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753398445a · 2 years ago

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"The reunion of Taylor with the Undersiders so soon after the betrayal reveal felt a little forced. I kinda expected her to strike off on her own for longer, but they seemed to reunite almost immediately." I could be wrong here, but I believe the time between when Taylor ran away at the hospital and when she rejoined the Undersiders was about as long as the period between when she first met them and the fight against Purity & co. in the wake of Coil doxxing them. Its just that one of these periods was 'onscreen' and one wasn't.

Also, you called Sierra Lisa several times.

"We see that Skidmark has gotten his hands on a Cauldron case. We’ve seen these vials pop up a few times, but they seem to be very tightly-controlled. I wonder where this case of vials came from?" Partial answers under the cut (includes a mix of my attempts at recalling relevant Word of God information and what was already stated in the text, but no info that will be told to you later in Worm):

Cauldron sold the case of vials to a parent to turn their (her?) kids and those kids' friends into an independent hero team. The almost-heroes were a group of Immaculata students (Immaculata is a private school in Brockton Bay, its been mentioned offhand once or twice by where you're at but not had plot relevance) who were not in contact with Cauldron, but the parent would have had influence over the team and Cauldron had influence over the parent so they would have unknowingly been in Cauldron's pocket. While looting in the wealthier part of town, some Merchants found the case of vials. Presumably if any of the intended recipients had been around they would have drank their vial before that happened so you can assume they all died in the endbringer attack.

As a sidenote, this group seems like great fanfiction fodder but to the best of my knowledge nobody has done anything of note with it.

Worm Reading - Arcs 10 and 11

So, I’m gonna be honest here: I have read way ahead of where my notes are. I’ve had a bunch of time to read recently but not much time to sit down and write up notes, and so I’m at Arc 10 in my notes but Arc 18 in my reading. Honestly I don’t think I’m going to have time to sit down and give every Arc a full post it deserves. With that in mind, I’m going to do a couple of combined posts to do a short catch-up to where I’m currently at.

I will say, I really enjoy answering questions and discussing storylines and characters and predictions/theories, so if there’s something I skim over that you’d like me to talk more about or if there’s a particular part you’d like to draw my attention to, please feel free to shoot me an ask! (no spoilers please)

Arc 10

This started out with the capture of Shadow Stalker, and the related reveal of Regent’s true power. At first I was confused on how he could operate both his body and his puppet at the same time, but over time it clicked that he can do that the same way that Skitter can control massive hordes of bugs with fine detail; it’s a side-bonus of his power that expands his mental capacity.

The Alec/Shadow Stalker interlude was so heavy and so good. Felt really nice to see Sophia actually get rocked finally, even if it required Alec going WAY over the line to do. I do note that Sophia could technically come back at some point, even if it seems as though she’d likely avoid that at any cost.

Honestly reading Alec’s Interlude the first time through was absolutely riveting and horrifying. That dude is so much more screwed up than he lets on. That said, I find it fascinating that despite how much of a sociopath he knows he is, he does consciously decide to keep hanging out with the Undersiders and going along with Taylor’s generally-altruistic plans. All of his interactions with his sister and the Slaughterhouse 9 hammered this home: he doesn’t really have any compunctions about being a selfish sociopathic asshole and hurting other people for his casual entertainment, but it feels to me like he’s realized on some level that he can use Taylor as a substitute moral compass, and that’ll keep him from going down the path of his father or sister or the Nine. It also feels to me like he’s intentionally not thinking about the fact that he’s doing this, because it doesn’t jive with the part of him that is a sociopathic monster.

The reunion of Taylor with the Undersiders so soon after the betrayal reveal felt a little forced. I kinda expected her to strike off on her own for longer, but they seemed to reunite almost immediately. Rachel’s anger and lashing out was tough to read, but that’s mostly just because I like Rachel.

We also see Imp in action for the first time! I will say when she first showed up during the Shadow Stalker capture, I was like “Who the heck is this??” I can honestly say I figured out who Imp was about 3 sentences before her identity was revealed, which isn’t much of an achievement. I find it super interesting how Imp and Grue’s powers achieve the same effect in different ways. Both of them focus on concealing themselves and hiding from the world around them, but Grue’s power does this actively and aggressively while Imp makes it so those around her forget she even exists. We’ve established that powers are in some way related the headspace a person is in when they have their trigger event, but in a lot of cases it’s a very tenuous connection. Imp, however, is one of the most direct-lines I can think of between the experience she lived and the power she obtained (even if it’s not what she would have wanted).

We get introduced to the idea of the Slaughterhouse 9 here, AND to the end-of-the-world problem!

We truly meet Dragon for the first time. I do still like her. She’s got a lot going on.

Arc 11

Oh we got to see the Skitter Lair for the first time! I really like Skitter’s new home, the mini-supervillain lair that Coil provides for her. Her theatrics with the terrarium lighting setup and the beetle-controlled switches speak to a little bit of a flair for the dramatic that she doesn’t acknowledge. In a different, more cartoon-y world I think it would have been awesome to see a fully-developed Skitter as a morally grey villain, her lair filled with creepy-crawlies and loyal minions by her side.

