It always amuses me that he ends up being the straightman in his interactions with Maria :P
Regrettably, it’s #4. Uncharacteristic and surprising, I know.
Also, there’s another confession of mine in the last batch. It doesn’t come from either of my characters, although perhaps one day I shall make someone who could write that.
Edit: For clarification, that confession came from Passion, not Passionario. They are completely unrelated characters who couldn’t be more different if they tried to.
edited by Passionario on 11/16/2018
Whilst we wait for our esteemed hostess to return with the last batch of confessions (and do add me to the chorus of thank yous!), I’ve been sorting through and adding names to confessions that have been ‘unmasked’. Here’s what I have so far, including Passionario’s post above:
- Passion’s confession.
- Dr. Emmaline Anders’ confession.
- Frogvarian’s confession.
- Maria Konstantinopolska’s confession.
- Edacio’s confession.
- Duplicate of #26
- Lady Byron’s own confession.
- Vivienne Thursday’s confession.
- Professor Kan’s confession.
- Balzac Thibault’s confession.
- Six-Handed Merchant’s confession.
- Kylestien’s confession.
- Tystefy’s confession.
- Passionario’s confession.
- Lady Caroline Karnstein’s confession.
- Tanith Wyrmwood’s confession.
Does anyone have anything to add or amend to that at the moment?
Edited to update and to thank you for the kudos! I love to organize things! ;D
edited by Lady Taimi Felix on 11/24/2018
Bravo for the listing! That is helpful–and shows us how much further we have to go.
For clarity, you might as well label #11 as Edacio’s confession. It is indeed my own sociopath’s, and that will prevent any confusion between #11 and #16.
Here are the last batch of confessions (there are actually 32 total, so we end with 8). Thank you so much to everyone that contributed and more thank yous for the all the kind words!
25. In nervous pencil, on an erratum slip found in the offices of God’s Editors
Tales of the Gothic are a weakness of mine. I suppose it’s only fair to add one to the collection plate.
I once needed money and was offered a post as confessor, somewhere I don’t feel inclined to fully describe. The chapel backed on to a labyrinth of glasshouses, perpetually filled with vapour. Sub-tropical bracket fungi, I was told. If there were lights or noises at odd hours, this was natural, as such a valuable crop must be defended. I was not to interfere; I was to sit in the confessional, listen, and transcribe. I would be paid in Surface currency for my stolen secrets. Just put them under the door of the confessional, and wait for payment.
And so the confessions trickled in, from behind a cheap tin grille. A succession of variations on the vox humana, detailing sins – always in a male voice, curiously, even when the indiscretions seemed feminine. The secrets would flow thin and clear, then acquire gargles, thicken with glottal stops, and at last lapse into a linguistic coagulum that might as well have been Loamsprach to me. The penitent would depart, and the cycle would be repeated. No, I couldn’t hear all that more than two or three times a week. But research into souls isn’t cheap, and I needed the cash.
They are incurable consumptives, I said to myself, or deliquescent Tomb-Colonists who stubbornly refuse to leave for Venderbight. I shall hear them out and absolve them, and though to render their secrets down for sale is undoubtedly a grave sin, whatever they tell me will be nameless. And the Neath is no place for scrupulosity.
It was not, of course, a juicy human head that thumped against the grille one late October evening, like an overripe pineapple nodding on its stem. It never had been, as I realised when I snatched the other door open. I’ve seen those features a score of times since, the podded lids and scanty beard, the bloodless lips of a counterfeit St. John. Where, in ordinary circumstances, there would be a bloody severance, there was instead an abscission, pale and neat as a cabbage-stalk, settled onto a conical bellows arrangement that had collapsed under its weight.
And this is was the source of my confessions!
Orchid-fanciers are notoriously thrifty folk. I suppose my efforts constituted a sort of second pressing of secrets – perhaps even a third – from the by-product of their endeavours. Thin stuff, but saleable. You may well imagine that I bolted after that, and you may well imagine the I was pursued; no doubt my spiritual successor is waiting to hear from me. But I no longer deal in confessions. I no longer relish pineapple, fresh or tinned. And I would vastly prefer it if you don’t wear that scarf. Goodnight.
26. This sure isn’t regular paper - more like cloth. Stripes of black and white cloth, weaved in a way that suggest a chess board. The ink seems pretty normal, yet it smells like wax. The handwriting is careful, but a bit messy.
I started my ascend in it in order to understand it, and perhaps, to end it when my knowledge rise up to the challenge and my capacities allow for it. Yet, it seems one (or at the very least, this one I’ve become) is incapable of it. I grew to love the role, or rather I grew to become the role. There is not much else of me besides it and the mask… and I whole heartily love it just like that.
Love and fear of this truthful lie is what I’ve become. And here, in these steps, I linger.
27. The confession is printed on an elegant, ivory colored paper, which remains in a shockingly crisp condition. Conversely the script itself appears shoddy and almost illegible, but with signs of embellishment found amongst it, most likely an attempt by the writer to keep themselves anonymous.
There are many individuals I’ve met over the years that I have lived, although most I have forgotten. Some persons, unlike the rest, have remained entrenched inside my memory refusing to be forgotten. One such individual in particular comes to mind a remarkable young woman, that I met during my younger years as I traveled on the surface from place to place, from city to city. She was quite comely and elegant but unlike my previous companions, who I had found elsewhere, she was delightfully charming in a way that I had not yet experienced before. Her company, I found to be exceptionally enjoyable and I did take great delight in our many conversations. She as well found my company pleasurable, and day after night we did share in the passionate speech that is often found in the works and writings of poets and artists. Such flowery and passionate words words we did share.
