Sophronia Spafford

Tue, 11 Jan 2005 08:00:16 GMT

In the annals of Grand Reinstatements, that of Miss Sophronia Spafford shall be annointed with an majuscules of gold. The entire hall was aflutter with shocked whispers as I arrived and collapsed quite brilliantly at the foot of the bar. I was restored promptly, and found myself in the stalwart arms of Mr. Eduardo de Isveldabar--which, one might say in the greatest of confidences, is an event that should be found in any respectable annal of Grand Restorations.

I found myself placed delicately in the flocculent fainting-couch at the head of the hall, and asked to gasp what I could of my tale before the vapors overtook me yet again. With great pains I managed to mumur hints of my venture--Billiam's tragically inflamed earlobe; the matter of the inverse llamas; the comburent vapor of the Igga-Wawaas--before swooning once more.

Mr. de Isveldabar himself took great pains to see that my things and person arrived at my flat unmolested, which would, at first thought, justify the whole endeavor in of itself. Yet we arrived to find no less than eighteen rooms filled fit to bursting with gifts, oblations, remembrances. Loot, my dears; loot to fund a thousand trips to Zalliliastan.

Yet there in the hall was a sight so very overpowering, that I was forced to collapse into the embrace of Mr. Eduardo without the slightest artiface.

Lord and Lady Billings-Wickle, beloved forebears of my dearest Lily Billings-Wickle, had given to me a set of His and Hers air ball-oons.

I confess that at first I was awash with vexation, as John, the most indomitable of suitors, had recently found his glorious life snuffed out by the shocking revelation that Mars has no air... But let us be honest, my dears. It is hard, quite hard, to feel prolonged vexation in the arms of Mr. de Isveldabar.

After spirited activity in the hall-way, he challenged me to a contest of speed, and promptly dashed his craft into the Grand Clock.

'Tis enough to drive a lady to the cloisters. Zounds.

Thu, 06 Jan 2005 05:35:03 GMT

Pasha has lost the bags again, so I suppose there is naught to do but jot out a few lines. I do not see how he managed to pull this machina from the wreckage, and not my dinner things. It is hard to find good help these days. Appalling, simply appalling.

I suppose it has been a year or so since my last chronicle? Well, few things occur as we have outlined in our mutual agendas. The expedition, for example... Poor Billiam. I told him to duck. The blasted man never did know when to listen.

Blasted man! Ha ho! I am become quite the card. Perhaps it is the last of the mountain flu weakly raging through my veins. I hope it is working its way through, as the "witch" "doctor" swore in Klo'rrg'katl. One cannot be all consumed with greenish lumps on one's face if one is to make a civilized return to the luncheon scene.

Where is that Pasha? He should have been back ages ago.

Regardless, I will be glad to be free of this island and its frog-men. I do not mind a frog-man, just one that knows his place, and that that place is not near, around, or on a genteel lady. Oh, to be back amoungst civilized men, men who understand that a good blow to the head with a fan means no.

Where shall I go first on my return? Shall I go straight to the Chateu, and prepare for a formal return? Or shall I stagger from the docks all a-flutter, so as to maximize any and all potential return gifts? I do recall when Elenia arrived from the Wastes, tendrils of swampgrass still tangled in her gnarled curls. It took three days for the help to take away the wrapping paper from her presents.

Dramatic entrance it is, then.

Oh, ye gods, Pasha seems to have gotten himself slightly dismembered again. He is waving his newly freed arm in a markedly dramatic fashion. We have talked about this, but clearly, his memory needs to be refreshed.

After I have shot this supposed "fell tiger-cat" in the face with the blunderbuss.

G-d save us from these womanly men.

Sun, 21 Dec 2003 19:58:12 GMT

Father was ever so kind as to transport the machine to the Wallabamezar Spa and Natatorium where I am spending the winter, and now that the last crate has been unpacked, I can yet again turn to my chronicles, and my three volume novel (i.e., The Doing of Horrible Things).

Damned John has returned from the moon, having conquered the cannibals and named the western face after myself. I explained to him that when I said "I will marry the first man to be to the moon and back again," what I meant was, "I will marry the first man to be to Mars and back again." That should occupy him for at least five more years.

Preparations for the expedition are going well. We have three guides, seven brutes, and an armored elephant. That should get us through the local defenses, and well over the mountains. Hopefully we'll be off in a fortnight, and back in another. Billiam insists we're to collect data so as to prove his theories to the crown, but we all know what his theories amount to. Billiam really needs to move on from this "ballistic chicken" nonsense, and the sooner the better.

Tue, 02 Dec 2003 17:44:04 GMT

I believe it is high time that I began a journal of my myriad exploits, and seeing as the festive season is upon us, I decided to go a wee bit mad and purchase a large vellum notebook for just such an excercise. However, the notebook was exploded quite excessively in one of Jasper's experiments, and I am left with naught but this strange typing machina to brave the attempt.

There is our exposition! Let us get at the meat of the proposition.

Today purchased
(1) mitten
(7) Bibles
(2) thimbles
(39) sugar cubes
(3) horses, i.e.
- Hope
- Chastity
- Ulysses Hoorflip
(19) large furry hats
(1) mauser rifle

Preparations for our latest expedition are very nigh complete. I do hope the native hordes are more appreciative this time; Gideon's wrist became oh so very sore after whipping them so. The man is just not up for such disciplinary tactics.

John persists in his attempts at courtship. I have informed him that I will marry the first man who returns from the moon; last I heard, he has just reached a particularly thoroughly habitated crater. If all goes well, he will be eaten by the cannibals, and I shan't have to deal with him a moment more.

Made seventeen (17) doilies for the church raffle today! Hopefully that shall keep the Reverend's wife at bay. She seems to think that my doilies are public domain! Well! Let's see how she feels when they combust quite dramatically on Sunday. I believe that shall get my point across.