#|| QUEUE | perhaps another time old friend.

[tame-the-lion-writes]

reader x dog shifter 141 [pt.2]

(If you haven't seen it yet, here's part one.)

It’s been a couple weeks, and you’re starting to catch on to just how smart your dogs are.

Not that you know what they actually are—but they’ve got this weirdly human intelligence behind their eyes, and weirdly human personalities. The Great Dane likes to sit on the recliner in your living room, regal and commanding, often watching your front yard whenever the gardener would come over. The gardener’s son replaced him once for a job, leaving grass cuttings in the driveway, and he was all huffy about it. It amused you at first, but then you realized his judgement wasn’t reserved for strangers. He was even more huffy the time you accidentally burned a steak. (Jeez, since when was he a dad?) Not to mention the empty whiskey glasses he likes to keep around, but that's not right—dogs can't have alcohol, can they?

The German Shepherd, on the other hand, is surprisingly clingy—but not in a bump-into-your-leg or overtly cuddly kind of way. Instead, he follows you while never begging for attention, attentive and patient as though a soldier awaiting orders. You’ve been jump-scared one too many times by his presence, when you think you’re alone and he appears out of thing air. A massive giant of a dog, with paws as silent as a shadow. And he’s stubborn—doesn’t initiate contact, but you swear you’ve caught a subtle bashful glance. Especially when you scratch behind his ears and along the scar of his cheek and chin.

But what the Shepherd lacks in open affection, the Labrador makes up tenfold. He doesn't pester about it, though, simply hopping up to your side on the couch to curl up or placing his muzzle on top of your knees. Still, while probably the most obedient out of the four, you’ve seen him get roped into food heists with the Foxhound, or stalking as closely and silently as the Shepherd. Very much the little brother who tags along with whatever. But you can't stay mad at him for long, either—not when he knows how to apologize—bringing you a freshly chomped-off flower from the backyard whenever you get mad. Then he'll sit at your heels with a faint tail wag, whining 'til you're settled and appeased.

The Foxhound is perhaps the most talkative, in both a noisy and conversational way. His joy is unrelenting around you, and he greats you like you’d expect any other dog. Still, he’s awfully communicative. It’s how you’ve learned their names—with you wandering aloud what to call them, and him making faces at every suggestion. He eventually settled for playing retriever: playing charades by bringing you back bottles and bars of soap. For the Great Dane, he grabbed an old receipt from the trash. For the Shepherd, he threw on a sheet. He seemed awfully confused on what to do for the Labrador, though, and just kept whining as if in apology.

“So Soap, Price, Ghost, and…,” you trail off, glancing at the Labrador with a slight pout. “Oh, I’m sorry, boy. I really don’t know what to call you. And Soap here seems like he’s run out of braincells.”

Ghost snorts in amusement, which is returned by Soap’s unfettered glare.

The next morning, though, there really is no explanation as to how Soap learned the alphabet, how to write, or to arrange your bedsheets in the following name: GAZ.

_

Bonus Thoughts:

"Aha... what the fuck."

Price has face-palmed (face-pawed?) and Ghost just walks over and calmly almost slapstick-esque baps Soap on the head. Meanwhile, Gaz looks dejected, pressing his forehead to the front door, like he's expecting you to kick them out in the next five seconds.

Not that you would, of course—but we can queue the mild horror and existential questioning of what the hell these dogs actually are. You call your friend to rant about your theory—that they could be escapees from a top secret government laboratory, or spies from another country. She just says to enter them into a dog show, or make ‘em celebrities on social media.

[sserpente]

For Old Times' Sake

Synopsis: When your landlord drags you before Lord Gortash to settle your debts, your life gets turned upside down. It is not the fear of imprisonment that paralyses you at Wyrm’s Rock—it is him. Enver Flymm, as you’d once known him, a shy and clever boy and your only childhood friend. Will he recognise you and show mercy, help you out?

A/N: My obsession with Gortash is getting out of hand. I don’t think I care.

Words: 2853 Warnings: angst, homelessness, mentions of death and abuse

The number on your tax letter was bright red—quite possibly scribbled on there with the previous tenant’s blood. Three thousand and five hundred gold pieces. That was more money than you had ever seen in your life.

“I’m a little short.”

The half-orc—your landlord—rolled his eyes. “By how much?”

“Um…about three thousand and four hundred ninety-nine gold pieces.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“I’m not, I…I am trying to find work right now. I was preoccupied with organising a funeral and scraped together the last of my savings to buy my parents a coffin. I will start paying off the debts and all the money I owe if you give me just a little bit more time…”

The half-orc scoffed. “Funny, that’s what your parents always said too. Just a little bit more time. I’m done playing games, kid. In times like this, the Fist can’t let this keep happening. You pay your rent, you pay your taxes, you contribute to the city’s safety—and you face the consequences if you cannot do so.”

It was this new Steel Watch mainly that ate up most of the tax money. An entire Foundry had sprouted from the ground down by the docks seemingly overnight. They were rather scary automatons and they were not known for their mercy.

“It’s Friday,” the half-orc continued. “We are settling this once and for all. Your missing payments are biting a hole into my coin purse.”

Your eyes widened. Each Friday, Lord Gortash—the city’s new hero, protector, and saviour—held public hearings where citizens could voice requests, concerns, or other pleas. You’d never seen the man in person. He looked handsome enough on the posters, you’d read about his good deeds and heard about his generosity. But apart from that, he was a stranger to you. You’d known a young boy once called Enver though—Gortash sharing the same first name could only bring you luck, no?

Perhaps…perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad. You could make your case—explain to him that when your parents died from sickness, the remaining debts from all the medication that didn’t help in the end had been passed on to you.

You inherited a small house with broken windows, corroding wood and a serious rat problem in the cellar rendering food rations useless. Not that you had many to spare. You’d always wondered what a full stomach felt like.

“Will you come with me willingly or do I need to get a Fist?”

“This really isn’t necessary, saer. As soon as I’ve found work—”

“I am done making exceptions. We are leaving for Wyrm’s Rock. Now.”

You didn’t want to make a scene, not here. Not with the Steel Watchers within reach. With a sigh, you folded the letter from your landlord and handed it back to him, then followed him through the Lower City to Wyrm’s Rock as if you were walking to the gallows.

The place was packed. You’d expected little else. Lord Gortash was very much in demand. There was a long queue when you arrived, several Fists positioned at every possible entrance along with some patrolling Steel Watchers to ensure no one cut the line.

Five minutes turned into ten minutes, ten minutes into twenty. With every passing second, you felt the nervousness tightening its iron grip around you more. The punishment for evading rent was eviction, for one, and imprisonment for another. But perhaps Lord Gortash would hear you out.

It took another ten minutes before you were called up to the audience chamber. As if he was worried you’d try and make a run for it now, the half-orc grabbed your upper arm, dragging you with him. At the far end of the hall, two Steel Watchers were positioned on either side of a pretty throne in front of which stood a handsome man with short black hair and elegant black armour.

“Lord Gortash…thank you for your time,” your landlord began. He bowed—and so did you. Gortash’s eyes skimmed over the half-orc with mild interest before moving on to you. Dark orbs boring into yours, stirring…recognition within you. His face…you could have sworn you’d met him before.

“How can I be of service, hmm?” he asked with a sly smirk. Your heart almost leaped out of your chest. That scar on his chin…that little boy you knew from your childhood…a boy named Enver…

“E-Enver? Enver Flymm? Is…is that you?”

Your landlord’s head whipped in your direction, the disrespect apparent, even more so when Gortash began to frown. Who were you to call the archduke by his first name? But this…this was different. You knew him. He was…or used to be…your friend.

“It’s me!” You told him your name, excitement washing over you like a wave. “R-remember me? We used to play together as kids. You…you just disappeared one day. I never found out what happened to you and your parents wouldn’t talk to me…”

Your landlord cleared his throat before Gortash could answer—the archduke’s face, however, was painted with recognition. He did remember you.

“Whatever, Lord Gortash, this…tenant of mine has been behind with paying rent for months. I am currently missing nearly four thousand gold pieces which she claims she’ll be able to ‘pay back soon as soon as she finds work’.”

Enver knew your family was poor, they always had been. He himself didn’t have a lot growing up. While other kids would brag about the new toys that they got for their birthday, Enver got a beating out of asking for some simple tools for his special day. He’d always been a tinkerer.

“I see. I am going to deal with this. Would you excuse us for a moment?” Gortash finally spoke.

Taken aback, your landlord nodded. Dismissed. You breathed out audibly. Good, this was good. You’d get to tell him your side of the story and he’d help you, he had authority now, he had the power to…

“You have chosen a criminal career then?”

Your heart dropped. “C-criminal? I’m not a criminal.”

“You refuse to pay rent. And tax evasion too?”

“I don’t refuse. I simply…I can’t, I have no money left. You…you remember my parents, right? They passed two ten days ago. We spent all we had on medication and healers and that was after they started struggling with their health. They couldn’t work as much anymore and so we fell behind.”

“Hmm.”

He tilted his head and for just a brief second, you saw the young boy flash before your eyes again. You couldn’t help but smile despite your sad circumstances. Gods, you were a childhood friend of the archduke… Now that your parents were gone…perhaps you wouldn’t be all alone after all.

“I…I thought about you a lot. You were my only friend back then. I always assumed your parents sent you off to some private school outside the city to give you better opportunities or…or that an incurable sickness claimed you. Just earlier today I thought I once knew a little boy who would have loved these Steel Watchers. And now it turns out it was you all along. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I put my talent to good use.”

“You did. I remember when we were little kids we would roam the streets and search the city for old metal parts. You’d tinker away and build your own toys with them. This one time you made me a dancing ballerina, do you remember? You…you found this old music box a merchant had abandoned. The music was all distorted at first but…you made it work again. That was the best toy I ever had.” You paused. All of a sudden…you were mourning him. Mourning your childhood friend you thought you had lost for good.

“What happened to you? Where did you go?”

Gortash’s brown eyes locked with yours. But then, his expression hardened. “That matters not. Your landlord expects a solution for his dilemma.”

Your face fell. “You…you could help.”

“I could,” he mused. “But I am the archduke of Baldur’s Gate now, my dear. If I start waiving laws in favour of an old acquaintanceship, people are going to start questioning my reliability.”

“But—“

“Your landlord is in the right. If you cannot afford rent, he has the right to evict you. I am going to spare you the dungeons—for old times’ sake.”

“Enver…”

“That is Lord Gortash to you. We are not children anymore.”

Your lips parted. “Is…is that it?”

“Yes. You are dismissed.”

You didn’t even notice your tears until they wet your cheeks. You turned around without a word of goodbye, without a formal bow. Your landlord was seemingly pleased as you rushed out. You didn’t wait for Enver to tell him the good news.