One night, while she laid next to me, she wistfully told me of the future that we could have together, and I agreed. Her eyes filled with delight, as I spoke those words, and we spoke and shaped this future together as we laid in the bliss of each other’s presence. In the morning I gathered my things, and joined back with my traveling companions. I did indeed truly ponder the heartfelt thought she had given to me, but it was never to be. I harbour no regret in my actions at the time nor do I harbour any regret for my actions at this time of writing, but for a moment I did forget my ambitions.
28. Written in the Kurrent style by a left-handed woman on paper clearly originating on the surface
I am a woman known for many things. Hundreds have met me; I have had personal romances, written reams of text, and been praised for my beauty, my wit, and my mastery of the word. Those are secondary abilities, means to an end. In fact, I have plans. Over many years I have clawed my way to the top of the Great Game, and dozens, if not hundreds, of people have been ordered killed since I first walked in Vienna. The most important decisions are not made in Schönbrunn. Even now, I operate behind the scenes, spinning webs so elaborate few know of them and some of the few who do suspect a hidden Master at work. They are not entirely wrong. As much as I enjoy my affairs and writing, none of those are my masterpiece. My masterpiece is being built across the face of the world and beneath it. They may never see the threads or the fingers manipulate them, but their world will change by my hand.
29. Sawn on a small piece of red velvet with white lace
Being rich and famous I am getting fat and lazy as an old Tomcat. Me who wanted to be a Tiger…
30. I have written on a piece of regular parchment paper, in ordinary ink. Occasionally, there is a water stain on the ink as if someone has been crying.
I am deeply sorry. To all of the people I’ve betrayed, the people who I’ve burgled, and the pockets I have picked. To the people I’ve treated well, before throwing them away, as if they were disposable. To the people I’ve driven to madness, intentionally or otherwise. To the people I’ve killed, and especially the ones I killed permanently. I am deeply sorry.
31. An entire page of cramped letters, filled with the same message written over and over again. The nib of the pen was pressed down with such force that it has torn the paper in places.
If I waited a few more weeks to test my vaccine, he would have lived a long life. Now, I do not know if there is even enough time to say goodbye. I do not intend to tell him. Dear god, how could I tell him? How could he love me if he knows I am his murderer?
32. In elegant but overly deliberate handwriting, on heavy cream stationery from which the letterhead has been neatly torn
I stole his dreams. I took them and locked them away where he could never find them. I don’t know where I hid them. And I don’t know why. I think I locked those memories away as well. I could probably find them again. But I’m afraid to. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know it.
I’ve really enjoyed this year’s Hallowmas confession, they’ve been great. Thank you Lady Sapho Byron for handling and organizing this. :)
I’m guessing that #28 is Lady Caroline Karnstein.
I don’t know if I’m right or not, but #32 sounds like Tanith hasn’t been taking Ondine’s advice.
Also, #25 is fantastic. If no one guesses, please tell me who you are so I can avoid scarf-wearing in the future.
Correct.
True confession time: I am administering a quiz on sentence analysis today, and I might possibly have taken my examples from these confessions. My students will probably consider me insane.
Sian … you must list the sentences you used!!
Oh, my.
The quiz questions weren’t as good as the originals, as I had to edit for simplicity. (I like to challenge the freshmen, but I don’t hate them.) Some were lifted directly (minus editations), while some were merely inspired by. I don’t have time to list everything, as I’m still at work with grades to put in, but I’ll give you a couple of examples:
(from #18) The confession was written on the back of a shipping manifest.
(from #25, loosely) Do not feed your roommate to talking plants.
Sian is right. Tanith gets a lot of good advice, and she tries to follow it, she really does! But sometimes things just get so crazy that it’s not only hard to know what to do, but it’s hard to know what she already did!
It would appear I accidentally put my name on my confession.
Stupendous.
Correct! As is your assumption as to the context of the confession. :)
Alas, Six needs to work harder on their handwriting. It’s still quite monstrous. ;)
edited by Six Handed Merchant on 11/17/2018
Also, I love the Noman name, Sapho! :)
Is #8 Hotshot Blackburn?
And is #29 Lady Vivienne Thursday?
edited by Six Handed Merchant on 11/17/2018
How flattering to think that I could be mistaken for either being a Lady or ‘famous’ (as #29 claimed), but I am neither, dear heart. I will, however, drop the hint that I did indeed write a confession.
So a student made a misquote recently that seemed like excellent inspiration for a confession. I’m not likely to remember it for 11 months, and I don’t have a character for it anyway, so I thought I’d throw you all a free confession now:
[quote]On a dirty rag, in what is undoubtedly red ink:
"Obey the Golden Rule." That’s what Mama always said. So I try. It’s hard sometimes, but I try.
Billy down the road tried to take my toys, so I reminded me of the Golden Rule.
Mad Thomas started attacking anyone who walked by, so I reminded me of the Golden Rule.
A zailor got drunk and threatened to chuck me to the Drownies. It was hard, but I remembered the Golden Rule.
Old Man Walker told me he’d chop me in pieces if I ever looked at his daughter again. It wasn’t until after that the Constable told me the Rule doesn’t say, "Do unto others as they would do unto you."
Sorry, Mama.[/quote]
edited by Siankan on 11/17/2018