❝ Everything became much brighter, and after a few steps they found themselves at the edge of the wood, looking down on a sandy beach. A few yards away a very calm sea was falling on the sand with such tiny ripples that it made hardly any sound. There was no land in sight and no clouds in the sky. The sun was about where it ought to be at ten o'clock in the morning, and the sea was a dazzling blue. They stood sniffing in the sea-smell.
“By Jove!” said Peter. “This is good enough.”
Five minutes later everyone was barefooted and wading in the cool clear water. ❞
65. Marisa Tomei // My Cousin Vinny (1992, Jonathan Lynn)
Imagine you’re a deer. You’re prancing along, you get thirsty, you spot a
little brook, you put your little deer lips down to the cool clear
water… BAM! A fuckin bullet rips off part of your head! Your brains
are laying on the ground in little bloody pieces! Now I ask ya. Would
you give a fuck what kind of pants the son of a bitch who shot you was
Imagine going to the local pool with the Beatles. You manage to shout loud enough to make it over their excited ramblings, informing them that they /have/ to put on sunscreen. With loud groans, all of them seemingly comply, jumping one-by-one into the cool, clear water after you’ve properly inspected them. You sit down on the edge of the pool, throwing your legs over the edge and smiling at the pleasant temperature of the water. In front of you, the boys have assembled a shoddy game of chicken: Ringo sits confidently on top of John’s shoulders, while Paul shakily tries to balance himself atop George. You try to hold your laughter as the two bicker;
“Stop wigglin’ up there! We’re gonna lose, and tha game ‘asn’t even started yet,” George shouts, holding tightly on to Paul’s legs. Paul crosses his arms across his chest, lifting his nose;
“It’s not my fault you’ve got tha world’s smallest shoulders,” Paul argues, nearly losing his balance once again. “Ringo doesn’t even ‘ave ta push us- one wrong gust of wind and we’re goin’ down, ye skeleton.”
Sliding down your sunglasses, you make eye contact with John and Ringo, flashing them a knowing wink before nodding your head towards the fighting musicians. John nods in agreement, and in a matter of seconds, Paul and George are submerged.
A few hours of splash fights and races later, you all agree to pack up and return home. As you stand up from your place lying next to the pool, you’re met with strained laughter from John and Paul, eyes filling with fear when you cock and eyebrow.
“What’s so funny then?” you ask curiously, furrowing your brow when they only laugh harder. Turning to your left you ignore the two idiots, searching for your book that Ringo had flung across the pool in an attempt to get you in the water. George, who had sulked off after the failed game of chicken to eat, looks at you with a confused frown.
“What’s wrong wiv you?” he asks past a mouthful of food. Taking a deep breath, you ask what he means, thankful he doesn’t just laugh in return.
“What d'you mean, 'what do you mean’? You’ve gone all red.”
With a sharp gasp, you look down, feeling your stomach drop at the deep tinge of red in most of your skin. In all the chaos it took to put sunscreen on the four, you must have forgotten to put it on /yourself/. You tentatively poke your shoulder- it doesn’t hurt now, you note, but it will eventually.
“Damn…” George gives you a sympathetic look, casting his dark gaze down in his lap before flicking his eyes back towards you.
“If it makes ye feel any better, I’ve always fancied red on you. It’s a good color.”
The boy wiggled his toes into the sand, burying this feet instantly with the aid of bending. Suddenly a rush of cool, clear water washed over them, uncovering some of the sand that had previously hid his bare skin only seconds ago. Feliks sighed, a content smile on his face as he closed his eyes; he felt the wind tickling his hair and the sun’s radiating heat warm up his face, and he was at peace. He had never been to the ocean before.
When he opened his eyes he looked around him, taking in the deep blues and crests of rising waves in the far off distance of the sea. Beautiful. His eyes halted, however, when he noticed something washed up on the beach.
“What the-” He started walking towards the -whatever it was-, hearing little splishes from walking through the water as the tide swept back out. As he got closer, he saw it was a person, and quickened his pace, confusion and worry sparking within him. He knelt down beside the person, who seemed to be about the same age as him.
“Hey!” He exclaimed, tapping this boy’s face a little anxiously. Oh shit what if he’s dead? “Hey- wake up!” He urged, his voice becoming a little panicked from that previous thought. He pulled on the kid’s body so that his head rested in Feliks’s lap. Brushing the wet hair out of the unconscious’s face, he tapped a little more gently. “You ok?” He whispered, hoping for some kind of response.
Got into a very delightful discussion about turning books into perfume with some of the ladies on IMAM today (I’m a very specific kind of geek, apparently) and churned out these ideas. I was beyond thrilled to find there were a ton of Abhorsen fans there. That series is so underrated.
Really thinking I might get a custom mix done of some of these, actually. The list of fictional scents I’ve composed is now beyond silly in length.
Mogget: Sweet warm milk, furry white musk, a bite of sarcastic ginger, and distant fields of wheat housing the scurrying of small mice.
Astarael: Rosemary, salty tears, the damp cold stone and moss of deep forgotten wells.
Touchstone: Warm honeyed musk, smooth mahogany wood, worn leather, and a feral wisp of blood-rage dragon’s blood.
Kerrigor: Grave dirt, rich wine, thick sticky honeyed musk, a drop of dragon’s blood. A corrupted version of his half-brother.
The Clayr: Snow and ice, white florals, clear cool water.
Orannis: Blood, lightening, and metal.
Lady Cregga Rose Eyes: Shaggy musk, warm vanilla, a hint of dirt and roses, and a sea of dragon’s blood.
Martin the Warrior: Warm brown musk, chestnut shells, golden amber, sturdy oak, a flash of cold starlit metal.
Salamandastron: Burning coals, solid stone, metal, leather, and cool sea air.
Reaper Man: Good clean earth, hard apple ale, and the ozone flash of lightning and rain over ripe fields of grain.