As of right now, you were homeless. And even though you hadn’t seen your only friend in years, against all reason, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

You just didn’t understand. Enver used to be such a sweet boy. Innocent, full of visions and dreams, shy, quiet. Everyone who knew him including his own parents labelled him as ‘odd’ but you knew better.

Now, he was the reason you’re homeless. Wait, no. That wasn’t right. Your landlord was the reason you were homeless. Enver had simply honoured the very rules set in place before he became the archduke. Perhaps he was right and he couldn’t make an exception—it would be unfair on others. He could have sent you to prison but he didn’t. That had to be enough.

As you made your way through the Lower City past merchants, civilians, and Steel Watchers a few weeks later, wondering if you’d be able to have a meal today, the sudden tumult right in front of Basilisk Gate had you pause. You frowned, hurrying toward the crowd of people that had formed before the gallows. Three men with nooses around their necks stood on the wooden platform, in front of them, facing the citizens, stood Enver.

What in the hells was happening?

“…so let this be a fair warning. These are the consequences of disobedience. I am not going to tolerate disrespect. I have led this city to glory—and I ask for recognition and your trust in return.”

Your frown deepened when Enver gave a court nod to the hangman. The very moment the trap doors gave way under the prisoner’s feet was the moment you looked away—but not before the archduke’s eyes met yours.

“I am telling you,” you heard a citizen whisper to another, “there’s something foul about this man. He acts like a bloody Banite.”

A Banite. You swallowed. That was a serious accusation. Surely, a sweet boy like Enver wouldn’t turn to Bane worship.

“My words exactly,” the other citizen responded, “I heard he is friends with the chief editor of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette and only what he approves of gets printed.”

A scoff. “Talk about propaganda.”

You’d heard enough. With your heart in your mouth, you stepped away, attempting to disappear in the crowd and perhaps ask for a gold piece or two. You flinched when a Fist touched your shoulder and flipped you around to face her.

“Lord Gortash has requested your presence. You will follow me.”

“W-why? What does he want?”

She didn’t respond. And if you refused to follow her? You didn’t want to find out.

You hadn’t expected to return to Wyrm’s Rock any time soon, nor that you’d be led up the stairs to Lord Gortash’s private quarters. The place was imposing. And of course, when you spotted him behind his desk, he was accompanied by two Steel Watchers.

“Ah, hello, my dear. Have you been faring well?” he mused. You could have been mistaken—but it was almost like you sensed scornfulness swinging in his voice.

“I am homeless. How do you think I’m faring?” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

“Oh, don’t give me that reproachful tone. We are all bound by laws and order, my dear.”

You blinked. “What do you want from me?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“You do?” Hesitation mixed with suspicion. After seeing him hang people in public today…you weren’t sure a proposition would do you any good.

“It’s quite simple, really. Serve me and I shall give you a roof over your head.”

“Serve you?”

“I’ve had my Watchers keep an eye on you. It is quite noble of you not to resort to stealing. Surely, you understand why the citizens of Baldur’s Gate are becoming more and more hesitant to spare a few coins, though.”

You’d read in the Gazette only yesterday that the tax rates were going to be increased yet again starting next month. Both the Fist and the newspaper itself had become very vocal about their dismay when it came to the poor and those in need. It was concerning—terrifying, even.

“Being archduke comes with a lot of responsibilities. My hands are full with political duties, I need people around me to run errands for me and assist me. What do you say? For old times’ sake?” he continued.

“You want me to work for you?” Only weeks ago, you would have jumped at the opportunity. You and your childhood friend reunited at last. Him being the archduke, you being his assistant, his right hand. Now, however, the request left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. You did not agree with his cold-hearted choices to hang usurpers. There was always a more peaceful solution. Imprisonment, for one.

“Do you know what people are whispering, Env-…Lord Gortash? They have suspicions you could be a Banite. You hung people for disobedience! How is that a fair judgement? How can I work for you if this is how you—”

“One of them plotted an assassination against me. You have no right to question my rule, my dear. Lest you’ll end up like them.”

Your lips parted. He didn’t even deny it. He…he didn’t deny he was worshipping Bane… Damn all appropriation. “Enver, please, what happened to you? You used to be such a sweet boy, you comforted me when the other kids picked on me, you—”

“My parents, my dear, sold me to a Warlock. I disappeared because I was shipped off the hells to serve a devil called Raphael in his House of Hope. I faced years of degradation and abuse until I finally managed to escape. I had nothing, I was nothing. The Black Lord picked up the pieces that were left of me and made me what I am today. And I am giving you a chance now. You have potential. Serve me and we can rise together.”

You blinked, processing his words. Sold? To a devil? No wonder his parents had refused to speak about him after his sudden disappearance. The torment he must have experienced…you could almost understand why a tyrannical god like Bane would infiltrate his dreams and promise him power and glory.

“I…I don’t know about this, Enver. This…this is tyranny.”

“In times like this, tyranny is what people need. They don’t listen—and they need a strong leader to help them make the choices that are best for the city. As of right now, free will is their greatest enemy.”

“Is that truly what you think?”

Enver’s expression darkened. He took a menacing step forward. All of a sudden, you felt so much smaller than before.

“I will not have you belittle my faith.” He paused. “I expect an answer. Now.”

You were torn—way too much so. This answer should be a decided No. Working for a Banite, for a worshipper of one of the Dead Three…it was wrong. It should be wrong. And yet…you were hesitant. Not only did Enver promise to end your homelessness but also an alliance. You were clueless as to how he assumed you would be of any use to him but you’d be damned if you didn’t admit that ever since he’d stepped into your life again…it felt like a part of yourself had returned to you. Against all reason, that made you happy. Relieved, even. You weren’t entirely alone—and you certainly wouldn’t be if you accepted his proposal.

You took a deep breath. “F-fine. I…I accept. I…I don’t want to lose you again.”

If he’d expected you to agree, he didn’t expect this. For just a split second, his composure faltered, surprise and something ever so soft washing over his face. It was gone again as fast as it had appeared.

“Splendid. A wise decision, my dear. I shall have one of the empty servants’ rooms prepared for you. Unless of course, you’d rather stay with me?” he mocked.

“You know, I would actually like that,” you said with a weak smile. Because you’d missed him. Banite or not, you were grateful he’d found his way into your life again. Not all was lost—perhaps you’d be able to talk to him. Help him be a better person just like he’d helped you be one when you were young. You’d find a way. For old times’ sake.

A/N: I already have an idea for a Part II.

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

So I'm considering changing tumblrs entirely, but in slower stages than last time. I like the Jewish Song of the Day posts and think it would be disruptive to try to pick that up on another blog, but I think I'm going to queue those posts up and let that be a curtain call.

This blog has gotten extremely large and unwieldy, and I find myself getting more and more anxious every time a new person follows me. I'm not a public figure. I'm not a political commentator. I'm not a journalist. The idea of being famous is like a horror story to me. I'm Just Some Guy.

I'm glad I've been able to be a comfort to other Jews and friends during these awful times. I don't plan on leaving fully, and I will probably continue to talk about these things. But this is starting to feel like the end of a chapter of my Judaism. I closed the chapter on my conversion student blog when I finished my beit din and came here. And over time, the old blog has been like a little time capsule for me to look back on and remember.

This is starting to feel like the end of a different chapter. When I started this blog, I was a Jew without Jewish trauma.

That is no longer true.

I feel changed in some fundamental way, like my place in the world writ large and my place as a Jew and within Jewish community has been changed forever.

There is a purity of love that can only happen before pain, but there is maturity of love that can only happen through and after pain. I loved being Jewish in the unsullied way that only a new ger can, and now I love being a Jew fiercely, as something intrinsic and bone-deep.

I haven't just lived with my Judaism; I've survived with it. And there is both pain and pride in that.

And so perhaps, it is time to close this chapter and begin a new one.

[anarchiii]

Worlds apart-12 ���ACOTAR x TOG AU

Part Twelve | warnings: angsttt, violence? | Azriel x Celaena Sardothien

Summary; pain and sorrow one after the other, Azriel decides that maybe he isn’t meant for this world, but maybe for another…

Note: this is an AU it’s not in the books.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Celaena’s POV

Two weeks of slaughtering near-innocents and the party was here, and she couldn’t be more tense, she had heard that Dorian was her partner for the gathering and that had horrified her, Celaena prayed that the King wouldn’t punish him for it, there was only so much guilt she could handle.

Though it had killed her, she had given Fleetfoot to an old friend of her’s, a lovely baker that was sure to spoil the dog rotten, Fleetfoot had become too depressed and lonely with her so busy, she couldn’t take care of her, she’d vowed to retrieve her when the time was right. If there was ever such a time.

She shuddered out a breath as she waited for the Crown-prince, standing on the icy sidewalk, she couldn’t be more cold, her plain black jacket did nothing against the frigid night, it was spring and yet not, the flowers had still not bloomed, the birds had yet to start their song.

The panting of breath announced Dorian’s arrival, she turned to find him already watching her, he wore a fine black suit with silver accents, nothing more was needed, he nodded towards the waiting carriage and she took that as her queue to follow him into it, death-staring the driver as she got in. He had watched her the entire time she had been shivering and had done nothing. Bastard.

Thankfully, the inside was a lot warmer but still had a chill to it, the Prince and the Champion sat side by side, not saying a word to eachother, Celaena was too busy wondering where she had seen the drive before to care about conversation, perhaps the man had picked her up once before? No not possible, Arobynn didn’t hire the same Carriage driver twice. Perhaps she had just seen him on the street before. That made more sense.

“Celaena,” Dorian started, she turned to him, wary blue eyes watching sapphire one’s, he pursed his lips as he watched her, like he was debating whether what he had to say was worth getting executed for, she hoped he thought against it. Wrong, “I want to help you, and I want you to help me, if we can get eachother out of this mess then we can both be free, I know it is treason but I can only watch you suffer alone so long, please.” He said. His eyes pleading. She had thought him smart but this was pure stupidity and madness, of course she wanted to be free and then run into the Staghorns and live there for the rest of her life but that was unrealistic, and it would never happen, besides, even if she got to live that life it would never be perfect. Because no matter what universe. Azriel would not be there with her, she had learned that hard truth these past few weeks, no matter how much they wanted to, they would never fit.

No matter if she bartered with the gods to make it so, they were star-crossed lovers, and that was all they would ever be, Azriel most likely had a mate in his world who was waiting for him and she her’s, she silently prayed that Azriel had realised the same thing and had given up, but she had seen the raw determination in his eyes right before he’d left, he wouldn’t stop fighting.

Celaena hated that she had given him such a sense of hope and how things could be, because if he came back, she would have to rip that all away, perhaps she was a monster, forced to fall in love and then damn them and herself. A monster.

“No,” she said flatly, staring out the window, watching the people go by, so unbothered and blind to what was going on, oh how she wished she was like them, “no?” “No.” Confusion and worry laced his face but she didn’t care, she wouldn’t let him get killed for helping her, she refused, Celaena adjusted the bracelet on her arm, content to ignore the anguish on her friend’s face until he got the idea, but if she knew Dorian—which she did. She knew that he was as stubborn as a child.

