other consequences of gross pen abuse?

I'm pleased to report that every single one of them picked up and wrote flawlessly. After six months of inactivity, the converted Preppy pens started and wrote without a problem. Platinum has engineered an extremely hardy pen.

There are drawbacks to the Preppy, of course - after all, it is a budget pen. At $3-4 you are not getting a gold nib that glides across the page with no effort. The nib is steel and, though it has a tiny bit of give, it is not terribly smooth. The rest of the pen is clear plastic that looks very cool filled with ink, but otherwise has a "school children's pen case" feel to it.

Yet, the Preppy is one of the few pens that it easy to take apart and thoroughly clean. When you do run into trouble - say with the previously mentioned Noodler's Kung Te-Cheng-filled pen sitting around with the cap not fully closed (even though you thought it was), and the ink does dry in the feed - it is possible to completely wash out the pen and return it to its original state.

The Preppy is a workhorse of a pen, and one that you shouldn't be afraid to experiment with. It's neither glamorous nor engineered to be cradled gently in one's hand, but it is otherwise an excellent buy. I'd recommend it, especially for those looking to have a little fun with their pen collection.

Platinum Preppy Fountain Pens are available from:

sacred geometry, part 6

2011-09-30T18:04:00.000-04:00

Last time on Sacred Geometry: Part 4 | Part 5

"So what's the plan?" asked Ben as he joined Scarlett in at the window.

"Plan?" Scarlett stared at him.

"You don't have a plan?"

"Stay the fuck away from any cows. Scare the kids off. That's about all I got."

Ben frowned. "Do you think they're dangerous? I could grab the shotgun."

Scarlett winced. If there was one thing she liked less than cows, it was guns. "It would scare me away, that's for sure." She shook her head. "I don't think they're violent, no."

Ben shrugged. "I feel like I should have something to defend us, though."

"He said, 'us'" Scarlett's brain pointed out.

"I know," she said to herself as she smiled.

Ben looked at her quizzically. "What's up?"

"Oh," she shook her head and waved. "Nothing."

"Ohhhhhh-kay," said Ben. "This is your area of expertise, not mine."

"Right, well," she turned to him. "We could try to scare them. Make it seem like an actual UFO is showing up."

Ben chuckled. "I bet they'd shit themselves." He frowned. "That seems like a lot of work, though. Unless you have an alien costume in the trunk of your car."

"Do not admit that we have an alien costume in the trunk of our car," Scarlett's brain instructed. Scarlett stayed silent.

"You don't actually have an alien costume in the trunk of your car, do you?"

"No," she said somewhat unconvincingly.

"You know, you're pretty hot and all, but you're a little weird."

Scarlett shrugged. "Completely normal people don't tend to become paranormal bloggers."

Ben thought through the truth inherent in that statement, then shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I guess I should get used to it."

She smiled, then took his hand and squeezed it. "I'd like that." After a moment, she asked, "Do you have a tractor?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I think I have a plan."

#

Meg was high. Her friends were high. Meg and her friends were very, very high. Being outside, sitting next to a campfire under the stars, getting stoned with her friends, and worshipping the sky gods was what high school was all about, she thought.

Actually, she thought that the sky gods thing was a load of crap, but her boyfriend, Jared, believed that he'd been abducted by aliens on multiple occasions, and she loved him, so she rolled with it.

He also had the absolute best weed around, so all of her other friends were more than happy to hang out in a field and sing and dance and praise the sky gods along with the two of them. Hell, some of them might have really believed in it, too.

"Friends," Jared began, "we are here tonight to pay homage to the lords of the nighttime sky."

"And get high!" screamed their friend Jay.

"The sacred herb is the gateway to communication with the sky gods," Jared replied in a more than mellow fashion. "So yes, we are here..."

"To get high!" Jay screamed again. Everyone else cheered. Meg thought that Jay was kind of an ass.

"Friends," said Jared, "let us sing our song of praise!"

"To getting high!"

"Dude," said Jared.

"Sorry, man," said Jay. "I just like to get high."

"It's cool, man," replied Jared, "let's just say the chant first, and then you can get baked."

"Right on."

Meg had already used a stake and twine to draw out the same intersecting circle pattern that Jared had tattooed on his bicep a year ago onto the grass of the field. Jared had then traced the pattern with lighter fluid, and now stood ready, lighter in hand, to set the grass ablaze.

"Oh, awesome and benevolent sky gods," Jared intoned, "please hear our shout out to you, in all of your infinite awesomeness."

"Fuck yeah, Sky Gods," the group responded in unison.

"We are here to pay homage to you, in all of your infinite awesomeness."

"Fuck yeah! Sky Gods!" the group responded, louder this time.

"We are here, to partake of the sacred herb, and listen to your song, in all of its infinite awesomeness."

"Fuck yeah! Sky Gods!"

Jared bent down and lit the interlocking circles on fire. Flame raced along the ground, tracing the path of the vesica piscis through the field. It burned out within a few seconds, at which point everyone clapped and cheered.

Suddenly, a rumbling sound, low and rhythmic, filled the air. Jared motioned the group to be quiet as he stared out past the light of the campfire, into the darkness.

Then, from the direction of the rumbling, a powerful cold light, more than ten times as bright as the light produced by the campfire, snapped on, blinding the group. Meg grabbed onto Jared with one hand even as she shielded her eyes with the other. Everyone was silent, waiting to see what would come next.

A tall, slender figure finally appeared, silhouetted against the source of the light. The light was so strong that it seemed to bend around the edges of the figure, blurring it, making it impossible to focus on, and accentuating its otherworldly proportions.

Its legs and arms were far too long, and its body far too slender for it to be human. Finally, it slowly stretched out a single hand and pointed directly at them with one of its inhumanly long fingers.

"Holy shit!" shouted Jay, "It's an alien!"

Meg screamed, and then Jared shouted, "Run!"

#

"Ha ha! Fuckers!" Scarlett muttered as she watched the group of teenagers take off into the darkness, screaming as they sprinted across the field.

Once the sounds of their screams had faded, Ben turned off the tractor and hopped down from the seat. "Man, that thing is bright," he said as he shielded his eyes from the LED floodlight that they'd attached to the front.

"I think I recognized one of those kids," said Scarlett as she pulled the alien mask off. She turned toward Ben and wobbled forward, the stilts built into the legs of her costume sinking into the soft earth of the field.

"Wait, really, where from?"

"He's a UFO blogger. I've met him at conventions." She reached out toward him. "Help me back to the tractor."

"Oh shit," said Ben as he took Scarlett's hand to support her while she walked. "He's not going to write about this and turn my field into UFO-spotters central is he?"

"I don't know," said Scarlett, "'I Pooped Myself and Ran Away' doesn't make for a great blog title. I think he'd lose any credibility he had in the community if he wrote about it."

"Good God, I hope so," he replied as he helped her back into the tractor.

Suddenly, a rumbling sound, low and rhythmic, filled the air.

"Oh, you've got to be shitting me," Scarlett whispered as a bright, cold light suddenly appeared in the sky above their heads. It was powerful, about ten times as bright as the campfire, and Scarlett grabbed Ben with one hand while she shielded her eyes with the other.

The two stared skyward as the light hovered, motionless, above them.

"Fuck yeah, Sky Gods?" Scarlett's brain whimpered.

"Scarlett?" asked Ben.

"Yes?"

"Is this bad?"

Before she could respond, the light suddenly accelerated, moving faster than any aircraft Scarlett knew of, and flew north - disappearing over the tops of the trees in the distance in a matter of seconds.

"What the fuck?" shouted Ben. He stared at Scarlett. "Was that what I think it was?"

She nodded slowly, "Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's what it was."

"Whatever we do, we can't tell my dad about this," said Ben. "He'll be so pissed off that he missed it."

Scarlett's heart sank - she knew he was right. If she wrote about the encounter on her blog, his father would read it, and he'd be devastated. "Damn it," she whispered.

"Sorry."

She sighed. "At least I got a cute guy out of the deal."

Ben smiled at her. "It is always like this with you?"

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Pretty much."

He laughed, then shrugged in return. "Sounds cool."

#

"So tell me about this guy," said Jeff, Scarlett's best friend, as he sat in her kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. Scarlett sat across from him, sipping from a cup of green tea.

Scarlett smiled, "He's really hot."

Jeff shook his head.

"And...he's used to weird people."

"Well, that's significant, actually."

"I know!"

Jeff chuckled. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, I'll tell Mary about him - maybe we can go out on a double date!"

"Maybe. I kind of want him to myself for a while, first."

"Well, sure. You've got to get all the sex out of the way."

Scarlett laughed. "Yes. Yes, indeed."

"So anyway, you coming to church on Sunday?"

"Yeah, I'll be there. I haven't missed a week yet."

"Good. There's a couple that wants to meet you. Friends of Mary's. They think their house is haunted."

"Oh nice," said Scarlett as she leaned back in her chair and relaxed. "I could go for a good haunting right about now."

###

Part 1 | Previous | Next

ebooks ahoy

2011-09-25T15:30:00.001-04:00

I've decided to dip my toe into the world of ebooks, and have made my 10k word short story, "She" available on the Kindle store. If you're into that kind of thing, you can find it here:

she

2011-09-20T21:33:00.000-04:00

Peter stood outside the dingy, two-story colonial that was covered in mildewed siding and topped by a rotting roof and wondered what the hell he'd agreed to. The house had been Abby's idea from the beginning; an hour's drive from the city, nestled on ten wooded acres, it was a handyman's special. "Remember, I grew up in the country," she had said when they sat in their downtown loft and discussed the idea. "We've been here for ten years because it was close to your work, and you needed to be close to build the business."

