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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 21, 2007 23:37:04 GMT -5
Ian sat on a bench in the square made of dirt-colored boards and fake wooden armrests; he was upon it lounging against the corner between armrest and back, one leg on the bench, and one foot on the ground. He was shaded by the spiky fronds of a bushy palm, one of several plants in an elevated plantar behind the bench. Ian had laid a couple of handfuls of little seashells to his left above the bench on the cement edging of the plantar, and he was pushing them onto a thick knotted string resting on his lap. He looked half-bored, but he was actually watching all of the Muggles and wizards alike enjoying the seaside's gentle afternoon.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 21, 2007 23:47:32 GMT -5
Jean walked through the square, an odd air about him. He seemed overly preoccupied, not really stopping to enjoy much the scene as he went through it. Disconnected from the movements around him. As he neared the center of the square, he was bowled over by a group running in the opposite direction. His brown boots making a brief appearance in the air before his feet returned to the ground. He stood up as quick as he could looking in their direction, acting as though he'd been the one to 'win'. "Yea- Thats right! You just keep running!" He yelled back, collecting his bag, running his hands through his hair, and starting again.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 22, 2007 0:03:50 GMT -5
Ian smirked slightly, laughing at Jean's belated display of bravado, he tried to cover his chuckle by biting the tip of the thread and pushing the damp point through another pierced shell. He hummed a few bars of an older Muggle tune he'd heard in a local pub and tilted his head back, looking at Jean upside down. "At least it wasn't a staircase this time," he commented, stretching his string taut so that the loosely anchored shells upon it vibrated at the tension.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 22, 2007 0:20:15 GMT -5
Jean stopped and glanced to Ian's direction. Scratching his head, he smiled vibrantly. "Well, now that was... You see..." He smiled again and gave up the defense. Walking against the flow of people he made his way to Ian. "Feeling creative?" He asked looking at the shells.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 22, 2007 0:31:52 GMT -5
"I guess so," Ian said, tying the thread back and around through the shell again, anchoring it more firmly. He sighed; this was new to him, and the progress was slow. "I mean, it's fun, but I can still pay attention to you and everyone else . . . and yet I look so totally busy that nobody gives me a second thought. Not to mention it's really rather relaxing, and when I'm done I'll have something new to wear. So . . .um . . . yeah. Yes. Always feeling creative." He raised his eyebrows and nodded, a small smile melting out of the smirk at his own rambling.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 22, 2007 0:45:22 GMT -5
Jean only smiled, sort of laughing at the comment. He supposed it made sense, but- as per usual, Ian's musing were just a bit off kilter from his own view. The square around them seemed to pulse with activity. People surging around them, he spun around once watching it, as if it was the first time he'd noticed the square was full. He let out a small laugh. "Its so crowded, an odd place to go when you don't want to be bothered."
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 22, 2007 1:01:46 GMT -5
"Nobody's going to talk to me," Ian insisted, though occasionally a tourist would prove him wrong; pouncing on his apparent availability to ask directions to some cafe or store or beach. He generally gave them incorrect directions on purpose; served them right for disturbing his solitude. "I think of myself as . . . separate from the scene. I can see them, they're half a reality away, but for them, I'm no more noticeable than this thing." And Ian looked up at the sharp blades of the palm bush before returning to his shells.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 22, 2007 1:26:48 GMT -5
"If you say so." He turned his head up to look at the palm. "Its kind of ugly..." he remarked, "Trees..." he started looking back at Ian. "They're supposed to be..." He made an odd motion with his hands to subject puffy, big- leafy. "You know?" He smiled. "The trees at home, those are trees. Although, my great aunt Linda always said living under a tree, somethings going to fall out of it..." He sort of laughed it was light. Remembering his family home made me miss them.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 22, 2007 2:14:24 GMT -5
"I like the cypress myself," Ian said, looking around as though this part of the shoreline would suddenly flood into swampland and produce the twisted things. "Or oak . ..live oak . . ." he nodded to the split street stretching away from the oceanfront, down between the buildings; about a block away, a roundabout circled a grassy patch with a crooked, creeping oak growing in the center. "But it doesn't really matter; this thing is just decorative." Ian pulled the string through the second shell in line again, tying a somewhat complicated square at either end and frowning.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 22, 2007 2:47:12 GMT -5
"Its still ugly." Jean nodded, looking about the square again. He sighed when his eyes fell upon the view of the sea. "Thats pretty though..."
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 22, 2007 3:04:27 GMT -5
"It goes," Ian argued, sliding himself back so that he was a little more upright and plucking another shell to work onto the growing set. He peered out in the direction Jean was looking, and said again, "It goes with that . . . it's natural." His tone was firm; he didn't seem to doubt the fact. "But that's my opinion; I don't mind it I suppose." Ian looped thread around his fingers and deftly tied another knot. "Water is for swimming and such." He glared at an undrilled shell and looked around for any Muggles before muttering a spell to pierce it and string it like the others.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 22, 2007 3:22:41 GMT -5
"Yea. I guess so." He seemed a bit bored with the scene now. He kind of glanced around, noting groups of people and finding nothing to be overly excited over. He watched as a girl tripped, spilling her slightly melted ice cream. He sighed and looked back at the shells. "Right." He yawned.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 22, 2007 3:25:29 GMT -5
"Watcha doing in Ingrixton anyway? Killing time?" Ian asked in a level tone of pleasant conversation. He began to work more rhythmically, weaving more string along the sides of his craft, clearly a beginner, but not easily frustrated by the task. The warm salt breeze blew with patience and calm for him.
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Post by boingpop on Jul 23, 2007 18:11:07 GMT -5
"Pretty Much." He returned, still glancing around. He didn't go there much, he hardly left the school really. But he felt the need to explore today.
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Post by Ian Flanagan on Jul 23, 2007 18:16:44 GMT -5
The shells slipped from Ian's fingers down between two slats in the bench, and Ian grabbed it and jerked upwards. One shell caught between the wood and the strings popped apart. "Fuck," he said irritably, hiding his wand with his body and tapping the tangled mess, putting it back as it had been before. As he tucked away his wand and turned to Jean he explained; "It doesn't count, you see, because I'm only putting it as far as I'd done by hand. Not actually . . . doing new stuff to it that way."
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