He cleared his throat, lowering his head, “very well then,” he said simply.

They did not speak to one another for the rest of the ride.

-

As soon as they entered the building, she went straight for the drinks table, grabbing a glass of wine and downing it before grabbing another, she may be undercover but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself, besides, Celaena had a incredible alcohol tolerance, she’d be fine.

In her peripheral, she noticed one of the King’s men was slinking about, staying to the walls and surveying the room, he noticed her gaze and instantly hid his face, disappearing into the shadows, she’d keep an eye on him, it was then that she noticed a lot of members of the Royal court and soldiers were here, a lot of Chaol’s personal men as well. Now that was odd.

Even stranger, she was feeling the wine a lot quicker than she should, her eyesight was a little fuzzy and her stomach was churning, what the hell? She’d eaten no food today, only wine.

The man was back at the wall again, watching her intently, a small smirk laced his face as she realised what was happening, shit— there was something in her drink, Celaena dropped the glass, the item shattering on the floor but she didn’t care, she ran to the nearest powder-room she could find but found the door locked, shit! “Please-unlock the door, p-please!” She banged on the door as hard as she could, her words slurred and stuttered.

She leaned her head on the oak door, attempting to calm her breathing, no such thing happened, it only got worse as time went on, sweat coated her skin in thick layers, yet she was so cold, Celaena felt as if her body was immobilising, losing feeling in her toes and fingers. Bloodbane. It was ironic, a few years ago when a travelling circus came to Rifthold, she’d begged Arobynn to let her get a reading to see how she would die, the creepy, grey haired woman had told her ‘poison, that is how you shall go,’ she hasn’t believed her, neither had her Master.

She started crying then, she had accepted that she would die one day but so soon, and so young? She still had so much to live for, so much to love, and now she would perish slowly at the door of a powder-room, the room she had always found useless and tacky, oh how wrong she had been, if only she hadn’t been so distracted by Dorian’s offer, she would’ve noticed the poison. Her Master would be ashamed.

Her tears fell in thick, salty rivers down her face, this was the end, a story ended too soon, the page ripped out of an unfinished book, she should have gone with Azriel, Azriel, the Shadowsinger that had stolen her heart without even trying. The male that had given her a sense of hope and confidence when she had thought it lost.

All her life she had been told happy endings didn’t exist, and she had fought them on that, told them they were wrong. Perhaps they were right after all.

The End.

Note: no comment. 😶

-Taglist

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@shadowsingercassia

@snoopyspace

@yashiw

@azrielslittleslut

@aelincaddel

[the-wip-project]

Bad Brain Days

Today I’m having a bad brain day.

It’s not that my brain is misbehaving. It’s just having a rough time functioning.

You might call it something else, and it has numerous causes, a bad night’s sleep, a flare up of a chronic health condition, medication issues, a short term illness, or simply being overwhelmed with responsibilities.

Whatever the cause, we all have days when our brain doesn’t want to do what it’s supposed to, ie: think.

Which is bad for life in general, and particularly bad for the thinky work of writing.

So what does a committed writer do when faced with a bad brain day?

The first and simplest thing is yield. If your body is telling you to rest, it’s a good idea to heed it.

I don’t advocate for pushing yourself to write every single day. (unless streaks really work well for you, in that case streak on!) It’s especially important if your bad brain days are often caused by feeling overwhelmed.

No doubt you have things you must get done: work, classes, child or elder care, household responsibilities. Things you can’t skip just because you’re not feeling up to it. So do yourself a favor and skip the non-vital tasks, like writing. Just for today.

But perhaps that writing habit thing is starting to catch hold and you’re looking forward to your writing session as something you do for yourself, but sadly your brain just won’t go in the words and ideas direction. What then?

The best thing is to make a list of what you can do. If you have low brain usefulness days frequently, on a good day try coming up with a list of things you can do on slow brain days.

Here’s some ideas to get you started.

1. Read. Skip the social media doom scroll, turn off your devices, and read something on paper. It could be an old favorite that feels comforting, it could be something new and exciting, but either way, focus on what makes the book or story good. We hear a lot about reading critically, and finding fault seems to dominate that. But try reading to admire. Pay attention to what you enjoy, what makes you smile, what makes you feel immersed. Read with the intention of enjoyment.

2. Do something story adjacent. If you like posting about your WIP on socials, find a few good pull quotes and queue them up. Or create a synopsis or pitch to keep on file for whenever someone asks what you’re writing. If you like making visual stuff like mood boards, make one for a scene or character.

3. Feeling up to diving into the work itself? How about updating your outline? Read over what you have written and add whatever changes you’ve made to the outline. It doesn’t have to be complex. Just try making one sentence summaries of each scene. You can do this if you didn’t have an outline to begin with too.

4. Talk to a friend about your writing. Writers need social interaction and if your writing has been consuming a lot of your spare time, just connecting with a friend might be what you need. (and don’t make it all about your writing! Be a good friend!)

5. Make starting tomorrow easier. Do non writing stuff that smooths the way, like tidying up the formatting or layout, creating blank chapters or scenes, or even sketching out a scene without making an attempt to fill in all the blanks.

Finally, don’t make any major decisions about your WIP on a bad brain day. You might do something your regret. Instead make notes on any major cuts or changes that feel needed, and look at them again on a day when you feel good.

And don’t make your writing another burden that makes everything too hard to carry. Tomorrow, when your head is (hopefully) clearer, take the time to assess if your writing is too much. To consider if the goals you’ve set yourself are workable with your current life situation. There’s no shame in dialing things back. If writing 250 words a day is too much, consider reducing it to 200. Or adding in more days off. Or considering a lower pressure project. Writing short fiction instead of tackling The Novel.

Most of all, remember that a solid writing practice is first of all a healthy one. So take care of yourself.

—Maree

Subscribe to my substack to make sure you don't miss a post, chat with me on the WIP Project discord, and tag any posts you make about the challenge with #slomowrino if you want me to see them!

[brooklynislandgirl]

@honorhearted {{xx}}

By the time Beth reached her fifteenth winter, she'd been married a countless number of times. Beneath the rose-bower her father had planted for her mother when the Boston house was still only it's foundations and her parents were a little younger than she is now, solemn in her best dress and her caplet for Mass. Under the graceful and slender arms of the willow trees just on the outskirts of the Setauket farm, where she pretended the well mannered old hunting dog was her dear groomsman. A full five years younger than Andrew and his friends, she was sometimes left out of their games and their education, thus making it necessary for her to play on her own. These weddings were sometimes rushed and sometimes languished until she was called in by her governess, Hannah, to take tea and some light meal. Not one of those nuptials lasted past an afternoon, and none were so much her favourite as the ones where she closed her eyes tightly and imagined Ben taking her trembling hand. Perhaps that was the truth of the tears and inconsolable grief that fell over her as a bitter pall when he went away to school and the family in turn moved inward to their fine new house in Pennsylvania. She could not know then that her father grieved the loss of her mother in child-bed, that their home had become a crypt to her memory, and that the new house was some salve for his spirit. He had never not doted on her, but perhaps that was how she had been forged…wrong, given more latitude than any could imagine. She should have been an excellent prospect for a happy future but in her heart of hearts, she has more in common with a younger son than all the society maidens of her acquaint. Each year that passes she is those twelve months closer to spinsterhood. The stirrings of war were perhaps a blessing as much as it is a curse, delaying the inevitable. She will at it's end ~and of course it must come to a conclusion, either in much hoped for victory or the purgatory of defeat~ be given to someone of her father's choosing. But here? Here is her heart's yearning. With straying lock eloped from its queue, with a body like mountain stones, with a countenance of brooding night, he is set over his papers. He hardly stirs, seems more effigy than living man. Then towers over her when he gets to his feet before her trembling fingers fully affix the token and she does not know what else she should have expected. They certainly have had no sweetness between them in these last days. She is as doomed now as she was all those years ago. He says nothing when she speaks and she steels herself to take her leave once the offering is given only to find herself caught within his grasp. Watches his mouth work for a moment and cannot look away from him. She half expects him to push her away but instead Ben chooses to caress himself against her palm. His gaze swims in the light of his candles, reflecting their glimmering light. Hannah is not here to herd her back to the house, nor is there a holy father in his black robes to rescue her soul from its imperilment. She is not so sure she would heed either one well with the way he is gazing at her, and with how her heart leaps in her breast as if to throw itself at his feet. His voice surrounds her like night and shadow when he asks the ribbon's purpose. But before she can answer, he takes hold of her face and kisses her forehead, ever so chastely. So close is he that she wonders if he can hear her heart beginning to crack. If only he could know what it feels to have him so close and yet unable to do anything about it. She is his friend, yes, but not as she should be.

He torments her with another peppering of kisses, his lips soft and tender as she dreamed they might be. Kisses that half cage her breath in her throat so that it staggers forth drunkenly and comes to a crashing halt against him. His fingers abandon her wrists in favour of her waist, a touch that holds a heavy sort of intimacy and her knees become as water. She melts just as easily as the wax being consumed by its flame on his desk. His next question, the caress of his mouth against the shell of her ear, turns that flicker to conflagration and were she a house, she would be only ashes. Pity then that she is only human and her own hands move from his chest. One rises to his shoulders and take perch there while inching its way toward his hair,  while the other settles near his hip and fingers tighten. This purchase on him is all that keeps her upright, when all of her wants to simply sink against Ben. All of her turns to molten fire as his teeth graze against her skin. All the air in her lungs seems to dissipate in that moment as her heart sets a thunderous pace. As every last inch of her strives to be that much closer to him she rises upward, pressing her modest curves against him despite the fact that some parts of her are now painfully taut. She starts to nuzzle him in return before he catches her and draws her gaze upward ~she doesn't hear the little wordless sound that ekes out of her throat~ and he pours himself into her gaze. Hers is hazy with a certain sort of madness, half lidded in the dim light. Her throat rises and falls beneath that second caress as she manages a shuddering whisper. "Is ceol mo chroí thú, Benjamin." Thick dark lashes settle against her otherwise pale skin and her eyes close and her lips part. The time of her tongue slinks across them in an invitation to kiss her proper. She feels her belly tighten and it feels like a flock of birds startled from their brush take wing within her. Lost in the moment she is left standing there unsteady and bereft when Ben pulls away from her and she momentarily recoils. What has she said? What has she done that he would retreat from her? She takes a needed half step back to steady herself and above her gaze her brows knit marking her confusion when she opens her eyes and tilts her head. On his knees he looks anguished, not a thought of prayer or God anywhere to be found in his visage.