Peter had nodded, "And I've always told you that I appreciate it."

"I know, but we don't need to be here like we used to. Baby, it's my turn. I want some place to plant roses."

"Roses, huh?"

"Yes, I know you're not a fan, but I've always wanted a rose garden."

Peter had smiled at her. A single strand of auburn hair had fallen across her face, and she'd absently brushed it back behind her ear. Her pale green eyes wrinkled at the corners as she'd smiled back at him. "Ok," he'd said. "You're right. It is your turn."

"Really?"

"Yes, though I'm not really sold on the garden," he had said with an impish smile.

"Oh my God!" She had thrown her toned arms around him and covered his face in kisses. He'd laughed before she'd finally found his mouth and had kissed him greedily. "Thank you so much."

"Well, I do love you, you know. You deserve to be happy, too."

Abby had spent days scouring the realty websites before she found one that she liked. "We can afford something new," Peter said when they had looked at the house the first time.

"Yes, but that's not nearly as fun, is it?"

"Fun, huh?" he'd said with a smile, "that's what I get for marrying an interior designer."

"Brat," she'd punched him in the arm and then had run through the foot of snow toward the edge of the woods. "Besides, look at all the trees! Aren't they wonderful?"

Peter hadn't been quite sure what to make of the trees. Having grown up in the city, and only occasionally spent time in the country, the thought of living amongst so much…nature had made him feel slightly uncomfortable. "They're something, all right," he'd said, looking around. He had been about to ask whether Abby was going to volunteer to mow the lawn when a snowball had hit him in the back of the head.

Abby had been winding up for a second pitch when Peter charged her, and they'd both gone tumbling into the snow, laughing.

They'd kept coming back to the house, and less than a month later it was theirs. By the end of winter, they had packed, sold their apartment, and were ready to move in.

In the chilly late February air, the oaks and maples that surrounded the house stood barren and lifeless, waiting for the snow to melt and the weather to warm. Here and there, a pine or spruce provided a colorful contrast to the grayscale landscape.

"Ugh, where are they?" Abby blew into her hands and rubbed them together as they waited for the moving van to arrive. She started to shiver.

"Come here," Peter said as he walked over to her and wrapped her in his arms.

She sighed contentedly and pressed against him, laying her head on his chest. "You're nice and warm."

"I was raised by polar bears, you know."

"I thought it was penguins."

"Well, my dad was a penguin, but he ended up running off with a seal when I was one."

"I bet that pissed your mom off."

"More than you'd think. The seal was supposed to be dinner." He rubbed her arms and broad shoulders. "Doing any better?""

"Nope, I need to steal more of your body heat, penguin-boy"

"Once the movers are gone, maybe I can really heat you up."

She looked up at him, licked her lips, and grinned. "You'd better."

Spring

When the snow melted, a patch of daffodils erupted near the woods at the rear of the house, acting as a harbinger of spring. As the days passed, the trees filled out, their buds unfurling into new leaves in the light of the morning sun.

The second Saturday in March, Peter sat down to pay the bills. He groaned as he added up what they were spending as they tried to fix up the house. Christ, he thought, we're burning through cash. At least we only have to do this once. He rubbed his temples. I hope.

Abby had gone shopping. "For accessories!" she'd exclaimed in delight. She'd done a wonderful job with their apartment in the city, but she'd had a limited amount of space to work with. Now that they had a house with double the floor space as well as an entire yard, she'd gone to work trying to fill it.

After an hour of entering receipts in to the computer, Peter's head hurt, and had to take a break. He looked out the window of the first floor room he'd converted into an office. A chipmunk scurried along the rail of the back deck, and a squirrel bounded through the patch of daffodils and up a tree. It looks like the yellow brick road, he thought. Maybe I'll take a walk.

I wonder what's back here? Oaks and maples towered above him, and he stepped over fallen branches, matted leaves, pine needles, and an occasional wildflower. Two minutes after he entered the woods, he glanced back to see that the house was nowhere in sight. Thank God I never get lost, he thought as he walked deeper into the woods.

After a few more minutes, the trees thinned out, revealing a shaded clearing where the necks of a thousand green violins poked out of the ground. Those must be the fiddlehead ferns Abby keeps talking about, he thought.

Neat. Peter smiled to himself and pushed on. The trees closed in around him, and he made a mental note of the landmarks he passed: a huge, overturned tree, whose root ball towered ten feet over his head; a rock outcropping that pointed toward what he was certain was true north; and a small creek with a two-foot-high waterfall.

Finally, the woods parted, and Peter entered a large, grassy clearing. Occupying most of the clearing was a large pond – nearly fifty feet in diameter. Next to it was an old tree stump that looked like it would make a perfectly respectable chair.

Peter sat on what was left of the rotted-out stump and stared at the surface of the pond. A lazy March breeze rustled the burgeoning leaves on the oaks and maples that stretched toward the pale blue sky. The surface of the pond rippled gently in response to the wind.

Birds twittered and squirrels chattered as Peter watched a trail of ants wind through the grass at his feet. It must be like a forest to them, he thought. The air cooled his face as it flowed over the surface of the pond, and he caught the scent of moist loam.

Something large rippled under the surface of the water, sending strong waves cascading toward the far edge of the pond. Peter stared at it suspiciously. Frog? He couldn't think of what else it might be. There are no alligators up here. He tried to remember. No, pretty sure there aren't alligators.

Wait, what if it's a skunk? He watched the water ripple again. No, skunks don't swim. I think. What the hell is it?

Then, as abruptly as it started, the waves stopped. He scratched his head. Huh. Suddenly, he had the feeling that he was being watched. He stood up and looked around. Oh, god, I hope there aren't bears out here.

"Hello?"

Only the chirping of birds returned his call.

"Anyone out there?" He waited for a minute, but the feeling still hadn't subsided. Ok, time to go, he thought. He didn't look back until he left the clearing, at which point the feeling of being watched faded.

That was fucked up, he thought. After a moment of contemplation, he began walking back toward the house. He moved deliberately, lest he trip over a fallen log or get caught on a broken branch, and he was relieved when he finally saw the patch of daffodils.

#

Later, after Abby returned from the store carrying two large terra cotta pots, they made dinner, drank a bottle of wine, and shared the events of their day. Peter mentioned the pond, but left out the feeling of being watched. He didn't want to spook his wife in their first month in the new house.

"You'll have to show it to me sometime," she said as she carried the dishes from the small bistro table over to the granite-topped counter.

Peter began rinsing the dishes in the sink. They'd never had a dishwasher in the apartment, and, even now that they had one, he felt strange using it. "Yeah, of course."

Abby set the bowl of mashed potatoes down and frowned. "These counters just don't seem to be at the right height." She pulled over a stool. "If I sit, they're just too high, and if I stand they're just too low."

"Well, we can buy new stools."

"Or put in new counters." She pulled out a plastic container and began scooping the potatoes into it.

Peter immediately thought about the receipts from the morning, and he rolled his eyes at the back of her head. "Yeah, I suppose we could do that, too."

She turned and fixed his gaze.

"What?" he said.

"This is our dream house." She put her hands on her hips. "A little support would be nice," she sighed as she went back to scooping mashed potatoes.

We already paid half a million, he thought, what's another hundred thousand. He grunted in response, and then gazed out the window above the sink. "Man. Look at the size of the yard. Tom's going to be so jealous."

"Are you ever going to stop competing with your brother?"

"This isn't a competition," he said with a smile, "It's a statement of how much better than him I am."

"Oh, you brat," Abby said before smiling despite herself. She stopped scooping, and then grinned mischievously.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said as she grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes out of the bowl.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," she giggled as the potatoes sailed across the kitchen toward Peter's head. He ducked, and they splattered against the window over the sink.

He picked up the bottle of dish soap and aimed it at her.

"You wouldn't."

He smiled, then squeezed.

"Oh! You!" she squealed as the soap splashed over the front of her shirt. "Ooh!"

More mashed potatoes went flying, and this time she aimed lower. They caught him square in the chest. Peter dropped the soap and lunged toward her.

"Eeek!" she squealed as he grabbed her, pulled her toward him, and then smashed his potato covered chest against her. "Aaaah!" she cried as she grabbed another handful of potatoes and slapped them on top of his head.

"Aaah, you suck!" Peter laughed as he grabbed his new, starchy hat. He pinned her against the counter and moved to smash the potatoes in her face.

"Ah! No!" she giggled as she grabbed his arm. She was strong – a lifelong swimmer with broad shoulders and muscular arms, but he was stronger, and the potatoes inched closer to her face. "No! No!"

"Yes! Yes!" Peter said as he overcame her resistance.

"Ah!" she squealed as the potatoes covered her face, "You brat!"

"Ha!"

Abby wiped the potatoes from her eyes. She was breathing heavily from laughing. "Truce?"

Peter paused for a second to consider. Abby's eyes flashed green, and she gave him a look he had seen a thousand times before, but couldn't get enough of. She pressed her pelvis against his. He started to breathe heavily, himself. "Yeah, truce."

She ran her hands over his powerful chest, and then wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. A few minutes later, they discovered that the countertops were exactly the right height.

#

On Monday, Peter pulled into the driveway at six-thirty and parked in the driveway. They still had a pile of boxes taking up space in the garage, so both he and Abby had to park outside. As he got out of the car, he saw Abby emerge from the front door and walk toward him.

"Hey, baby," she smiled at him.

"Hey. Where are you going?"

"I'm going swimming, and then I'm headed over to Helen's to look at tile samples."

"Oh," he said flatly.

"Why? What's wrong?" she looked at him with concern.

He slipped his arms around her waist. Her auburn hair glowed copper and gold in the early evening sun, and the scent of her rose perfume drifted lazily through the air. "I was hoping we could test out the other counters in the kitchen tonight."

