The Writer is a Liar.

Hello. I'm Beth. I'm new here.

I guess I should tell you about myself.

Hm. I've re-written this part a few times, now. I can't get it right. It's just that, there's not too much to say. I'm not that interesting. I'm one of those girls with dark hair and glasses. I look like I majored in English (I did). I look like I may want to be a librarian (I do). I like books, cats and muffins. I'm 21. I have a tattoo; it's from my favorite book. I like snakes, and they've been known to like me in return. I'm a pretty bad speller. I only speak English. I've never been outside the country. You see? I'm just not too interesting.

But my house is.

The first thing you should know is that my house is a Fort, located on the south edge of the city. My house was a place of ill-repute, drunken brawls and drug trade before we claimed it, sailing through the sky in a teacup like Baba Yaga. We: myself and another you're acquainted with, the dispossessed rent boy, the Earl. Our local shaman, peacock and fish-monger. We claimed it with a kiss, and wine, and music. We throw parties for the seasons and ourselves and nothing at all with Bacchanalia's that have become epic legends in our own minds. We've even gone so far as to imagine (in our silliest moments) ourselves a live-in Butler, wildly disapproving of our antics and always ready with a tray of tea if required after a particularly ribald moment.

We decorate our house in feather and bone and velvet. There is no place like us, a Fort defending beauty and spontaneity, good taste and a true enthusiasm for the art of living. We are a Fort on the south edge of everything, defending ourselves against the mundane, the boring, the hopeless.

I promise, I'll tell you all about it.