Something inside of her breaks. Neither anger nor despair, not quite hurt. She has no word for it but it puts mettle in her spine. Now empty hands smooth her skirts and she takes a sobering breath, blinking back the moisture suddenly gathered there. For a split second her lips purse closed and the corners of them tremble as she tries desperately to gather wisps of thought into something more substantial. When she does? She takes the few steps that kill the space between them. It feels strange to be able to gaze down into his face though she isn't much taller than he is this way. "I know," she begins slowly though there is kindness laced through her words. "Caleb let slip, why do you think I came? Do you honestly believe I could watch you ride into hell's embrace and not...not wish to have spent these last moments? I don't know where you will go. What you will encounter with your dragoons. But I do know that when you go, you will take all of me with you. Saints preserve, because...because I love you, Ben Tallmadge. That is all the truth that need live in my heart." She cradles his face between her small, trembling hands and this time she tilts his face upward. Every word she spoke is etched in the lines of her face, in the way her eyes darken before she lowers her face to his and presses her lips against his own.

[allsoftinsiide]

 - ̗̀  ( cis woman,  she/her )  ̖́- ⎯ jocelyn allen lynn has  been  an  austin  resident  for  two months . the  forty three year old  is  the  owner of alchemy  in  atx .  residents  of  central keys  say  that  jocelyn  is  decisive ,  but  can  also  be erratic .   [ a blonde bob in rollers, a navy gillet, sunglasses resting on to top of her head, constantly checking her emails, running at 6am, expletives leaving her lips frequently ! ] 

mentions of mental breakdown, mental illness, depression, anxiety, panic attack

jocelyn allen lynn was always set for greatness, at least that's what her parents had built her up to be in the hope of continuing the allen lynn legacy with pride. even in her earlier years, she displayed high levels of intelligence by being an excellent reader by the age of five, leaps and bounds in front of everyone else in her class. however, it was the social queues she didn't quite understand. there was little thought for other's in the class, frequently shouting out the answer because she just wanted to show them that she knew it already.

it was no surprise to her parents when the school called her gifted but that didn't mean they thought she could do no wrong. jocelyn always wanted a seat at the adults table as she preferred to talk to adults over her peers - perhaps that was because she was an only child or that she struggled to connect with them. she did have a habit of becoming upset easily and instead of a hug, she'd get 'tough love'.

there was a pressure to perform and execute everything to the best of her ability - some of that pressure came from her parents but most of it was self-inflicted. she liked being the best at something and hated when someone was better; it rarely happened but when it did, she'd get rather upset (birthday party games were off the table).

jocelyn carried that type a personality into high school with her. a top student and athlete, it seemed that she had everything going for her. little miss know it all- that's what she'd been named (and a lot worse). however, she just learnt to shut it out, she'd always keep going. how she pushed herself was a concern to her head of year, mostly because she cried all afternoon when she got a 'b'... it would be the first of many incidents and her teachers did suggest that she speak to someone in relation to this but her parents were so quick to shut it down and say that she was fine.

of course, she did fantastically in her exams and was quickly on to bigger and better things - harvard undergrad, yale law... it would only ever be the best for her. the move to the usa was so that she could capitalise on her earnings once she got into the sector and it did not disappoint. she was focused, hyper fixated on being the best. over time, she did learn to relax a little and to connect with a few people but it always seemed to end in disaster. there was something that she found interesting about people and was a good listener in that regard - she just couldn't keep friends or a relationship (mostly because she wouldn't be able to provide what they were looking for or she would just get bored).

however, criticism sunk back in and it did unnerve her. jocelyn was under a lot of pressure, she had been for years. she'd turned forty, thought that her career would give her everything she needed in life but that just wasn't the case. at this point, she was in a relationship with another woman and it had been doing well so she couldn't understand why she felt how she did. burnout didn't begin to cover it. she was rich, successful yet still felt like shit and she felt like she was the one no one liked. jocelyn had never seemed to care about people's opinions of her but then she started to and it was at a great detriment.

things were starting to feel too much. jocelyn had taken on a lot of project work and was pushing herself to meet the deadlines to the best of her ability but the more she pushed herself, the slower things were going. there were mistakes, frustration on all sides and the woman would go on to take it out on all her colleagues. she was snappy, it seemed that everyone annoyed her and she just wanted to be left alone. that same attitude followed her home and it was causing cracks in their relationship. those cracks would drive her to staying later at the office, avoiding the confrontation entirely until that was a catalyst for their fights. if jocelyn would have just been honest about how she was feeling, she would have been able to save her relationship.

her partner had moved out, she was starting to miss deadlines at work - her career was supposed to be the thing that didn't falter. she was going into work knowing she'd not hit the goal. the embarrassment she felt when she got that 'b' in high school repeated itself. it was enough to cause her to have a panic attack on the subway into work one morning - she had a client meeting and missed it. jocelyn made it in an hour later than she was supposed to, showing visible signs of mental distress, and her boss still found it appropriate to scold her for it. it broke her. she was visibly upset, spouting off that she 'knew' they'd been trying to get rid of her for years. she'd lost it, lobbing a stapler in the direction of her boss before being escorted out of the building by security.

she was done for, that's what it felt like. the firm wasn't going to sack her for her actions, the rest of the office staff advocating for her stating that she clearly wasn't well but she would be looking at a disciplinary and many chats with hr about how her behaviour was unacceptable. when she got home, she was too upset to think clearly - her doorman noticed, having being worried about her since her partner moved out, called the police.

after forty two years, jocelyn had cracked. she spent three weeks in hospital before discharging herself and had taken leave from her job indefinitely. her parents flew out to come and stay with her. she'd pushed herself too far and now it felt like she'd blown up her entire life. her mother paid for her to go on a wellness retreat when they went back to england, something jocelyn turned her nose up at. sitting in a forest humming and talking about feelings and health didn't seem like her thing but it was something that really made an impact on her - she needed a life re-set.

taking up running again did her the world of good, not working gave her a chance to attend some meet ups to meet new people. it was through this that she decided she didn't want to go back to being a lawyer - she'd worked so hard for it but it had nearly killed her and she didn't want to entertain it again. of course, she treated her soon to be former boss to a nice meal, to apologise for everything that happened. she was relieved when they were more than receptive towards her; they'd missed the signs and they did feel some form of guilt that they'd pushed her that hard.

wanting a change, she did buy alchemy in chicago, then was moving there. her parents were concerned when she rang to tell them, fearing that everything was starting up again. however, she did explain she needed to change her scenery and everything around nyc just felt too busy. her new apartment, on one of the highest floors, still means she's in the action of the city living but it's so far away, she can't hear the noise and it's in close proximity to the bar so she doesn't have to deal with public transport (she still struggles with anxiety on public transport).

headcanons:

she's still very type a but a lot more chilled than she used to be. she's an avid runner, she's learning languages and going to meet ups to learn. she's a bit stressed with her new business but she's making sure to take time away and is enjoying working on her own time.

she swears a lot and is quite abrasive.

can be seen wearing a gillet, rollers in her hair, sunglasses on her eyes or on the top of her head.

has a dry sense of humour.

[morphlingunderscore]

hey I can send you morituro with the bridge again :) Please don't queue this one your URL is long

morituro - of someone who is next or destined to die

The Bridge, being what they were, had been privy to the highs and lows of civilization. All gods had, they are sure, but their case is not so... Complete. Often, the two do not even notice the time passing, until called upon- simply existing in the End, watching its people flutter about, change, spread out. It embarrasses the louder half, the brighter half, that sometimes they forget the other dimensions exist.

And yet, they do see snippets.

Many mundane- a farmer offering a portion of his harvest in exchange for an equal weight of shadowberries, which he had seen in an herbology book and become quite curious about. A girl attempting to barter loose coin for a mostly harmless weapon to beat her little brother senseless with for sticking gum in her hair. A piglin requesting safe passage from his conquests to his home, where another piglin and two young piglets await him.

these, the bridge enjoys. small things, quiet trades. a gift from a friend, not a trade from a god. it lifts their spirits so they are not so lonely.

Some, quite enthralling. A whole village coming together, pooling trinkets with emotional sentiment to trade for a single wither rose, needed to cure one of their own, a small boy that had been cursed cruelly to rot in his bed. A battalion offering the head of slain beast that could bring them many riches, in exchange for the head of a hated enemy.

THESE, THE BRIDGE ENJOYS. IT ROBS THEM OF THEIR BOREDOM. IT BOILS INKY BLOOD IN THEIR VEINS. IT MAKES GODHOOD FEEL RIGHT, FEEL TRUE. IT EXCITES.

And some, too... Horrible. They need not describe the lengths humanity and its brethren will go when desperate- they experience the results more often than not. And yet everytime they are offered an infant, a child, a hated outcast, a necessary sacrifice-- they find themselves appalled that they could be so disrespected, so misunderstood.

A life is intangible. A life holds infinite value, and yet none. A life can be snuffed out, and the world will keep turning. A life can be snuffed out, and many worlds fall.

Somehow, though, they find themselves... Surprised.

A desperate plea for medicine. A family, a village rotting from the inside out. Their elder, half-dead on his feet, and yet standing, staring them down. Arms held wide. Faces stricken around him, but not him.

This, this happens much less frequently.

"Hardly a fair exchange," the old man laughs, and then coughs, rot expelled from his lungs. He doesn't have long. They can see the path before him, and it is very short. "And yet you- cough- you accepted it." He stares at them, eyes sunken and yet bright. He is smiling. "My son said you wouldn't."

"why did he believe we would deny such a request?" the bridge wonders, quiet confusion.

"WHY DID YOU BELIEVE WE WOULD ACCEPT?" THE BRIDGE sneers, loud condescension.

The old man laughs again, weaker still. His breathing is labored, heart hammering faintly in his chest. That he had stood for their appraisal was a miracle. That, or perhaps it was the final nail in his coffin. "I was a priest, you know. Not like all them new-age types, who spend more money on gilded chandeliers than comfortable pews." He stops to breathe, pale, arms struggling to hold his weight. The Bridge does not hesitate to adjust their embrace, shifting to brace his back, letting his tired arms rest.

If anything, it makes his smile grow wider. More knowing.

"So many believe you're neutral in the face of conflict. That whoever offers the highest bid's gonna win the war--"

"THEY ARE CORRECT."

"Hush, no they ain't," he admonishes, amused when their quieter side swats their louder counterpart in retaliation for interrupting. "You're a god, sure, but gods come from people, and people come from gods. If y'all were so simple, none of us down there be so damn complicated."

"that has merit," the bridge concedes, before adding liltingly, "though you may create a schism with that talk."

The old man grins, teeth dark with old blood. Too tired to laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. I say the more the merrier," he dismisses easily. "Point is, I knew it'd work because you hate sacrifices."

"We Do Not Hate," The Bridge retorts in unison.

"You got opinions up in there, no need to deny it to a... To a dead man." Winded, now. His voice grows thick. "Y'hate em. But I'm not a sacrifice, am I?"