"Horndog," she giggled. "I'll have to take a rain check. I already told Helen I was coming over."

"Ok, fine."

"Maybe tomorrow?"

He sighed. "Sure. Tell Helen I said hello."

"Will do," she kissed him and then rubbed her nose against his. "Bye baby."

Oh god, so horny, he thought as he watched her climb into her car and pull out of the driveway. They hadn't had sex during the week since they'd moved into the house. After the long days, they'd been too busy unpacking or running errands to spend that kind of time together. The thought of waiting until the weekend made him queasy. Ah well, he thought, it'll work itself out eventually.

After he went inside and changed, he tried to figure out what he wanted to do with his evening. He downed a sandwich while sitting in front of the computer. There were a handful of receipts to enter from the weekend, and he groaned as he saw the balance in their checking account. His head began to hurt, so he leaned back, rubbed his temples, and looked out the window at the daffodils glowing in the evening sun.

Hmm. He grabbed a flashlight from the closet and then stepped outside.

#

The descending sun painted everything in the clearing with a golden wash. The pond reflected the golden rays so that there were no shadows – everything glowed as though it were encased in amber.

Peter sat back down on the stump-chair and stared at the pond. After a few seconds the feeling of being watched returned. He looked around, craning his neck to see if he could tell what was looking at him. I bet it's raccoons, he thought.

He caught sight of a ripple at the far end of the pond, and he immediately swiveled around to look at it. This time, the waves did not subside. Instead, the source of the ripples began to move slowly toward him. As it approached, the feeling of being watched intensified, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

He was determined to figure out what was causing the waves, so he remained seated, though he braced himself in case he needed to take off running. It took a full minute for the waves to cross the pond, so whatever was causing them was moving slowly. Then, when the source was about ten feet from the edge of the pond, something broke the surface; a woman's head emerged from under the water. Peter opened his eyes wide and his mouth gaped.

She stood slowly, or at least it felt slow – Peter couldn't tell how long it took. She was voluptuously built, and her skin was a rich mahogany. Instead of hair, she had a mane of emerald moss, and her eyes were almond-shaped and completely green.

Peter stared, transfixed, as she waded toward him. When she drew near, he noticed that she smelled like damp earth, like the air just before a sunrise on a dew-covered morning or wet leaves after an autumn storm.

The air quivered in her presence. "I'm glad you came back," she said – every syllable echoing in his chest and rattling his ears."I've been waiting for you."

He couldn't figure out why running away screaming didn't sound like a bad idea. "What? Who? Who are you? What are you?"

"You couldn't pronounce my real name." She smiled and she leaned down and stared into his eyes. Her face was less than a foot from his. "So you pick one."

"What? Uh. I don't know." Names flew through his mind – old girlfriends, acquaintances he would have liked to have been girlfriends, coworkers: Katie, Kristen, Carrie, Mary. It was hard to think with her so close to him like this. Belle? No, too Disney. Eve? No, too cliché. "Uh, I, uh." Then, a single syllable entered into his head, "She."

"I like it," she said with a smile. "What's your name?"

He said nothing for a moment while his brain attempted to catch up to reality. Finally, he was able to mumble, "Peter."

"Hello, Peter." She reached out and lightly drew her hand along his shoulder. Her touch was electric – it felt like ants crawling along his skin where she made contact. "Do you like my home?"

"Yeah." He thought about looking away, trying to find something to distract her – a squirrel or a bird that he could point out – but he couldn't move his gaze. He was transfixed by her emerald eyes – little motes of light danced and flashed beneath the surface.

"I'm glad you like it, Peter." She smiled at him and tilted her head. "Why so sad?"

"What? I…" his brain felt like it was filled with cotton, "I don't…What do you mean?"

She sighed, and Peter caught the distinct odor of honeysuckle. "Darling," she said as she moved closer. He wasn't sure how she ended up in his lap, but when she continued, her arm was draped over his shoulder, "it's written all over your face. You're upset."

How does she know what I'm thinking? Peter thought. She made a sound that was somewhere between the hum of a distant motor and a purr, and used the hand that was not currently settled on his shoulders to trace the line of his jaw. When she moved, the lock on her gaze broke, and he, for the first time, noticed that she was completely nude: her full breasts hung pendulously over a supple belly and wide hips.

"You don't have to tell me about it. I can guess." She reached down, stroked his crotch, and then made that sound again. Peter felt electrified, and he groaned in response.

"Wait," Peter managed to stammer, though it took him what felt like an hour to form the word. "I…I…can't." He tried to stand, but realized that he couldn't, or wouldn't, move a muscle.

"Oh," she said, "it certainly feels like you can."

Peter groaned as she massaged him. Every hair on his skin stood on end and every muscle in his body twitched and jumped. Motes of light danced in the air in front of him as he began to hyperventilate.

He floated to the ground, the grass acting as a soft green bed. Then she was on top of him. She freed him from the constraints of his pants and then engulfed him. She was warm – warmer than Abby. Abby! What about Abby? Then the woman above him shifted her hips and the thought flew from his mind.

Oh, god, oh god! The world swam in front of him and he felt like he was falling into those green eyes. Oh god, it feels so good.

"Oh, Peter," the green woman groaned, and the earth beneath him trembled. The world shook and the ground broke open, and as he plunged, tumbling into the darkness, he was entwined with her – in her warm, comforting embrace.

#

Peter woke to see the stars through the canopy of trees. "What the fuck!" he yelled as he bolted upright. He looked around, saw nothing, and heard only the sound of spring peepers, singing in a loud, high-pitched chorus.

He ran back through the woods, crashing past the overturned tree, the sea of ferns, and eventually the daffodil patch. What the fuck was that? What the fuck was that? Oh my fucking god, what the fuck was that?

"Abby!" he called as he ran into the house. "Abby?" Shit, she must still be at Helen's. He looked at the clock. Nine thirty. Oh god, she won't be home for at least an hour. Wait. I can't tell her about this! I just had sex with...with…ohmygodwhathefuckwasthat?

He stared at himself in the hall mirror. He was covered in dirt and grass stains. He sniffed at his shirt, and realized that he smelled like honeysuckle and wet leaves. Shit! I need to shower.

As Peter stripped off his clothes, he noticed that he had scratches on his shoulders; it looked like he'd just gotten into a fight with a tree and lost. Oh my god, I can't go back there. I can't ever go back there.

Later, when Abby got home, she coated his shoulders in antibiotic ointment. "My poor baby!"

"Ow," he winced when she rubbed the ointment into one of the scratches, "careful."

"Sorry," she touched him gingerly. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I was taking a walk, trying to find that pond again, and a branch fell on me. A big one." He winced as she coated one of the deeper scratches.

"You need to be careful out there."

"I know," he smiled weakly at her, "I'll try and look up more."

"Jesus." She finished tending to him and then gave him a hug. Peter pulled her close, and was disturbed to find that she felt cooler than he remembered.

Summer

June came quickly. Peter had not returned to the pond, though he would, at least one night a week, lay awake trying to figure out just what exactly had happened. "Just stress," he told Abby when she inquired about his insomnia, "it'll get better once we get things taken care of."

The two had settled into a routine. Peter arrived home at six-thirty, and they made dinner together, except for Tuesdays and Thursdays when Abby was at the pool until nine, and Wednesdays when Peter stayed late in the city for a weekly card game with his friends.

"At least we get weekends together," Peter said as they'd made one of their weekly pilgrimages to Home Depot and the local garden center.

"Yeah," Abby frowned. "I guess I didn't realize how much work this was going to be."

"It'll be great when it's done, though."

"It will be, and it will be all ours!"

"We don't even have to worry about having loud parties 'till three in the morning."

"I just wish we had the energy to have sex more often," she sighed. She stopped, looked at him, and gave him a half smile. She reached up and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck as they stood, half shielded, from the other shoppers by a wall of shrubs. "We could always say, 'Fuck the yard.'"

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"It'll still be there next weekend."

Peter closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. A flash of green and dancing motes swirled on the inside of his eyelids. "No," he groaned as he pulled away, "come on. Think of how happy we'll be when this is all done."

"What's wrong?"

"Headache. I'll be fine," he reached out to take her hand, "let's go get the bushes."

#

As the days grew longer, the humid nights filled with the constant drone of crickets. Peter came home each day to find some new decorative element on the back deck. Abby had recently purchased two bentwood rockers and set them next to a small pine table, which gave them a place to sit outside and watch the stars.

Peter brought a bottle of merlot and two glasses outside, where Abby was curled up in one of the rockers. She had a large book filled with photographs of roses, and was flipping through it. Peter filled a glass for each of them, and then collapsed into his own rocker. "Ugh. Long day."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Abby sighed. "It would be nice to talk about something other than the house for once."

"Abby, I'm tired."

"I know," she reached out and placed her hand on his arm, "we just don't talk anymore. By the time we get home, we just grunt at each other all evening."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"You could try talking with me."

"Ok. You start."

"That's not what I meant. Forget it."

"But…"

She withdrew her hand. "No. Just forget I brought it up."

"Ok, fine." Peter closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rocker.

Abby's eyes wrinkled down at the corners as she looked at her husband. After a long pause, she sighed again, and then asked, "What do you want to do for dinner?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"I was hoping you'd have a suggestion, since I picked the last three times."

"Come on, I had a long day. Give me break."

She shook her head and looked back at the roses. "What do you think about this one?" she said, pointing to a pink tea rose.

"Looks ok."

She pointed to a purple gaelic rose. "Do you like this one better?"

"Sure."

"Sure, or yes?"

"Yes, sure."

"Oh my God, you're so infuriating sometimes. I just want a definitive opinion."