"NO."

"you came willingly."

"YOU ARE A GIFT."

"and we, to you."

The old man's grin softens into a smile. It's small and vulnerable on his pale, gaunt face. He looks so terribly kind.

"See?" He rasps, and then coughs. It exhausts him greatly, until he's barely able to hold his head up to watch them. His path is a scant few millimeters, edging like lace. Silhouetting him in gold.

"Tell Sammy... I was right. ...'nd that it's okay th't he was wrong."

"Of Course," they promise solemnly, offering two twin, terrible smiles of their own. "Safe travels lead you to distant shores, old friend. Be seeing you."

"Be..."

But he is already gone.

Time sticks, and stays, and hardens to stone.

The Bridge has seen the highs and lows of civilization.

It would be easier if they did not.

[heavensbeehall]

"Mockingjay", Chapter 5

Part 1: The Ashes

Chapter 5: Katniss gets prepped! Katniss takes the Preps to lunch and Posy is the cutest. Gale tries to make up with Katniss after defending Coin's ultimatum the previous night. Katniss is still angry. Gale stands by what he said. They are sent to Beetee in Special Defense. Beetee is watching hummingbirds. Gale thinks of a way to snare them. Beetee has made a new bow for Katniss, which is very cool. But Katniss can't say the line "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice" because it's dumb. And then our old friend Haymitch Abernathy shows up.

Thoughts:

I didn't queue anything for today. I am behind on my reading. It feels oddly like I didn't do my homework.

But she has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted. She has been the first to publicly brand me as a threat.

In this respect, Coin is a bit smarter than Snow, maybe? I don't think he thinks much of women, especially teenage girls, and thought he had her "under control." A lot of what Katniss has to do in this book (going where Coin wants, faking her simulation in training, and most crucially saying yes to the new Hunger Games) is about lulling Coin into that false sense of complacency.

She told me she had several mice at home as pets. The thought repulsed me at the time, since we consider mice vermin, unless cooked. But perhaps Octavia liked thembecause they were small, soft, and squeaky. Like her.

Another comparison between the Preps and animals.

But it's Posy, Gale's five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. "You're green.Are you sick?" "It's a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick," I say. "It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color."

No real thoughts just love for Posy Hawthorne. She's a star.

"I mean you put her in a bad position. Making her give Peeta and the others immunity when we don't even know what sort of damage they might cause," Gale had said.

Gale, babe, you've fallen in with a bad crowd. (And I know it's because he's excited to finally be part of an army that will take on the Capitol, but I want to sit him down, like on a bad sitcom "special episode" and say "Is Alma Coin pressuring you in any way, Gale? If Alma Coin jumped off a bridge would you do it too?")

In preparation for the Quell, I saw a tape where Beetee, who was still a boy, connected two wires that electrocuted a pack of kids who were hunting him. The convulsing bodies, the grotesque expressions. Beetee, in the moments that led up to his victory in those long-ago Hunger Games, watched the others die. Not his fault. Only self-defense. We were all acting only in self-defense…

Ugh I want to know more about how all the victors won, does that make me an awful person? Also, why does fandom not blame Beetee for what happens later like it does Gale?

But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you.

I don't know why but this made me think of the book Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe. It's about the Irish Republican Army in general. But there was a bit about the disconnect between the Irish people who lived in Belfast and heard the bombs and the American Irish Diaspora, who often sent or paid for the weapons. It's a lot easier to say they should keep on fighting if you don't have to do the killing. Anyway, I recommend the book.

[melody-han-wayne]

(OOC: Update + Apology—Long Post)

So I've been pretty much non-existent for the past 4 months or so BUT I can explain!

Basically what happened is that I emigrated to not just a different country, but a different continent on literally the other side of the world from where I grew up. And I left behind all my friends and family at home, meaning I came here alone and I'm still alone and probably will be alone for as long as I remain in this new country. So for the past few months I've been dealing with moving and settling down and making plans to secure my future in this new country—heck, just making sure I can have a future in this new country. I'm more or less settled into my new life now (except for the planning for the future part) but before that I kind of forgot about Melody for a while 🫥

So anyway the guilt ate away at my subconscious and Melody's voice came to me in a dream and berated me for abandoning her, so I woke up and quickly came to check on my baby. And I realise, to my utter mortification and horror, that I never paused my Tumblr queue, so all the half-baked ideas, the rough drafts, the tentative-but-not-in-chronological-order character development, had been posting itself while I was away 🫠. So if during the past 5 months you saw my blog degenerate into a bigger and bigger mess and wondered "What the heck is going on"—it's not you, it's me. Right now I'm just trying to salvage what I can of my blog (and my dignity) and reorganise everything I originally planned for Melody (tbh I forgot half of it but I'm sure the memories are in here somewhere, I just have to clean out the dust and oil the gears first).

Honestly I have no idea how many people follow(ed) Melody's story, I might as well be posting into the void for all I know. But like so many of the other RPers on this blog I started because I was bored and had some ideas in my head that wouldn't leave me alone, and over time I became attached to my OC and her story (perhaps unhealthily so). That's part of the reason why I decided not to just delete my blog and make my absence permanent. Because working on this self-indulgent project used to make me happy, and because I still have some ideas I want to share with whoever might be lurking around. Another reason is because of the community that welcomed me and that I personally watched grow. Even when this blog was at its 'most active' I probably didn't interact with other RPers as much as I should/could have (again, it's not you, it's me) but what little interaction we did have I truly did enjoy as we built and connected our own stories and characters while also interpreting the DC ones. I don't think I've said this before, and I don't think I'll ever say it enough, but really, thank you all for being willing to indulge me and play with me. This has been a lovely space to be in, and you guys combined are like 80% of the reason ❤️❤️❤️❤️

@florence-wayne-official @kit-the-nonbinary-wayne @that-one-gotham-kid @amira-wayne-al-ghul @warren-wayne-kyle @teagrayson + anyone I missed, knowing the rate at which this community grows there's bound to be at least one person I didn't tag (it's not a snub—again, not you, it's me and my bad memory—please don't be offended 🥺)

((idk if tagging everyone is proper etiquette after my prolonged absence, I was just going to say 'you know who you are' at first and leave it at that but I'm not sure if you guys actually know who you are 😅 so if I'm breaking some kind of unspoken Tumblr code of etiquette I apologise again))

(((I didn't mean for that above note to sound as rude as it did)))

ANYWAYS if you've read past the wall of text above to make it down here congratulations and thank you, I'll be doing my best to clean up/revise my blog and my OC and her story in the coming weeks and hopefully get some sort of continuity back on track :) I'm also trying to figure out what happened in the rest of the RP community in my absence so if I reply to a three-month-old post now: once again, it's not you, it's me, and there's totally no obligation to engage with.

Can't wait to hang out with the Batfamily again ☺️ plus all my RP siblings, half-siblings, future siblings, stepsiblings, undead siblings etc XD

[knackfandomarchive]

Artists, writers, and assorted friends (alphabetical, not exhaustive alas):

Any link will just take you to my blog with the tag searched.

an0n-1o1 - One joke post about how Knack interacts with a goblin in the second game.

ari-draws-things - Several art pieces. Ohh I can't pinpoint my favorite thing, but if I look at them too long, I fear I will die. The shapes? and the style is so cute? I see lots of drawings of Gundahar, Rothari, Knack and Lucas being adorable.

at7outof10 - One post of digital art of Little Knack, along with some non-KNACK characters. And apparently, one post where they made a Knack Mii, like from the Wii?

bestbuybathroom - Shared a one-shot fic I really like, and made some image macros, jokes, and opinion posts. I like their sense of humor, but it is perhaps not for kids heheh.

bm13 - so far, a page of Little Knacks. So cute!

celiasvalley - I see an opinion post and possibly a joke.

chibifox2002 - Adorable digital art! This person has an AU and sometimes posts sibling shenanigans involving Knack, Lucas, and an OC named Penny.

chrisophur - Some screenshots of the ps4 game and I think of the sadly-discontinued Knack's Quest.

creamsodathe1st - So far, a cute digital piece of Robo Knack, aka Player 2 of KNACK 1, petting a beetle. Also some of their OCs.

crimmy10 - Super cute sketches and colored pieces! I'm noticing lots of art of Knack romantically paired with an OC.

dbnogaming-blog - One screenshot of Abominable Knack, aka Ice Knack.

deequeen1512 - No posts of her own yet, but prompts chibifox2002 about their AU or asks questions through the ask box.

discoknack - it me! I'm a chatterbox who rambles and complains a lot. Sometimes art.

doubleleaf - One drawing of Viktor propped up by one of his robots. Very technique; me gusta. Seems to be an art blog.

emmatheward - Probably one of the most ambitious pieces I've seen so far of Giant Knack's upper torso and right shoulder in meticulous detail.

frenchie-sottises - So far I've shared a post of theirs where Knack has a dinosaur tail, scales and also a bellybutton. So cool! And in full color, too.

gummiscr1bblez - Two art posts about their escapades playing the games.

hervygervy - looks like discord screenshots and memes mainly.

indoobs - One photo of a little crochet plush of Knack made as a present.

kyledahl - An animation cycle of Lucas skipping. This seems to be one of the creators, but I reblogged it on purpose because they deleted the original post and I'm under the impression they won't get notifications.

littlebomba - Uh oops, this person mentioned working at PlayStation,, Plus they shared what looks like a promotional image or poster or wallpaper of some kind, which I have reblogged. Also several more adverts which I have not. I hope they don't look in this direction O_o

thelivingrelic - I have in the queue what looks like a very old roleplay invitation that was never responded to? And the blog itself used to be an RP blog. Sadly this person seems to have deactivated, but I can occasionally find posts from deactivated users if someone still around had reblogged it.

majorpepperidge - some screenshots and cute sketches!

munchiemooz - one GIF of Knack in the trailer for KNACK 1 assembling for the first time.

mypunkpansexualtwin - shared some screenshots of Knack in a character appreciation post.

n-jay79 - Drew one very nice colorful sketchy Doctor Vargas and shared some in-game screenshots. Haven't seen any more KNACK stuff, but this person does draw other middle-aged men on the reg if that's your thing.

pepperishstudio-blog - One "warmup doodle" of Little Knack.

pit--rat - One short text post. If I say more about it I'll spoil it.

playstation - oh shit, the actual PlayStation? and not a fanblog pretending to be playstation? I may be stupid.

robertamew - Several posts of screenshots of Iron Knack, Metal Knack, however you'd like to call him. Also an art piece of Knack, and another of an OC.

sbb-thumbnails - SuperBeardBros apparently did a playthrough series and this person makes the channel's thumbnails.

sonicasura - Crossovers! Some art, mainly talk? I think they're neat, but I am not familiar with the other works being crossed with. A lot of idea stuff.

speedartist-skyliner - Drew two pieces of their version of Knack; one of him small and one of him around six-and-a-half feet tall.

stealthknack - Ugh such a cute but short-lived blog! Shared edited screenshots of the game.

totally-jammin-bridget - Shared some things on a post about how they liked Knack 2. They go by a different name now, so I'll update it soon.

thewizardlywyrm - Two (I think?) super cute digital pieces and one celebratory post about Knack 2.

woodenplankstudios - one comic about Knack, about 7 feet tall or so, breaking into the "mascot lounge" and being obnoxious for four panels. I have to admit, the art is well done.

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

🖊

It was a coffee with vanilla and five sugars day. Sebastian took a sip from his mug as he went through the morning newspapers--or rather, the gossip columns. So far it seemed the first half of Riven's plan was working, there were more 'stories' on the Warrior of Light than the political infighting that had broken out following the Forum's vote to rejoin the Eorzean Alliance. Robbing Sevestre of any and all platforms--plus perhaps rubbing all his losses in his face--

This crazy idea just might actually work. Sebastian swallowed another mouthful of coffee, folding the newspapers. Thancred was currently working on a way for the group to access Sevestre's office and home, and the more he thought about it, the more he began to suspect that Y'shtola was correct, this whole situation had its origins with Astrid. There had been something far bigger than Riven-then-Kari's existence at the time. And as Astrid and Sevestre-no, the entire Biblotech faction. were her political opponents...

"Seb?" The velvety voice made Sebastian freeze. Fear exploded in his stomach, turning his muscles into water. He knew that voice, had been avoiding everything that dealt with it, godsdamnit he'd fucking finally had put everything to do with it behind him--

"Sebastian?" Forcing his eyes upward and to keep a emotionless expression on his face, Sebastian took in the arrival at his table. His former lover and the reason why he'd had to leave home, start all over from scratch--Lacelle Glycen, was standing in front of him. And oh gods, he looked as beautiful as ever, blond hair perfectly braided back into a queue, not a single strand out of place, gray eyes peering down at Sebastian with a faint hint of superiority, with nary a wrinkle on his lab jacket and pants. A crystal drop hung from one pointed ear, catching the morning sun. Light pink lips curved into a slight smile that looked innocent, but Sebastian could see the cruelty that lingered below the surface.

"It is you! You look so..." Those gray eyes took in Sebastian's armor--the black chest plate was battered a bit but clean, the red duster had some wrinkles, the beaten up gunbelt. His brown hair was no longer short, it had been frilled and parted into layers at the front and shaved short in the back--his hands were no longer smooth but rough and callused from the hilt of his gunblade.

"Different."

"Lacelle." Sebastian got out. Gods he prayed he didn't look as upset as he felt, and now he was extremely hyperware that many eyes in the Last Stand were now fixed upon his table. Lacelle smiled again-a polite thing that didn't fully reach his eyes.

"Mind if I take a seat?" He said, not waiting for Sebastian to respond. Smoothly he slid out the chair facing the gunbreaker and sat down.

No, no, no, why didn't I say anything?! Sebastian wanted to speak, wanted to scream, but old fear and anxiety had turned his tongue to lead. All the memories were coming back--that two-moon period of hell when everything had just all gone so wrong. He'd lost his thesis, his friends, his dignity, his life--and all because of Lacelle. His ex lover had plagiarized his work, claimed it as his own--and when Sebastian had fought back...

"I was so surprised when I read about you in the papers." With effort, Sebastian forced himself to focus on the elezen's words. "I didn't think you'd throw your lot in with the savages, let alone their so-called Warrior of Light--"

"Augustine, Mathye, Reinhardt, and Riven." Lacelle blinked at the sudden interruption.

"Excuse me?"

"Those 'savages' are my friends. They have names." Now Sebastian could feel anger warring with the fear and anxiety. How dare, how dare--did this asshole think he could just stroll right on up and sit down and have a normal conversation after what had happened all those years ago? After what he'd done?! Sebastian swallowed, choking back the rage that was building inside him.

"You will address my friends by their names or not speak of them at all." Gods his voice sounded so calm, so composed. Wasn't it shaking? Couldn't the other man hear the tears?

I gave you my heart and you threw it away like the day's trash-- Lacelle chuckled, shaking his head.

"Dear Sebastian. Always so quick to defend others." He leaned forward--a slender hand reaching out to rest atop Sebastian's free one. The hyur jerked--and made to pull it away--but Lacelle's fingers tightened around his wrist.

"I'm so happy I found you. I wanted to talk."

"I don't." Sebastian ground out. "Let go of me."

"Sebastian." Was it his imagination, or was Lacelle's grip even tighter now?

"Let me go." Sebastian repeated, pulling a little harder. He didn't want to cause a scene, oh gods if he caused a scene Lacelle would eat it right up, it was the past repeating itself all over again--

"I said I wanted to talk." Lacelle countered, ice starting to creep into that velvet voice as his eyes narrowed. Then suddenly a pair of silver and metallic-sky-blue gauntlet hands slammed onto the elezen's shoulders, and squeezed. Sebastian could only watch as Lacelle gasped in sudden pain--his skin starting to pale as a cold sweat broke out. His grip loosened, and Sebastian pulled his wrist free.

"Now I admit I'm not completely familiar with the laws around here..." Reinhardt's voice was low, practically purring.

"But I seem to remember that the word 'No' is universal. And when somebody invokes it...". The dragoon bent over, leaning to the side as he continued to grip Lacelle's shoulders, letting the elezen get a good view of his face.

"It's generally good manners to honor it." Sebastian watched as Reinhardt smiled--no longer the basic soldier grunt, but a predator, fangs flashing and dragonfire-blue eyes shimmering.

"Sebastian, who's this?" Augustine slid into the chair on Sebastian's left, his voice friendly but not friendly, frosted steel underlying his tone. Mathye followed, taking the chair on the hyur's right.

"Looks like a problem to me." The medic commented aloud. "I hope you didn't harm one of my more repeat patients, I tend to get violent if something happens when we're not fighting to keep people safe and other do-gooder activities."

"Seb?" From behind him, a pair of slender arms wrapped around Sebastian's shoulders and squeezed--offering both comfort and reassurance. Sebastian swallowed--now unable to speak by the sheer physical presence of love and support he was feeling. Riven tilted her head, taking in the scene with a innocent expression on her face.

"Ohh." She said, her voice syrupy sweet--and suddenly louder.

"You're Sebastian's asshole of an ex boyfriend! The one who stole his work, got him fired and gaslit him out of his home!"

"Riven!" Sebastian hissed. Forgot the warm fuzzy feelings, he now was sensing danger. Lacelle was now possibly a dead man.

"Weren't we supposed to have a discussion with him?" Augustine asked innocently.

"We were." Mathye agreed, his own smile suddenly now...toothy as his violet eyes gleamed. He rose from his chair.

"Ser Sauveterre. Let me assist you." He offered gallently as Reinhardt moved to grip Lacelle by his right arm.

"Why thank you, Ser Bishop." Reinhardt answered gleefully. Lacelle squeaked as Mathye grabbed his left arm, and the two men hauled the elezen bodily to his feet.

"Mathye! Reinhardt!"

"Relax, it'll just be a talk." Augustine pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders. Riven gave Sebastian another squeeze-hug.

"Finish your coffee. We're just going to be right there." She said, pointing at the harbor dock. Garuda in her mini-form had appeared to sit on one of Riven's shoulders, cackling in malicious glee.

"Riven!" Sebastian hissed. Gods the situation was going downhill faster than he could blink--

"Relax, big bro."

[mla0]

“I don’t know how to dance.”

Lexx smiled, queueing up a classical song on her phone and plugging it into a speaker. “Well, Shaun,” she mused. “You’ll just have to learn! Aren’t you glad I’m your teacher?”

Shaun mumbled something quietly under her breath, her face turning a light pink as she absentmindedly fiddled with the seams of her clothes. Her hair was down to her shoulders, messy and partly covering her eyes. She probably thought Lexx wouldn’t notice the response if she hid her face. 

She was wrong, of course!

“Um,” Shaun started, quietly. “What kind of dance should I do?”

This prompted a laugh from Lexx; not a cruel one, but perhaps a little teasing. 

“You’ll see!”

Despite Shaun’s nervous protests- her insisting she can’t dance, that she’ll make a mistake and embarrass herself- Lexx hummed pleasantly as she straightened out her own dress. She had to look good for this one.

Finally, she beckoned the other girl over, watching her shuffle over in her oversized green sweater and loose jeans that dragged slightly over the floor. Her glasses were slightly crooked, and looked to be many years old. 

Despite her seemingly rough appearance, Lexx knew she was trying her best. She’d only come out to her a few months ago, and her style was still developing with what little clothes she'd bought. Still- she was beautiful, and she didn’t even seem to know it. 

“Are you going to have me copy you?” Shaun asked, still clueless to Lexx’s plan. When she smiled sweetly in response, she could immediately see Shaun’s expression turn to one of suspicion. They’d known each other as kids, and if anybody knew when Lexx’s expression indicated mischief, it’d be Shaun. 

Lexx extended her hand, inviting her close. “Well, actually,” 

A smile.

“I was thinking you could learn to slow-dance?”

And there it was. Shaun’s already-nervous face turned into one of complete anxiety, tensing up and shying back. “I’ll make an idiot of myself!”

“You’re silly,” Lexx cooed, keeping her hand out for the other girl. “I’d love to teach you.”

“I-“ Shaun started, but no other words came out. After a few painfully long seconds, she slowly relaxed, though Lexx did notice her hand was still shaking as it met her own. Shaun slowly drew in close, before going still like a deer in headlights.

As Lexx turned the music on, she gently guided Shaun’s hands on where to go. One on the shoulder, and one on the waist, both of which were mirrored in response. Shaun’s face silently reddened as her eyes darted in any direction besides where Lexx was, blowing a strand of hair out of her eye.

As much as Lexx’s heart melted at the sight, she knew she had to be gentle. With a firm yet careful grip, Lexx instructed.

“Okay, start by taking a step to the left.”

Shaun did as she was told, still shaking ever-so slightly. She was silent in that moment, though a million thoughts were racing through her mind. As Lexx gave more short commands, she hesitantly relaxed, unconsciously gripping the other woman a little tighter.

As time moved on, Shaun was starting to wear out a bit. She never realized just how tiring it can be to slowly move around with another person in your arms, and she knew Lexx could tell she was getting fatigued. 

As the pair gently swayed, spinning around and moving to the right, it slowed. For just a moment, Shaun began to realize maybe Lexx’s intentions had no element of surprise to them. Just her friend helping her learn something new, right?

Not so.

As they stopped where they’d began, Lexx’s hand fully slid around Shaun’s waist, pulling her in close. Before Shaun could say anything, her legs felt as though they were being literally swept off their feet. 