"I don't really care that much."

"I know. That's the problem. You're going to be looking at these roses for the next five years. You're going to have to prune them and spray them and buy ladybugs to kill off the aphids that feed on them. You should care."

"We're buying ladybugs?"

"I'm not talking to you. You're obviously not taking this seriously."

"I am! Jesus." He filled his own glass and tried not to look at her.

"Ok. Ok. Sorry. I'm just finding this hard to do on my own. I would like your opinion, you know."

Peter sighed. A fly buzzed in his ear and he swatted at it. "Christ."

"What?"

"No, not you. A fly was bothering me."

"Oh."

The fly returned, this time with a partner. "God damn it," he yelled as he swatted at the bugs. "Now there are more of them."

Abby frowned at him. "You can just ignore them."

"Why can't they ignore me?"

She shook her head and flipped the page. "What about this one?" she asked.

"Um." A fly landed on his arm, and he slapped at it, bumping the table in the process. Abby quickly grabbed her wine glass to prevent it from falling over.

"Watch it!"

"Sorry! It's these fucking bugs."

"Are you?" she stopped and narrowed her eyes at him. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget it." She set her wine back down and turned back to flipping through the book of roses.

Peter rolled his eyes and stared off into the woods, toward the pond. Then another fly landed on his face. "Fuck!" he exclaimed as he slapped at it.

"Jesus Christ." Abby grabbed her wine glass, stood up, and then walked into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Peter's head began to throb as he stared after her. Fine. He gulped down his wine, stood up, and walked off the deck.

#

He had intended just to take a quick walk to calm down, but as he walked toward the woods, he rubbed his head. God damn it, she gives me a fucking headache.

Golden fireflies swarmed through his vision, and the world took on a greenish hue. He turned toward the woods. Even in the darkness, he could find his way. The moonlight filtered through the trees, giving him enough illumination to avoid tripping over broken stumps and fallen logs.

"Are you here?" he called, once he reached the pond.

"Welcome back," she said as she emerged from the water. There was no wait this time.

"What do you want from me?" Peter asked as she stepped onto the grass. His head grew cloudier with each step she took toward him.

"The same thing you want from me, I suspect," she stopped and sat down on the rotted-out stump. One long leg crossed over the other, and she pointed her toes at him.

Oh god. "What's that?"

"Companionship. A warm body next to mine," she uncrossed her legs deliberately, and Peter began to sweat. "A warm body in mine."

He blinked rapidly, trying to maintain his focus. "Ok. Just. Watch the scratches."

"Ah. Too rough for you last time?" She smiled, then stood and took a step toward him. In the moonlight, her eyes looked like the sky above – dark, infinite, and filled with stars. His head swam.

"Yeah. I don't want my wife to know."

"Well then," suddenly she was next to him, breathing in his ear. The scent of honeysuckle overwhelmed him, and he was unable to think at all. "I won't leave a mark."

Peter woke up in the grass again, though he was certain that not as much time has elapsed as the last time – the moon hadn't progressed significantly across the sky. His head throbbed, and, as he sat up, he almost missed the bouquet of honeysuckle that lay beside him.

What's this for? he wondered. Though his head was still cloudy, he tried to think.

"I'll give you something to take back," she had said as she set his body alight. "But you have to promise to come back to see me."

"I will, I will, oh God, I will."

As he headed back through the woods, carrying the bouquet, he couldn't get the taste of her off of his lips; she tasted like nectar.

"Where the hell have you been?" Abby yelled as he walked in the back door.

"I was out taking a walk."

"A walk? It's nearly ten o'clock! What the fuck have you been doing? I've been worried sick." Her face was flushed and her eyes were red – she had been crying.

"Getting these for you." He held up the bouquet. "I'm sorry."

She gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. Her eyes began to fill with tears, but then she stopped herself and shook her head. "Put them in a vase. I'm going to bed."

Peter waited until she left the room, put the honeysuckle in a vase, and breathed in deeply. The scent calmed him, and he smiled.

#

The thunder brought them together. The next night, they were lying in bed – Peter reading the paper, Abby flipping through the latest issue of Architectural Digest – listening to the rain hit the roof when a massive thunderclap split the night. The air trembled, the house shook, and the electricity went out, leaving the only source of illumination the afterglow of the massive flash of lighting.

Abby pressed close – she had always been afraid of thunder – and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. "Eek," she squealed as another clap of thunder sounded overhead. She hid her face in the space between his neck and his shoulder.

"It's ok, Abby," Peter said as he caressed her back, trying to calm her. He caught the scent of her rose perfume and felt a dull ache stir in the back of his head.

"I feel like such a dork," she said, even as she huddled against him. Another flash of lightning signaled another loud bang, and she jumped into his arms.

"Well, you are a big dork."

"So says the king of the dorks."

"I'm not a dork."

"Baby, you're an accountant."

"What's that have to do with anything?"

She was about to answer when another thunderclap drove her back to her hiding place. She giggled nervously. "At least you're a big, strong dork."

He chuckled, and squeezed her gently.

"Mmm, nice."

"Yeah?"

"Just as soon as I crawl back inside my skin, I'm going to crawl on top of you."

Peter kissed her on top of her head, and lay back at the ceiling. The thought of sex didn't sound appealing, and that disturbed him. They lay together for ten minutes, until the loudest of the thunder had subsided.

"How are you doing?" she sighed softly into his chest.

"I'm ok," he said, rubbing his head.

"What's wrong?" she lifted her head to look at him.

"Nothing. Well, no. I've just got a headache, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You're not mad at me for something, are you?"

"No. No, nothing like that."

Abby raised an eyebrow.

"I've just got a headache."

A strong clap of thunder startled them both, and she let out a loud cry. Peter grimaced.

She kissed his forehead. "Sorry, baby."

"No, it's ok. Headache, like I said."

She laid her head back on his chest and pressed herself against him. After a half an hour, the rain subsided, and the thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. "Sleep well," she said drowsily.

"You, too," he kissed her on the back of her head and then lay back and stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and thought of the green woman -- of her soft lips, and of her warm embrace.

#

On Wednesday, Peter came home early from his poker game in the city. He'd busted out after only a few hands, so he downed the rest of his beer and called it a night. As he walked into the house from the garage, he heard Abby in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

"I don't know, Helen. I don't think he's cheating on me." She was pacing. She always paced when she was on the phone. "No, I'm not sure, but I think I'd be able to tell."

Peter set his laptop case down, leaned against the wall, and listened.

"Well, he did come home smelling like perfume, but then he brought me flowers that he was out picking."

Ah, crap, he thought, and sniffed at his coat. There was still a faint smell of honeysuckle that clung to it. I need to get this dry-cleaned.

"Oh god, Helen, am I not attractive anymore?" Abby paused and then laughed, "That landscaper? Yeah, he was kind of cute, but those guys will hit on anybody."

Peter felt a twinge of jealousy. Who's hitting on my wife? A sharp pain sliced through his temple, and he grabbed his head. Golden stars floated through his vision.

"This wasn't supposed to be this hard. This was supposed to be a good thing for both of us." Peter could hear her take a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with ice from the freezer. "Maybe I'm just overreacting. Once we're done with all of the work, things will settle down."

There's the faucet, he thought as he listened to Abby fill her glass at the sink. "No, he doesn't really want to talk about it."

Ah, crap, the stabbing pain returned, I need to lie down. He walked around the corner and into the kitchen, "Hey, I'm home."

"Jesus!" Abby jumped, "you scared me. I didn't hear you come in."

"Sorry," he said as he dropped his keys on the counter.

"You're home early," she pointed to the phone, "I was just talking to Helen."

"Hi Helen," Peter waved at the phone. "Yeah, I busted out early."

"Oh, that's too bad," Abby walked over to him and then stood on her toes to kiss him, but Peter pulled away.

"Sorry," he said as he shut his eyes and rubbed his head. "I've got a terrible headache. I'm going to go to bed."

"Oh," Abby looked hurt for a moment, but then her face relaxed. "Ok, go to bed, baby. I'll be up in a while."

As Peter exited the kitchen, he could hear Abby whisper quietly to Helen, "I'm really worried."

#

The next few days were filled with rain and slate gray skies. By Saturday, the world seemed drained of color. Peter moped around the house.

"Are you ok?" Abby asked that morning.

"Yeah, just the weather getting to me."

Abby shook her head and frowned, "Maybe you should go to the doctor."

"What for?"

"Well, you know, they have medicine for this sort of thing."

"What thing is that?" he asked, incredulous.

"Never mind."

"No, seriously, what thing is that?" he stared at her.

"You're depressed, Peter," she folded her arms and stared back.

"No, I'm not depressed. I'm stressed."

"God, you've been stressed for months."

"Yeah? So have you. Maybe you need medication."

"I'm not the one moping around the fucking house."

"That's 'cause you're never fucking home. You're always out spending money."

"What?!" she yelled, putting her hands on her hips.

"You're always out spending money." He backed away. Her rose-scented perfume was getting to him. God, why does she have to bathe herself in that stuff?

"Yeah, on the house. On us. What the fuck?"

"Never mind," he rubbed his head. He could feel the pain creeping up his neck and into the base of his skull.

"Fine. Fine!" she grabbed her purse and stormed out.

He waited until he heard the sound of her car disappear into the distance, and then he walked out into the dismal gray day. He tried rolling his shoulders and his neck to relieve the pain, but it only grew worse. Fuck.

The faint scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air. Peter inhaled deeply, and faint points of light seemed to glow at the edge of his vision. He made a beeline to the pond.