She fell back quickly, but was carefully propped up by the other girl. She was above her now, her eyes glinting as she smiled and held her. She’d dipped her down as a final lesson for the day, and was completely confident in doing so.

Shaun’s heartbeat quickened rapidly, a deep blush now fully obvious on her face as she could only stare up at Lexx. She was pale, with a rounded face and intense brown eyes that seemed to sparkle even in a dark room. Her hair was long and black, and her lips…

No, no, what are you doing? Shaun said to herself. You can’t think about that right now!

Yet she quickly realized this was, in fact, the perfect time to be thinking about it. The careful yet warm touch from her hands, her confident demeanor, the perfect curves that she was now holding onto. Without knowing what she was doing, she melted into the position with a soft sigh.

Lexx seemed to like this reaction quite a bit, judging by how she could now see her lips part into a goofy little smile. She felt like her stomach was going to burst with how many butterflies were in there. 

“How do you feel?” Lexx asked, her voice quieter than before, yet warm. Shaun’d almost call it loving. 

“Nervous,” Shaun admitted, though she laughed sweetly right after. “But... good.”

Lexx’s free hand brushed a lock of hair away from her face, to get a perfect look at Shaun’s pretty face. “Good.”

They said nothing for a few moments, with both wondering what the other was going to do. They both had an idea- one they were too nervous to say out loud- but still an idea nonetheless. 

Shaun’s brows furrowed together in thought, and Lexx watched quietly, that soft smile still plastered on her face as though it were permanent. Shaun’s breath was short, her blush everlasting and her pupils dilated. It was tense, but calm. 

“Well,” Lexx started. “I’d say this was a good first l-“

She paused as Shaun’s hands travelled upwards, cupping her face gently. As she looked back down, she saw the faintest hint of a smile from the shorter girl. Oh, her heart could burst at the sight!

She didn’t expect this. And she certainly didn’t expect Shaun to draw her face in close. Her hands were shaking again, but it wasn’t stopping her from trying her best to… flirt?

Shaun’s gaze slightly panned down, and Lexx finally felt the blush settle in for her as well, once she realized the other girl was looking at her lips. There was a silent question- a shy one, as befitting for Shaun- yet her heart skipped a beat nonetheless. 

Shaun broke the silence, making her question clear. 

“C-can I…?”

And Lexx melted.

“Of course,” She replied, her words barely above a whisper. It was as if she was worried the opportunity would fly away if she was any louder. 

For a few seconds, Shaun paused. Nervousness crept up on her again, and Lexx could feel her hands tremble. Yet, she waited. She wouldn’t take this moment away from Shaun.

After a long, stuttered breath, Shaun pulled her in.

Her lips were softer than Lexx could have ever expected, even though they were a little chapped. Their eyes closed, and for just a moment the music seemed to stop. By this point Shaun was mostly back upright again, one hand around the other woman’s neck and the other still cupping her cheek. She was soft- clearly quite nervous- but neither of them cared. 

When Shaun finally pulled back, neither even breathed. Her lips had been smattered with Lexx’s own black lipstick, her face a lovely pink and her eyes half-open. She almost looked to be in a daze, and Lexx couldn’t say she didn’t feel similar. 

Finally, both sighed slightly, remembering they were still on Earth. Shaun’s other hand slid down to her neck, and all she could do was quietly look at her. What could they even say now?

“I…” Shaun mumbled hazily. “I think I’d like more dancing lessons.”

The awkward silence was broken with playful laughter, Lexx being unable to help herself. “Frankly, I think you’re quite good at this already!”

“Oh.” Shaun said softly, and Lexx bristled when she realized what that sounded like. She gently squeezed Shaun’s hip, and a flustered squeak escaped the other girl’s mouth.

“Perhaps instead, we could go to the mall and get you some more clothes?” Lexx proposed, a devilish smirk reappearing on her face. “I’d certainly like to kiss you again.”

“O-oh.” Shaun repeated, looking like she was going to pass out from sheer surprise. She turned her face away again, her messy hair attempting (and failing) to hide her flushed cheeks. “I’d… like that.”

“Great!” Lexx chirped. “It’s a date, then.”

[adultswim2021]

12 oz. Mouse: “Prolegomenon” | December 18, 2006 – 12:45AM | S02E13

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! No post last night, and I’m sorry, but I had to give this one more thought. Really, I got high and thought I not only finished the write-up, but also scheduled it in my queue after I wrote a single paragraph and fell asleep. Whoops.

Okay, so it’s all been leading up to this, and this write-up will eventually cover what “this” is. But before I go into it, I wanna say that this episode led me to do some googling. I learned something that I possibly knew at one point, but had lost sight of: season 2 was supposed to have 20 episodes but was shortened to 13. With that, the series was also canceled, forcing Matt Maiellaro to plan some kind of conclusion where there might not have originally been one. I guess you can draw comparisons from things like Twin Peaks; David Lynch wanted to keep the mystery of who killed Laura Palmer unsolved indefinitely, but the network forced him to come up with a conclusion midway through season 2. Arrested Development had one of its seasons shortened, and I recall episodes from before that happening seeming to set things up that never got resolved. Could that be the explanation for the ending we got on 12 Oz. Mouse? Or could it be that it meant nothing the entire time? 

Okay, so it’s not really a hard ending. Mouse plays pinball for a lot of this episode, while a floating light speaks to him. We finally find out the true nature of Shark and Square Business man, and the Eyes, and Peanut Cop and the question woman. The finale confirms what I suspected (and half-remembered), and what most viewers paying close attention to the series should have also suspected: Cardboard City is a simulation. But when we cut out to the real world we see a big green mouse and we see his rodent friend skillet, real as this show is long. They don’t have human counterparts. They are still themselves in the real world.  It’s all the others that have human counterparts (or a different outfit in question woman’s case).

So what basically seems to happen is the people running this program decided that it was time to stop it and roughly reset everything, so the intense war our gang was in the middle of fighting  just sorta turns off, basically. Then, back in Cardboard City, mouse and his friends shake off the fact that moments ago they were fighting a war, and now they are not. The sky turns blue and cloudy. The team waltzes away, for a brand new day. The simulation is over, and a vague sense that maybe another will begin. It’s like a soft reboot, sorta symbolizing what episodic TV is supposed to be. They’re going to go do a different adventure now. Perhaps a… web adventure?

Yes, there was a webisode. Will I relegate the webisode to ephemera since it didn’t air on television? Or will I give it it’s own entry? Only time will tell (I will give it it’s own entry). The webisode was announced, and I think Matt Maiellaro was hopeful that the show would be allowed to continue in a new format. Not now, my child. Not now. So, I think he’s setting up some sort of meta contextual way to explain that the show can simply be rebooted into different configurations. Kinda like if Bugs Bunny was revealed to be in the Matrix, and it somehow explained how he could fight Yosemite Sam in medieval England, ancient Egypt, and the old west, and seem like they’re meeting for the first time every time. 

The whole DVD being cut together like a movie gives you the impression that 12 Oz. Mouse is a huge epic story that wraps up nicely, with purpose. No such luck. It really was sorta nonsense, I guess. I’m guessing Aspirin would have made another appearance in some other context in some other version of the show, and not be elaborated on. Eventually Aspirin is revealed to be a god particle, or something, just as some other weird concept is introduced to fixate on instead. It can go anywhere and everywhere man. It’s like Everyone Everywhere All Over The Place, At Once! or whatever that movie was called.

So the ending is a bit of a disappointment. I forgot that it was, honest. I only saw a few random episodes of this show before getting the DVD and watching the entire thing in one day when I was recovering from a hernia surgery and on Vicodin. I was recuperating at my parent’s house and brought a stack of DVDs from home to watch. I had just gotten Human Giant season one on DVD which had dozens of additional commentary tracks that were all hysterical. Vicodin notwithstanding, it became less-than-ideal viewing material while I was on the mend because laughing physically hurt. A LOT. This isn’t a compliment, and I’m sorry, but I switched to 12 Oz. Mouse specifically because I could capably watch it without hurting myself.

The ending feels sudden and the series feels cut-short. That’s because it was. There was a webisode coming, which was meant to kick-start a new short season. It didn’t. Years later there was a special and a third season, some of which I’ve seen. But, the show is enormously specific, and that’s a good thing. It’s obtuse and feels like a show you’re supposed to be watching at 1AM. You can get really into it, especially if you’re high. I get why people love this show. I get why this might be a show people enjoy watching over and over. I feel slightly compelled to start watching it again, even if it’s just for background noise. But the idea that it fulfilled some kind of narrative promise is a stretch. I guess I’m glad I gave it a sincere shot at trying to “get” it, and I’m slightly eager to check it out again, even, in it’s movie form.

Additionally, in its defense: many network shows with much bigger fan-bases are allowed to have overlapping serialized story-lines that sometimes go nowhere and are quietly replaced by different ones. I’ve tricked myself into thinking that 12 Oz. Mouse might be a meta-textual critique of storytelling on television; the ending can be seen as symbolic of a network stepping in and rebooting the status quo of a TV show that’s in danger of going too far up its own ass. Or, maybe 12 Oz. Mouse was only ever meant to be about the vibes, which it has in spades. Who knows. But you owe it to yourself to at the very least check out the pilot episode, “Hired’. Don’t feel too bad if you don’t feel like watching more. Don’t feel bad if you like the show but don’t feel like you “get” it. Just don’t feel bad about anything ever. Mouse would want it that way.

EPHEMERA CORNER:

[rafor]

Chapter 14 - At the gates - The Glitch

I felt a surge of urgency. I had to get moving before nightfall. I vaguely recalled having wings before I arrived here, but they are gone now. I no longer felt like a divine being in the afterlife. I felt like a reborn human. Fragile and ordinary. Perhaps it was foolish to try to use my wings in this unfamiliar place, where other flying creatures could spot me and intercept me. I decided to stay on the ground and look for the gates. There had to be one somewhere.

I walked along the wall, keeping a safe distance from it, and scanned the surroundings for an opening. After a while, I spotted it. There was a gate guarded by several dragons of different sizes and colors, as well as a few griffins. They seemed to be merchants, waiting in a short queue to enter the city. I joined them at the end of the line. I was silent, out of place, and different from everyone else. The griffin and a dragon in front of me noticed me. They gave me a quick glance, then looked away. They whispered to each other, speculating about who I was. I could hear them say things like, “Have you ever seen that?” “No, but it looks cute.” I felt embarrassed by their comments until the griffin turned around and said, “Good day, I’m Nala. Nice to meet you.” She sounded friendly, but I was caught off guard by her sudden introduction. I replied politely, “Nice to meet you too, Nala. I’m Raphael.” I didn’t ask her anything else. I just stated my name. The dragon next to her also turned to face me and said, “Hi Raphael, I’m Razel. Are you an ape?” The griffin slapped him with one of her paws and said, “No, he’s not. He doesn’t have a tail. Please excuse my friend here. Anyway, what are you?” I felt offended by his question, but I answered calmly, “I’m a human. I guess you’ve never seen one before.” Nala said, “Oh, wow, a new kind of creature. I’ve never seen a human before. Are all humans so small?” I sighed inwardly and said, “I’m average height for a human. There are some taller than me, but that’s not important right now.” She apologized, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just curious.” I said, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Can I ask you what you are?” They said, “Isn’t it obvious?” I apologized, “Sorry, you are a griffin and you’re a dragon, right?” They said, “Yes, but not just any griffin or dragon. I’m a fire griffin.” “And I’m a wind dragon from the kingdom of the Whispering Wind, domain of Queen Freya.” I had never heard of these kingdoms before since I was new here, so I wanted to ask them more about them. But before I could do that, someone at the gate pointed at me and ordered something. Suddenly, two guards came over and grabbed me. One of them said, “You have to come with us.” I wondered how many knew about my arrival besides Zeno. The guards dragged me past the gate and brought me to a dragon with a paper list in his hand. He asked me my name. He seemed to already know it somehow. As soon as I said “Raphael”, he nodded to the guards and said, “It’s him. Bring him to them.” I had no idea who he meant by them, but they must have been someone of importance. We walked through the city for a long time. The guards didn’t offer to fly me there, and I didn’t dare to ask for it either. The city was old, large, and crowded with dragons of all kinds. Some of them looked at me with curiosity or suspicion. They probably had never seen a human either. It made me feel uncomfortable and exposed.

We reached a section of the city that was enclosed by another wall. Inside, there were more buildings than living beings. Elegant buildings that seemed more decorative than functional. One of them was a temple, where the guards took me inside and told me to wait until they called me in. Alone again in an empty building with walls covered with symbols and strange writings that made no sense to me, I waited as instructed. I had no choice or power in this situation. I didn’t want to mess up anything so soon after arriving here, so I followed every order as best as I could.

[theteej]

Islands Away

I clutched my passport and vaccine card in my hand as I wound my way through the airport queues.  I hadn’t travelled internationally in three years, and here I was, leaving for nearly five weeks to the South Pacific.  What the hell was I thinking?!

I first travelled to Aotearoa/New Zealand in 2017 as an exhausted and somewhat broken professor at Washington and Lee in Virginia. Aotearoa shaped me in some profound and confusing ways.  It was my first long-term international work trip outside of the UK or Southern Africa, where I’d undertaken all of my PhD and book research.  This was new, the first steps toward my next book, Conjugal States, which explores how monogamy and polygamy were understood and deployed in colonial contexts ranging from South Africa to Aotearoa to Canada and parts of the U.S.  I realized I had so much more to learn, and when I first touched down in the new country I was humbled by the constant generosity of people, challenged by the similarities and differences of colonial violence in a space new to me, and excited by growing as a scholar and a person.  My dear friends Rachel and David made space in their hearts and lives, and welcomed me back in 2019 when I came back for follow-up research in Wellington. This was a chance to build on two months of research, to decide what I was really looking for, and to become reacquainted with old friends.

This trip would be different, however.  My dear friend Mark Daku, who I first met as a graduate student in South Africa, was closing out his time in Fiji, where he and his partner had been for two years.  In characteristic Mark fashion, he said, “look, why don’t you just come? There’s plenty of relevant work here to discuss for your research. You can also give a talk here at the University of the South Pacific, and you can just be here for awhile.  You’re in the same time zone as New Zealand, anyway.  Do it.”

So….I did it.  I applied for summer travel funding, and I went. I found myself for the first time in three years, feeling excited as I left the United States and headed far, far away—albeit this time with a mask and a healthy amount of pandemic anxiety where I hoped that my April bout of covid would help me resist re-infection in the two newly re-opened countries.

As the plane doors closed that Saturday night in July, I found myself remembering that slightly ominous passage by Agatha Christie in And Then There Were None:

“There was something magical about an island—the mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the world—an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.”

I had never been to Fiji before, and as the intense humidity engulfed me like a wet blanket, despite the ostensible Southern Hemisphere winter, I took an instinctive deep breath in.  I had flown thirteen hours and nineteen time zones around the world and found myself in a place I’d only read about for work.  And yet, it was surreal.  The indigenous peoples of Fiji, iTaukei, bear more than a passing resemblance to me.  We both have the same slightly coppery skin tone and a similar hair curl pattern. Historically, thanks to colonial naming practices, iTaukei also frequently identified as Black, and it was therefore particularly disorienting to arrive in a country where people looked like you, had similar bigger body types, and things seemed like echoes of things you already knew.  As a mixed-race Black American there’s a frequent misrecognition that my body undergoes; but there’s also a sense of not really looking like anyone else. I look like my white mother and my Black father, but I also don’t.  I found myself looking into faces and walking along the streets of Suva and Nadi trying to see familiarity and difference.

People often asked me if I was from Tonga, another nearby nation, which was confusing, too.  The misrecognition continued apace.  It was strange and beautiful to be in the somewhat sleepy but also oddly busy capital city of Suva, as I walked with Mark and Jenn and their irrepressibly cheery dog, Pirate.  I walked through freak sunshowers that left me drenched, I ate a terrifying number of coconuts.  I slipped slightly out of veganism to try Kokoda, a Fijian fish dish that resembled ceviche, served with chiles and cassava.  It was amazing.  I drank kava and rum and tried to learn everything I could.  What did it mean to wander streets marked with so many familiar colonial names I knew from South Africa and the UK?  What did it mean to move through a country that had endured four coups since 1987, that felt the racial fault lines from British colonialism and Indian indenture migration?  There were so many parallels to South Africa.  There were so many ways in which my brown and inquisitive body moved through narrow alleyways and along beach paths and just smiled in the bright sunshine, trying to understand and learn.  It was an indescribable joy to be back with my dear friend Mark, who truly gets me in a way that most other people don’t.  We’d been travel companions a decade earlier as anxious graduate students; now we were a little more grown, and trying to figure out everything.  But Mark always knows exactly how to reach me with his love of the absurd and the asinine, and his sharp wit and generous heart make me think in new ways, even if his somewhat sunny cynicism is a weird counterpart to my own.

I met dear and wonderful people, academics like Milla building new generations of scholars and giving words for experiences; effortlessly kind cinephiles like Ben, whose passion for music and art were infectious; brilliant climate change activists like Dylan, determined to make Fiji a better and more just place for the future.  I wandered and laughed and cried and….for the first time in three years, actually rested. I stopped. I breathed in, I felt the sun on my face and I tried to accept the surreal gift of a paid academic trip to think and talk and process and exist. I still can’t believe it happened, and it was such a beautiful offering of sun and healing to my battered body before the work and joy of another return to Aotearoa.

After ten days, I left the daily 85 degree (30 Celsius) weather of Fiji for the middle of an Aotearoa in a proper winter.

New Zealand, known in the language of the Indigenous Māori people as Aotearoa, “Land of the Long White Cloud,” is still one of the places that makes my heart catch in my throat when I’m there.  It continues to feel like a home in a way I’m never fully prepared for, and it draws me back and challenges me in new ways every time.  What does it mean to be a non-indigenous Black person, and how do I make moments of commonality and community? How do I navigate colonialism? How do I bring my knowledge to bear as a historian of the colonial nineteenth century and Indigenous autonomy?  I’ve been working as a historian of colonial Aotearoa now for nearly five years, and the impostor syndrome is strong. I don’t’ want it to go away anytime soon, because I have to be accountable to a world that is not mine, to a place bigger than me, and to navigate a place filled with people living and surviving and making space.  

I was initially supposed to land in Auckland for a brief layover and then fly on to Wellington where I’d stay with my friends Rachel and David.  Yet unseasonably strong winds had grounded all remaining flights for the day between Auckland and Wellington, and so I found myself stuck in the city for the next twenty-four hours.  This would’ve been bothersome or an inconvenience in other instances, but my dear friend Karen (who is also Rachel’s mother!), answered my anxious text message and insisted I come home to stay with her for the night.  She showed up almost immediately, hugged me close and told me “welcome home,” pushed me out of her hair and directed me from her brilliant home in Otahuhu toward trails and places I remembered in the city centre, outside the famous Auckland War Museum.  I admit I cried in the airport when it hit me that I had family in Aotearoa. Karen (along with Rachel, David, and David’s parents as well)—had in many ways adopted me as their errant North American relative, and after the last three years I felt particularly grateful as well as vulnerable.  Karen and I chatted about her work in education and mine in anticolonial history. As always, she made space, and invited me into her life, and shared her kindness along with her copious mugs of tea.

The next day began my two and a half weeks in Wellington, where I stayed with my dear friends (or Rachel, as we waited for David to return from a trip in Europe), and got right to work in the archives.  This was my third trip to the New Zealand National Archives, and I spent most days tracking down records of bigamous marriages, matrimonial infidelity, and the challenges of Māori and Pākehā (European) claims on belonging and family estates.  It’s honestly the best fucking thing I get to do.

Research is the best part of the gig; there are no onerous responsibilities, only joy.  You get to take in information and think and ponder and leave the analysis to some future version of yourself, sad in front of a laptop in a local café.  Too bad, future T.J.!  This is a time for DREAMS.  I traced so many stories, and journeyed through archival trails.  I got to reconnect with friends I hadn’t seen in years, including Matthew, Avery, Corry and Charlie, and generally felt so happy to be back in a place that brings me joy.  After a brief and scary episode where David tested positive for covid on his return and we all had to isolate, we went on an epic work and joy filled road trip.

First we headed to Te Waipounamu (the South Island) and the city of Christchurch (Ōtautahi), where I explored the next archival repository for documents, tried new vegan restaurants, visited a kitschy French-themed tourist site, and just sat and cried in the beautiful amber lights of a winter sunset with friends who made me feel safe.  While there I splurged and bought a stuffed handmade wool octopus that I named Te Wheke, the Māori word for octopus (original, I know).  He’s now a dear and constant companion.

We headed back to Te Ika-a-Māui (the North Island) for the final week, I double checked documents in Auckland, and I also finalized my most ambitious plan yet—to formally apply for the 2024 Fulbright to come back and spend time back in Te Waipounamu for six months.  I made arrangements with colleagues at the University of Otago, applied, and held my breath.  We’ll see what happens.  If it works, I’ll get the last documents read in Dunedin, work on developing competency in te reo Māori (the Māori language), and teach an African history class.  I’ll be able to come back to another wonderful place that makes me feel like I’m home and can breathe once again.

When the time came, Rachel and Karen and David all saw me off to the airport.  “You’re family, and that’s what we do,” Karen said with a smile.  Te Wheke and I shuffled down to departing flights, and I cried a little.  I can’t wait to come back home again.  I’m so glad I got to breathe and recover, and find another space after so many years of exhaustion.  Sometimes an island is not a fantasy, but a place you can return to, over and over again, bringing something new each time.