#

August was ready to give way to September; the hottest days of the year were behind them, and it regularly dipped into the sixties at night. On the last Monday of the month, they had cooked dinner, and shared a bottle of wine in near silence. Afterward, they stood in the kitchen, ignoring each other, while Peter washed dishes and Abby put away leftovers.

Abby frowned at the bowl of cooked carrots, folded her arms, squeezing herself tightly, and then looked at Peter for a minute. She took a deep breath and then asked, "So where were you this afternoon?" Her voice sounded an octave higher than her usual alto.

Peter had visited the pond again while Abby was out shopping. "What? Why?"

"I saw some shoes I thought you'd like, so I tried calling you, but you didn't answer." She shifted nervously.

"Oh. I was walking around the woods. We don't get great service out there."

"I thought you hated the woods," Abby looked at him suspiciously, "too many bugs."

"I'm getting used to them. I figure we own all that property, I might as well find out what's out there. Don't want any squatters camping out in our woods."

She sighed deeply and uncrossed her arms. She smiled as her shoulders returned to their usual position, and then grabbed a new bottle of wine. "Come on, let's go sit by the window."

"The window?"

"Yeah. That way I can watch the stars and you don't have to worry about bugs."

He smiled. "That sounds like a great idea."

She took the pillows off the couch and set them in front of the big bay window, then turned off the lights. "Come, sit."

Peter leaned back against the side of the window and stretched his legs out along its length. She curled up at the other end, her legs drawn up to her chest. She stared out at the rapidly darkening sky while Peter stared at his feet. Over the course of an hour, they drank more glasses of wine than they exchanged words. She briefly stepped away to bring back a new bottle – their third for the evening – and by ten, Peter was feeling very warm and relaxed.

When she finished the last of the third bottle, she frowned at her glass, and then turned to Peter. "Why don't you want to fuck me anymore?" Her eyes were slightly unfocused, and she squinted as she looked at him.

"What?"

"You don't want to fuck me anymore."

"Yes, I do."

"So why don't you?"

Peter sighed, "I don't know. We've been so busy, and with the new commute we don't even start eating until eight."

"This isn't my fault," she said and slammed her hand against the window. It reverberated with the blow.

"I'm not saying it is." He leaned forward and took her hand in his. "Look, things have changed. We'll figure it out. We've managed to figure out things so far."

"Really?" she slid toward him so she was sitting beside him.

"Yes."

She reached down and placed her hand on his leg, and then pressed her head against his chest. He took a deep breath as she moved her hand higher and began to gently rub him. "I want you to show me that you still want me."

He gasped, "Oh, I do."

She unzipped his pants and tugged at his waistband. He lifted his hips, and she pulled his jeans and his boxers halfway down his thighs. "You like that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then how about this?" She bent down and took him in her mouth.

"Oh god, yes."

He fumbled with her belt, and she shifted her hips to give him access. He fumbled for a minute more, before she reached down, unfastened it herself, and then slipped her pants and panties down her thighs. Peter was able to remove them the rest of the way.

"I want you in me," she said as she pulled away, sat up, and pulled off her top. Peter mirrored her actions, and then reached out and pulled her toward him. She kissed him greedily as she straddled his lap, reached down, and then slid onto him.

"You feel so good."

"Baby, I love you. I love you so much."

Peter grabbed her hips and guided her as she thrust against him.

She wrapped her arms around Peter's head and crushed herself into him. She ground her pelvis against his, and moaned. After a minute, her entire body tensed, quivered, and then relaxed. She pressed her face into the space between his neck and his shoulder and half-giggled, half-sighed.

Peter squeezed her in his arms, and she returned the gesture by pressing herself against him. She kissed his neck, and began to move again. This time, she angled her hips differently than before, and Peter groaned, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the window.

"I know what you like," she whispered in his ear. "I know everything you like."

"God, I know you do."

"Nobody else has ever made you feel like this, have they?"

"No, nobody but you." God, that's such a lie.

"I want you to come for me."

"Yes, yes," he grabbed her by the hips and thrust as deeply as he could as the pressure finally released. "Oh God, yes."

She kissed him again, and as she brushed her face against his, he could feel that her cheeks were wet. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said as she began to sob.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," she cried.

"Abby, talk to me."

"What's wrong with us?"

"Nothing's wrong with us."

"Yes, there is."

"Well, ok. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."

"I'm scared."

"Don't be scared. We'll figure it out."

"What if we don't? I don't want to lose you."

"We will. Don't worry."

Abby crushed herself against him and cried while he held her tightly. He wasn't sure how long they sat that way, but eventually she pulled away from him, wiped off her face, stood up, and pulled him to his feet. "Bed."

They stumbled upstairs, and then turned off the light. Abby was out within minutes, but Peter lay in the dark, listening to her breathe. He watched her chest rise and fall, watched her breasts shift with every inhalation, and her streamlined abdomen ripple with every exhalation. The moonlight that filtered in through the bedroom window highlighted the curves and angles of her body.

What the fuck am I doing? Oh, god, what am I doing?

#

Peter waited a month before venturing back into the woods again. The next morning, standing in the shower, he promised himself that he was going to try to make things better. He brought home roses that evening, and they made love on the kitchen counter. On Sunday, she surprised him with massage oil. Within two weeks, though, they had slipped back into their old routine, and the fighting was worse than ever.

On one particularly gray Saturday, it had been threatening to rain, and Peter didn't feel like raking leaves. They argued for an hour before Abby threw up her hands in frustration, jumped into the car, and left. Peter grabbed his head – a throbbing pain shot through his skull, so he downed ibuprofen and then stormed off into the woods. The sky opened up as he reached the pond, and he took shelter under one of the trees.

Peter pressed his back against the tree and pulled his knees in to his chest. Up above the slate-gray sky roiled – a monochromatic cauldron. The rain splattered around his feet, and, though the branches overhead protected him from the brunt of the downpour, the rain that did make it onto him left him cold enough to be uncomfortable.

"Looking for someone to warm you up?"

He jumped and then turned – She was standing right behind him. "God, I'm so angry." His head throbbed, and a sharp, stabbing pain kept shooting through his right eye.

"Come with me."

Peter noticed that her skin had taken on a red tone and her hair had darkened from a bright emerald to a rich pine. "What?"

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. I can show you the world. Every inch of it."

"I don't understand."

She knelt down beside him, and the pain began to transform into a cottony haze. He turned and breathed in honeysuckle and warm rain. "Summer has come and gone. The leaves are falling, my love."

He sighed. Love. The word made him euphoric. "So?"

"So, it will be winter soon, and I have to leave. I want you to come with me."

He emerged from the sea of endorphins that he was floating in. "What?" He began to panic. "You can't leave."

"I must." She pressed herself against him, crushing her breasts against his arms, and warming his entire body. "I can't stay here."

He shook his head. "But I need you."

Lightning flashed in her emerald eyes, and then she kissed him. The world exploded in a burst of green. He wanted the feeling to continue forever, but she pulled away and stood up.

"What?"

"If you need me, then come with me." She slowly backed toward the pond. With each step she took away from him, the euphoria faded, and he grew colder.

He stood up and walked toward her, desperate to regain the feeling she invoked in him. "I can't. I have a job, and a house. Shit – I have a wife, though I don't know for how much longer."

"You won't need any of those things, Peter. Come with me. Share your warmth with me. I need you." She put one foot in the pond.

"No don't go."

"Come with me; I don't want to go without you," she stretched out her hand.

"I…I can't," he began to cry.

She turned, plunged into the water, and disappeared. It took every ounce of his willpower not to dive in after her. He stood at the edge of the pond for an hour and cried. When she didn't re-emerge, he turned and walked back toward the house.

He came back every day for the next two weeks and waited by the edge of the pond for her to reappear.

Autumn

The brown, orange, and ochre leaves scurried across the yard, running in fear from the wind’s razor sharp talons. Peter watched as they made a valiant attempt at escape, before the wind swooped in and scooped up its prey. The breeze carried them in a slow circle before screaming off over the tops of the trees, where they disappeared for good.

Abby stood next to him, leaning on her rake. They had woken up that morning, determined to clean up the yard, but after an hour of yard work spent in silence, Abby had turned to him and said, "We need to talk."

Peter had set down the wheelbarrow, pulled off his gloves, and then looked off into the woods. "Ok."

"You haven't said more than two words to me in two weeks," Abby walked around him, so that she stood in his field of vision. "Don't you love me anymore?"

Peter was quiet for a moment, and then finally met her gaze. "I still care about you."

Her eyes immediately began to fill with tears. "That's not what I asked."

"Abby," he looked away.

"Talk to me!" she cried. "Why can't you talk to me?" She walked around into his field of vision again.

Peter scowled at her.

She rubbed the tears off of her cheeks with her sleeve. "We can move back to the city, baby. I know you hate the house."

"No," he rubbed his head. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air. "The house isn't the problem."

"Then what is the problem?" Abby began crying harder. "Do you know what Helen thinks is the problem? She thinks you're having an affair."

"Helen should mind her own fucking business," Peter threw his gloves on the ground and turned away.

"I made it her business because she's the only one who would talk to me!" Abby tossed the rake on the ground beside her. "The man who used to be my best friend won't talk to me anymore!"

Peter shook his head and then began walking toward the house. Abby screamed behind him, "I can't do this Peter! I can't do this anymore!"

"So don't!" he yelled over his shoulder before he slammed the door and disappeared from sight.

#

"God damn it! What the hell is wrong with you?" Peter was standing in pajama bottoms in the doorway of their bedroom.

"I want a divorce!" Abby screamed, standing on the bed.

"Fine!" Peter turned, slammed the door behind him, and ran down the hall.

"Get back here you son of a bitch!" Abby screamed through the door.

Peter hit the stairs running and almost slipped. He caught himself on the railing as the door opened at the end of the hall. "Come back here and talk to me!" Abby's voice was hoarse.

"Fuck you!" Peter yelled back as he opened the front door and plunged into the snowy night. The November air clawed at his bare skin; he immediately began shivering and his head exploded in pain.

The first frost had come and gone, and now there was a thin blanket of snow on the ground. He ignored the bite of the frozen ground on the bottom of his feet as he marched across the lawn. Behind him, Abby shouted after him, "God damn it, Peter! Where the fuck are you going?" He looked over his shoulder to see her slam her fist against the door jam and then disappear back inside.

Need to get away. Need to get away. Need to get away. Peter ran toward the woods. The light of the full moon cast an eerie glow through the trees. He hadn't been back to the pond, but he knew she would be there now. He needed her to be there.

He crashed through the woods, ignoring the branches that snagged his pajamas and scratched his skin.

"Are you here?" he whispered loudly, once he reached the pond.

She stepped out from behind a tree. "I'm so cold, Peter." She was shivering violently. Her skin had turned fallow, her hair was brown, and her emerald eyes were now dull – the color of pale sea foam. "I need your warmth."

He immediately rushed to her and wrapped her in his arms. She was cold – as cold as she was normally warm. He struggled to catch his breath as he felt her pull his body heat from him. "I need you," he gasped, his mind rapidly clouding. "I don't want to live without you."

"Come with me."

"Yes," he couldn't focus his gaze on her, but he nodded, "I'm ready."

She took his hand and led him toward the pond. He followed, and when his foot hit the freezing water, he gasped. "It will be ok, my love," she said as she led him deeper.

The water climbed up his legs, chilling him to the bone. When it hit his torso, he gasped. His breath fled from his chest. She smiled at him as she stepped further back, and then disappeared under the surface. She tugged on his hand from beneath the surface of the pond; he struggled to take a deep breath, and then plunged after her.

Under the water, the world changed. He felt warm, and relaxed. He stared at her smiling face as he began to breathe, and the water engulfed him and cradled him in a warm embrace.

He wasn't sure when the strong pair of arms grabbed him under his shoulders and pulled him out of the pond. He didn't know who the woman with the auburn hair was who blew into his mouth and compressed his chest. He didn't understand why tears were running down her cheeks, or why she kept screaming, "Don't leave me, you son of a bitch!"

As she leaned over him, her face was framed by the full moon, causing her auburn hair to burst into flames. Oh wow, he thought, she's got a halo.

#

When Peter regained consciousness, he realized that he was lying in a hospital bed. The clean white blanket was pulled up over his chest and tucked under his arms. Oh, god, I'm still here. He looked around – he was in a room by himself, though the wall directly in front of him had windows running from mid-wall to the ceiling. He could see Abby talking to a nurse.

She turned suddenly to look at him, and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Peter! Oh, baby…" She rushed into the room only to stop short.

Peter glared at her. "I thought you wanted a divorce."

Abby began to cry, wrapping her arms around herself. "You stupid idiot. I don't want to give up on us. I love you."

Peter lay back, closed his eyes, and looked at the ceiling. He sighed, and then said quietly, "I love you, too."

She walked over and knelt down beside his bed. "That's the first time you've said that in a month." Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she grabbed his hand and squeezed. "Oh, god, I'm so glad you're ok."

Abby's touch set his hand on fire and he wanted to grab it back, but she held it firm. "What happened?" he asked.

"You were convulsing and you fell into the pond. The doctors think you had a seizure."

"What?"

"A seizure. Don't worry about it now," she squeezed his hand even harder.

"You're hurting my hand," he said quietly.

"Sorry," she said, loosening her grip almost imperceptibly.

"When can I go home?" Where is She? I need to see her!

"Not for a few days. The doctors need to run some tests to figure out why you had the seizure."

Shit. The thought of lying in a hospital bed for days frightened him. There were too many lights and machines and freshly-scrubbed floors. There were no trees or shrubs or rocks or ponds. He couldn't even see a window from where he was. "Will you come visit me?"

"Of course I will!" she pulled his hand to her face and kissed it, over and over and over.

He crinkled his nose. "Do you smell honeysuckle?"

"What?" Abby looked confused. "No, it smells like floor cleaner in here."

"That's strange," Peter said as he pressed on his temples with his free hand, "my head really hurts." Suddenly, a pulsing green light overwhelmed his senses and the world disappeared.

#

"Arteriovenous malformation."

Peter rolled the words around in his head. It was a disorder that affected the connection between some of the veins and arteries in his brain, the doctor had explained, and it was likely causing micro-bleeds.

"It looks like a pile of spaghetti in your brain."

"Spaghetti?"

"More or less."

"Great."

"Now, in addition to the headaches and the seizures, it can cause a variety of other symptoms, including confusion and hallucinations. Have you experienced anything like that?"

Oh god. Peter ran his hands across his shoulders, over the faint scars that still remained from his first encounter with She. She. She? Oh god. It couldn't be. He looked over at Abby, who was sitting on the bed next to him. "I...yes. Well, maybe. Well, yes."

Abby's jaw dropped. "What?"

"I keep seeing these flashes of green and gold," he said. Among other things. "Sometimes, I find it really hard to think."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I…I don't know."

"Your wife tells me that you've been suffering from depression. It's certainly possible that this has been a contributing factor."

Peter looked at his wife and felt a sudden pang of guilt. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

The doctor nodded, "It's a congenital defect. You've probably had it for years, but just started to suffer symptoms."

"How do we fix it?" both Abby and Peter said in unison. Abby giggled and smiled at Peter, and he reached out and took her hand.

"Surgery. Then medication if you have further symptoms."

Peter stared at the ceiling. Hallucinations. Hallucinations. Hallucinations. It couldn't be. Could it? Then he looked back at Abby, at her smiling, green eyes, and felt like someone had just kicked him in the gut. Oh god, please let it be hallucinations.

#

Peter spent the week in the hospital and still felt woozy when Abby finally drove him home. As they drove out of the city, past the farms and fields, he began to relax. He smiled as he saw the snow-covered oaks, maples, and pines. "I love it out here," he said quietly.

The surgery had been a success, the doctors had said, and he should no longer suffer from headaches. While he couldn't tell through the haze of painkillers, he was hopeful.

"Abby?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Thank you for everything."

She glanced at him and smiled. "You're welcome."

"Are we going to be ok?"

She gasped, and put a hand to her mouth. "I don't know. Do you want us to be ok?"

"I want to find out." He turned and smiled at her.

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled back at him. "I hope that's not just the meds talking."

"Well, if it is, you'll just have to keep me doped up all the time."

She laughed, "I know a few questionable people. I'm sure I can arrange that."

"Are we there yet?"

"No, it'll be just a few more minutes. You can go to sleep if you want."

"Are we there yet?"

"Baby, are you ok?" She looked over at him. Her eyes were wide with concern.

"Are we there yet?"

Abby raised an eyebrow. "Are you fucking with me?"

"Are we there yet?" he chuckled.

"You brat!" She punched him in the shoulder.

"Hey! Walking wounded here!"

"Don't do that!" She giggled. "Besides, you're on painkillers, what do you care?"

Peter leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "I really want us to be ok."

Spring

Peter looked at the pond, sighed, and squeezed Abby's hand. He had held her hand as they wound their way through the woods: past the huge, overturned tree, whose root ball towered ten feet over their heads; past the rock outcropping that pointed toward true north; and past the small creek with a two foot-high waterfall.

"Why do you want to go back there?" she had asked on that breezy May morning.

"So that I'm not afraid of it anymore."

"Oh, baby, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"That's why I need to go. Come on, let's take a walk."

Now they stood in front of the pond, where he had nearly drowned – where he had drowned – where his wife had brought him back to life.

Peter smiled and looked at Abby. My angel.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said, her cheeks flushing. She looked away, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. She glanced at him as the hair fell back into place. She smiled, "What?"

"I love you," he said as he tucked the hair back behind her ear. He caught the scent of her perfume and inhaled deeply. Roses, he thought, how lovely.

Abby put her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her, "I will always love you. Remember that."

"These are our woods, you know," he said with a smile.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he said as he gently ran his hand down her spine, "we're all alone out here."

Abby gave him that look that he had seen a thousand times before and couldn't get enough of. She pulled away from him, unbuttoned her top, and then sat down on the rotted-out tree stump. Peter mimicked her actions, until they were both wearing only the dappled sunlight that filtered through the green canopy above.

Peter took Abby's hand and lay her down on a bed of moss. She pulled him on top of her and moaned as his weight gently crushed her. "Oh baby," she whispered as he plunged into her.

They moved their hips in unison and Peter covered her face in kisses. "Oh, God, you feel so good."

After a few minutes, Abby wrapped her legs around his hips and squeezed as she climaxed. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" she cried.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" he cried as he joined her.

Abby kissed him greedily until he rolled off and lay beside her, panting. As he stared up at the canopy of green far above, he once again felt the sensation of being watched. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. It can't be! He crinkled his nose – the faint scent of honeysuckle floated by on the wind.

She can't be here! He turned, alarmed, only to find Abby staring at him. She was turning a honeysuckle blossom over in her hands.

"What'cha thinking?" she asked.

He sighed in relief and then burst into laughter.

"What?" she smiled, but obviously confused.

Peter shook his head, "Nothing. Everything is very, very good."

She sighed contentedly, then rolled over and kissed him. "I was thinking that we could transplant some of the honeysuckle into the backyard. You really like them, and they're all over the place out here."

Peter grimaced. "No. Honey, that garden was your dream. I want to help you make it come true."

"Really?"

"Yes." He took the flower from her hand, tossed it off into the distance, and smiled. "Let's go plant your roses."

waking up: poetic cannon for three voices

2011-09-14T09:20:00.001-04:00

The three parts are designed to be recited simultaneously. Voice 1 starts, and then each subsequent voice joins after the previous one has repeated once. Voice 3 repeats once, then drops out. Voice 2 drops out after two additional repetitions. Voice one ends with two final repetitions of the verse.

Voice 1:

Wake up

Go to sleep

Wake up

Go to sleep

Wake up

Coffee coffee

Wake up

Go to sleep

(repeat x12)

Voice 2:

I'm awake

(clap, clap)

I'm awake

(clap, clap)

I'm awake

(clap, clap)

Waking, waking

Waking, waking

(repeat x8)

Voice 3:

Oh

Wa-

King

Up

Is

Hard

To

Do

When

You

Are

Sad

And

When

You're

Blue

(repeat once)

le chat

2011-09-09T10:24:00.001-04:00

how odd

2011-08-18T08:59:00.000-04:00

I have noticed that, whenever I am away from the site for an extended period of time, my traffic seems to go up. It's an odd behavior that I can't quite explain, but I'm not complaining too much.

Well, hello to all of my new visitors - feel free to look around. I've got lots of ink reviews, poetry, and fiction lying about. To all of my existing readers - I'm still here - I've just been busy and experiencing a bit of a creative drought. You should see more from me soon!

ink questions

2011-08-01T15:20:00.000-04:00

I've received a few requests for recommendations recently, and thought I'd share them with everyone here on Seize the Dave.

First, Nestor asks (via email):

Would you kindly suggest some inks that will not harm my nib or pen, and that will not smear on Moleskines?

Hi Nestor! I'd be happy to. First, I presume that by "not smear" you mean "fully waterproof." There are a great many inks that are smudgeproof, but few that are truly waterproof. The best group of fully waterproof inks that I've found are the Platinum pigment inks. I've reviewed the Carbon and Rose Red inks. While I warn, in the reviews, that it is extra important not to let this ink dry in one's pen, in practice I've had no issues. Don't let your pen sit uncapped, and don't let it sit unused for a month at a time, and you should be ok. The Carbon, especially, is a lovely ink to work with, and is now my reference black color.

Now, I have heard reports that Carbon can smudge on certain paper, since it dries on the surface instead of soaking in. I didn't notice this on Moleskine, but if other Moleskine users would like to chime in with their experience, I'd be happy to hear it.

Second, Ian asked, via Twitter:

Just read your review on the Behance Dot Grid Journal from last July. Did you ever find a really great dedicated notebook?

I did! The Rhodia Webbie is one of the best notebooks for fountain pen users on the market. I wholeheartedly recommend it. They've even come out with a dot-grid version, which makes an already awesome thing even more awesome.

Finally, @NoPenIntended asked (via Twitter):

I feel I should try more inks than just Noodler's. I've tried J. Herbin but found Noodler's superior. Any suggestions (w/multiple colors)?

Diamine is currently my favorite ink brand. It is consistently well-behaved and has a great selection of colors. I pointed her to the Goulet Pen Company, which is where I've purchased all of my Diamine inks. As far as I know, he offers every color they make, and he's got a good selection of online swatches to help guide you in the right direction.

tasty tasty rum drink

2011-07-22T16:07:00.002-04:00

It is uncharacteristically hot outside across most of the US at the moment, which means that it's time for a tasty, tasty rum drink.

Ingredients

1/2 oz Applejack
1/2 oz apricot brandy
1 oz light (silver) rum

Directions

Combine all ingredients and shake with plenty of ice.
Serve over ice.
Relax.
Repeat.

how to find the shadowlands

2011-06-17T08:00:00.002-04:00

To find your way to the Shadowlands, the twilight realm where the Night Things dwell, you must first pay homage to the Raven Queen. The customary offering is a bushel of dates, left under under an oak tree at midnight on the eve of the new moon. She is most hungry when the air is cool and there are more leaves on the ground than in the trees, but some have reported reported rare success when the world is still vibrant and green.

At the light of dawn, if you count four and twenty blackbirds at roost in the tree, then you will know the Raven Queen is pleased with your offering, and has decided to grant you access to her realm.

On the very same day, head into the woods during the golden hour - when the sun sets the trees on fire, filling the forest with amber and gold and scarlet. Head due east, past the creek and through the valley. You'll know you're on the right path when you pass a fallen tree in the middle of a glade of ferns.

Keep walking until just after you start to doubt yourself and just before you give up hope. Then you will see an old, gnarled tree with twisted limbs that could have been an oak if it weren't for the coal-black bark.

Place your left hand on the trunk of the tree, and then walk around it backwards three times. When you open your eyes, you will see a set of rough-hewn stone stairs leading down a hillside that was not there before. Follow the stairs, and you will find yourself on a path that looks almost exactly but unsettlingly not quite like the path you had traveled previously.

At this point, you might notice that the trees sway against the wind, as if determined to display their independence from the spirits of the air. You may hear the roar of beasts in a timbre that you have previously only heard in dreams. You will be safe as you walk along this leaf-covered path, but be sure not to stray, for out in the shadows, in the darkest recesses of the wood, lie creatures that even the Night Things fear.

Continue down this path until just after sunset, and you will reach the edge of the wood. When you peer out from beneath the canopy of the forest, you will see, nestled in the valley before you, your destination - the goblin city of Ix, with its ten thousand smokestacks silhouetted against the starry night sky.

june carnival of pen, pencil, and paper

2011-06-07T16:10:00.000-04:00

The June installment of the Carnival of Pen, Pencil, and Paper is up at Note Booker, Esq - a pen blog that's one of my favorites. Be sure to stop by and tell Booker hi!

ink review: sailor jentle ultramarine

2011-05-31T11:21:00.001-04:00

(click to embiggen)

Sailor Jentle Ultramarine is one of Sailor's six new ink colors (the others being Apricot, Epinard, Grenade, Peche, and Sky High). I purchased samples of each, and Ultramarine is the first one I tested. Ultramarine is a unique color that sits on the spectrum between blue and indigo. One could call it blue-purple, but that wouldn't quite do it justice.

Historically, ultramarine was an expensive pigment that was made by grinding up the gemstone lapis lazuli. It was first used in the 6th and 7th centuries, but was most popular during the 14th and 15th centuries. It was generally reserved by European artists for the most important subjects in paintings, such as the robes of Mary and the Christ child in sacred works.

Thankfully, the color can be produced artificially today, which makes inks like this one affordable. The color is so rich and beautiful, though, that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you're still writing with ground-up lapis. Sailor Ultramarine, in particular, is moderately saturated, which produces medium levels of gem-like shading in a fine nib.

I tested this ink on five papers: cheap, office-grade copier paper; Staples "Sustainable Earth" bagasse; Ecosystem notebook paper; Moleskine cahier paper; and high-quality Rhodia 90gsm paper. I've previously reviewed Sailor Jentle Blue-Black, and its behavior was exemplary across each of these papers. I'm pleased to report that Ultramarine is equally well-behaved.

On the copier paper, it displayed a low-medium level of feathering, a medium level of show-through, and a low level of bleed-through. It was dry to the touch in three seconds. On the bagasse, the ink displayed a low level of feathering and bleed-through, and medium level of show-though. It dried in six seconds. On the Ecosystem notebook, the ink dried in two seconds, and had a low level of feathering and bleed-through. It exhibited moderate levels of show-though.

The ink's performance on the Moleskine cahier was better then many. While it took fifteen seconds to dry, I noticed absolutely no bleed-through, low levels of feathering, and only moderate show-through. Finally, on the Rhodia paper, the ink dried in just under fifteen seconds, which is within the realm of normalcy for Rhodia. As expected, it demonstrated no feathering, no bleed-through, and very little show-though.

My only complaint about the ink is that it has a very sharp chemical solvent smell to it. Some inks possess a mild odor that is only noticeable up close, but this scent is more powerful. It is similar to the smell of some permanent markers. If you're sensitive to odors in general, or specifically to that type of scent, I'd recommend trying a sample or otherwise evaluating it in person before buying.

(click to embiggen)

Ultramarine held up unexpectedly well during the water tests. The smear test, in which I ran a wet finger across the page, was first. Here, the ink did smudge, but left behind legible lines. The drip test, in which I let droplets of water sit for a minute before blotting, raised about a third the ink from the page, but left the other two-thirds intact and legible.

The soak test, in which I run the paper under a faucet for a half a minute, was the most surprising. About a third of the ink washed away, but the remaining ink remained completely legible. I'm happy to report that Ultramarine possesses a high degree of water resistance, though it is not completely waterproof.

Ultramarine is a beautiful color, and I can see it being used by less conservative businesspeople. It's easy to read, especially on white paper, so it's also useful for daily journaling or correspondence. The high degree of water resistance makes it a good choice for addressing envelopes, but the tendency to smear slightly makes it unsuitable for artistic endeavors that require it to be washed over.

Sailor inks come in a bottle that looks like a cold-cream jar - they're nothing especially interesting to look at, though they are fairly innocuous. Much more interesting than their appearance is the inclusion of a mechanism that aids the filling of pens.

A plastic funnel sits inside the mouth of the bottle. Prior to filling a pen, turn the bottle upside down (leave the lid on for this step, of course), and ink will fill the funnel. Then turn the bottle back over, and the ink will remain in the funnel for long enough to allow you to easily fill the pen. This is especially handy once the ink falls below a certain level in the bottle; it makes it very easy to get to every last drop.

I'm becoming quite a fan of Sailor inks. While I originally ordered samples of all of the new colors, I know for sure that I'll be ordering full bottles of many of them, and Ultramarine will be certainly be first.

Review materials: For the wide strokes, I used two calligraphy pens: Pilot Parallel 6.0mm and 2.0mm Pelikan Script. Both have steel nibs. For the fine strokes, I used a Lamy 2000. The paper is Rhodia 80g from a No. 18 notepad.

Sailor Jentle Ultramarine is available from:

sacred geometry, part 5

2011-05-20T07:03:00.001-04:00

>> New to the series? Start with Part 1.

"Why wouldn't you want to be probed?" asked Jim. "How many other people can say they've been abducted by extraterrestrials and had their DNA extracted? That would be so amazing!"

Scarlett thought for a moment, and struggled to find a response. Finally, she just shrugged. "I'm not sure how to answer that."

Scarlett had ventured out of the city to investigate a report of UFO crop circles at a local farm. What she'd found was the handiwork of what she suspected was school kids. The news came as a huge disappointment to Jim Brown, the owner of the farm.

"Well, what can you do?" the elder farmer frowned. "Guess I won't be able to add the crop circles to the collection."

The Brown family farmhouse was a wunderkammer of the esoteric, occult, new age, and downright weird. Bookshelves lined the wall, filled with tattered and obviously well-read treatises on the occult. Every inch of wall space that wasn't covered by bookcases was lined with pictures of pyramids, crop circles, mandalas, sacred symbols, and quotes from nearly every religious text ever known to man. Tables filled the corners, and were covered with candles, crystals, skulls, skull candles, skull candle-holders, crystal skulls, and crystal skull candle-holders.

Scarlett was impressed.

As she looked around, she noticed a hand-painted sign hanging on the wall. It read, "But take courage, the race of man is divine." Something about it made her uneasy, but she couldn't place why.

"That sign," she said, pointing to it, "where is it from?"

"Oh, I lifted that from a hotel down near Columbus." said Jim, "It's part of the Pythagorean creed."

Scarlett clutched her head as a wave of dizziness hit her. Numbers tumbled through her head: 780, 1351, 153, 265. Her knees buckled, and she felt herself heading for the floor, when a strong pair of hands grabbed her and steadied her.

"Woah, there," said Ben, "You ok?"

"Sorry," Scarlett replied, unsteadily. "I just...need to sit down." Ben helped her to a chair, and then she continued, "It's been a rough few weeks."

"Yikes," said Ben. "You're welcome to hang out for a while."

"Hell, why don't you stay for dinner?" asked Jim.

"No, thanks. I couldn't. I should probably go."

"I guarantee that you'll never have a steak this good anywhere else," said Jim.

"My dad is one hell of a cook," said Ben.

"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "I am kind of hungry."

#

Jim Brown was, indeed, one hell of a cook, and Scarlett eagerly cut into the perfectly rare rib-eye. "This is fucking amazing," she said between bites.

"I told you," said Ben with a smile as he filled up her wine glass.

"And the wine goes perfectly," she continued, alternating bites of steak with sips of wine.

"I like this one," said Jim with a chuckle as he pointed to Scarlett. "Say, are you single?"

"Dad!" exclaimed Ben. Scarlett blushed.

"Well, not for me!" Jim retorted, "I'm old. For you. You're single, she's smart, you should get together and give me some grandchildren finally."

"Oh my God," Ben said as he covered his face with his hands.

Scarlett narrowly avoided snorting wine out of her nose as she struggled to suppress a laugh. She set the glass down and took a deep breath. "Well, I'm not seeing anyone right now, no."

"See?" said Jim.

Ben peeked through his fingers as Scarlett who blushed more fiercely and covered her own face as a result. "So..."

"So...?"

"Well, you want to go out sometime?" asked Ben as he put his hands back down.

Scarlett dropped her hands and smiled at him, "Yeah, I'd like that."

"See!" Jim said, smiling. "I'm glad that's settled. Now who wants more mashed potatoes?"

#

Scarlett, Ben, and Jim ate and talked for hours, until Jim finally excused himself to go to bed. "Lots of farming to do in the morning," he explained before he left the table.

Ben watched his father disappear upstairs, and then turned to Scarlett, "More wine?"

"That depends," Scarlett smiled, "are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Heh," Ben chuckled, "Yeah, I guess so."

"So that you can take advantage of me?" she said, hopefully.

Ben paused for a moment before smiling and nodding, "Yeah, I suppose I am."

"YES!" her brain said.

"Shut up, he will hear you," she said back to her brain. She smiled. He smiled back.

"Well," she said as she leaned forward, "I don't think you're going to need to get me any more intoxicated than I already am to accomplish that."

"Is that so?"

"That," she said hungrily, "is so."

Scarlett was not prone to one-night stands. On occasion, though, with just the right man, on just the right night, she was willing to make an exception. And, she was hoping that this might turn into a two or three or ten-night stand.

It also provided her with an excuse not to sleep in her own bed.

She helped him clear the table, and clean up, giving Jim enough time to fall asleep, and then Ben led her upstairs. She took hold of his rough hand in hers, and followed right behind.

His hands and arms were strong, and he guided her body in just the right way. While she normally preferred to lead, this night she was content just to feel his skin next to hers. She was happy not to be alone. She was happy to feel alive.

#

The noise of chanting awoke her. It was distant and unintelligible, like a television turned up too loudly in a house down the street, but it was definitively chanting.

Ben was sound asleep. Scarlett pulled the covers back, glanced admiringly at the nude body of the man who had been sleeping next to her, and then padded quietly to the window.

The nice thing about being this far away from downtown was that that it was dark at night. It wasn't middle-of-the-desert dark, but it was still better than in the suburbs. The relative darkness allowed her to spot a spot of light halfway across the field - near the spot she'd examined earlier in the day.

"No shit," her brain said to her. "They're back."

"Oh, this is going to be good," she replied.

She walked back to the bed, and gently roused Ben. "Hey handsome," she said as he looked at her, sleepily, "Want to go tell some damned kids to get the hell off your lawn?"

###

Part 1 | Previous | Next

ink review: rohrer and klingner morinda

2011-05-17T10:00:00.031-04:00

(click to embiggen)

Morinda, as it turns out is a genus of flowering plant also known as the Indian mulberry. Some of the species of plant produce a fruit which is often described as the "starvation fruit," due to its pungent and bitter flesh. Apparently it's only worth eating if you're suffering from starvation. Duly noted. More relevant to the discussion of ink, though, is the dye made from parts of the plant.

The bark of the great Morinda (morinda citrifolia) is used to make a purple brown dye, while its roots are turned into a yellow dye. The roots of the Morinda tinctoria are cultivated in India to make a bright red dye, which is the color that I assume this ink is named for.

Morinda is a wet ink, and produces a broader line than comparable inks. Unfortunately, the wet nature of the ink resulted in some undesirable behavior during my testing. I tested with four different papers: cheap office copier paper, Staples bagasse, absorbent Ecosystem notebook paper, and high-quality Rhodia webbie paper. Across all of them, I noticed a higher than normal level of feathering. It even managed to occasionally feather on the Rhodia paper, which is normally feather-proof.

On the cheap copier paper, I noticed medium levels of show-through and bleed-through, and a six second dry time. On the bagasse, the ink exhibited medium levels of bleed-though and high levels of show-though, and the same six second dry time.

The Ecosystem notebook fared a bit better, but its thicker, more absorbent paper tends to behave better with troublesome inks. Relative to other inks on Ecosystem paper, I did notice an elevated level of show-though and bleed-though with Morinda. On the Ecosystem, it dried to the touch in two seconds. Except for the afore-mentioned occasional feathering, the Rhodia paper held up well to this ink. Show-though was low and bleed-though was non-existent. On it, the ink dried in ten seconds.

(click to embiggen)

Morinda held up better than I expected when subjected to my series of water-fastness tests. On the smear test, in which I ran a wet finger across the page, the ink ran, but remained somewhat legible. I've seen other inks turn into an illegible mess, so this was somewhat refreshing.

On the drip test, in which I let droplets of water sit on the page for a minute before blotting, about fifty to seventy percent of the ink came up from the page. Certainly not ideal, but not a disaster, either. The soak test, in which I held the paper under the faucet for a few moments, lifted much of the ink that was directly targeted. However, the ink in the "splash" zone remained legible, which is not often the case. Overall, Morinda provides a modicum of water resistance - certainly more than I expected. It is a mark in its favor.

I dearly love red inks. They are by far my favorite color to write with. However, they are unsuited for most business applications, save for proofing and editing. R&K Morinda is no different in this regard. It is, when compared to other red inks, particularly bright - though not blindingly so. For those with more tolerant eyes, it could certainly be appropriate for daily personal use.

Rohrer and Klingner inks are sold in fifty milliliter bottles. The bottles are fairly utilitarian, though they do have pleasantly colored labels.

This is my first experience with Rohrer and Klingner inks, and I'm interested in seeing more. Regarding Morinda, specifically, I'm of two minds. The color is lovely, and it is pleasant to write with, but the higher than normal degree of feathering, show-through, and bleed-through limit my enthusiasm. I'm hoping that other R&K inks are somewhat better behaved. For those that use high-quality paper, Morinda is worth a look, especially if you do not already own an ink in this color family. For those that write primarily on office-grade paper, I'd consider trying a different brand.

Note on the scan: the Morinda ink washed out a bit when scanned in, so the actual color is a tad more vibrant and saturated. It is a fairly accurate representation of the character of the ink otherwise.

Review notes: for the widest lines, I used a Pilot Parallel calligraphy pen with a 6.0mm steel nib and a Pelikan Script pen with a 2.0mm steel nib. The fine lines were written using a TWSBI Diamond 530 with an EF steel nib. The paper is Rhodia 80gsm.

Rohrer and Klingner inks are available from:

Pear Tree Pens