Speaking of loyal minions, we meet Lisa and Charlotte in this arc. They are fascinating characters, each getting pulled into helping Skitter run her territory without really intending to. I didn’t like Charlotte at first, but it is implied that she’s been shaped by some of what she’s gone to since things fell apart. I do find it interesting that she seems to be more ok with working under a nominal “villain.” Lisa on the other hand seems like a more competent administrator, and really does do a good job of running things and taking care of people when Skitter’s not around. But Lisa does get hung up on the Villain label, and it’s a shame.

Taylor really is good at taking care of her territory, better than any of the other local villains. Some of my favorite parts of this story are seeing her throw herself into taking care of the people in her territory.

This gets touched on a little bit later, but the whole fact that Taylor can administer her territory better than everyone else is a double-edged sword, because it relies on her being powerful enough to fight off encroachment: the rise of capes really does push humanity back to a might-makes-right system of rule. Have we ever truly escaped that? Maybe, maybe not, but we certainly have more veneer over it these days. The fact that Skitter has the power to rule her territory effectively is nice, but it relies on the people with the power being as caring as she is. Just like someone else says, what happens when someone like Hookwolf conquers territory?

Cool to see Tattletale’s different approach to operating her territory based on her powers.

Ugh. The Merchants. Basically the whole sequence with invading the Merchant jamboree is super skeevy, glad when that’s over. We never really get the chance to see much of Trainwreck as a character, but it is interesting to wonder what his experience was like as a mole for Coil within the Merchants. Was he the kind of person who was comfortable in that environment? Or was it a struggle for him to live like that, putting up with it for some personal motivation?

We see that Skidmark has gotten his hands on a Cauldron case. We’ve seen these vials pop up a few times, but they seem to be very tightly-controlled. I wonder where this case of vials came from?

As awful as Skidmark’s little meth-head wonderland setup is, it frankly is a pretty effective way to basically manufacture a small army of parahumans. In the hands of a better leader with a ruthless streak, it seems like this strategy could work so long as you can keep control of a growing band of people with powers (Jack Slash seems able to do this, but I doubt many others could).

This reminds me of my curiosity about what’s going on in the rest of the world. It’s been mentioned that third world countries have a higher incidence of trigger events. What is happening with this new tide of parahumans from conflict areas around the globe? Sadly many of them are probably meeting violent ends, but surely some of them choose to use their powers to escape, or in the case of the more villainous/deranged to spread the chaos that created them. It seems like this situation should be bubbling over and creating a pressing concern worldwide. I think this ties into some of the Cauldron talking points, but it’s only been mentioned peripherally.

We do start getting glimpses of the eldritch creatures again from being around others’ trigger events. Every time we see these it reinforces my conception of them as higher beings, strange and unknowable. What their intentions or grand effects are going to be on this world… still unknown. For people like Skidmark or Bonesaw, who have been around multiple trigger events, I wonder how close they are to putting together some sort of understanding?

Cool seeing Faultline’s crew in action. They honestly seem capable and like a pretty good bunch from what we saw from Gregor’s interlude.

#parahumans #Worm #worm web serial #parahumans spoilers #worm spoilers #fanfiction ideas #Tw: meth #tw: drugs #tw: violence #tw: death #tw: bugs

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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

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The Kids Aren't Alright

And in the end, I'd do it all again. I think you're my best friend

Summary: Set twenty-eight years after Call It What You Want To, Day Court Prince and Princess Ivy and Soren Spell-Cleaver are left to deal with consequences of their parents decisions.

Note: ACOTAR next-gen. Every odd chapter is Ivy, every even is Soren.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | AO3

Chapter 4: SOREN

“If you two don’t knock it off,” Soren hissed through his teeth, staring Sage and Sierra down, “I am going to make you both regret it.”

Sage jutted out her bottom lip.

“She started it.”

Sierra’s palms shot out, shoving Sage off the edge of the pool directly into it with a high-pitched, “You’re such a liar! A baby and a liar!”

“Cauldron boil me,” Soren grumbled. He yanked off the jacket his mother insisted he wear despite the absolute stifling heat and tossed it to one of the chairs lining the side of the water his sister was now flailing in, pretending she didn’t know how to swim.

“I’m telling your mother about this,” Soren warned. Sierra crossed her arms over her chest, green eyes flashing.

“She won’t care. She says Sage is spoiled and could use a little grit.”

Fucking Aunt Arina and her loud ass mouth. Two days. He merely needed to get through two more days and then he’d be freed of his cousins, of the other six courts, and the absolute chaos that had overtaken his life. As Soren dragged a screaming, writhing Sage from the pool, he found himself strangely resentful of the week.

It was supposed to be Ivy dealing with a snapping mating bond. Not him. And it was supposed to be Ivy who chafed, who worked through her complicated feelings. Not Soren. Soren was supposed to find himself in the city every single night, drowning any trouble he had in pussy and wine.

His mate was…not what he expected. She liked poison—not because she liked plants, but because she liked antidotes. If she liked anything else, Mei hadn’t said. She barely spoke to him at all, forcing Soren to hold whole conversations by himself while she watched him with unguarded suspicion.

It was weighing on him. His father wanted to discuss his own mating bond and how he and his mother had managed to overcome those barriers but fuck. His mother had been a human female shoved in a magical piece of cookware. She’d been young, traumatized. Gifted a mate when she didn’t know what it meant to be faerie. Soren didn’t blame her for needing a minute to figure it all out, and as far as he knew, neither had his father.

Mei wasn’t his mother. Mei had been born faerie and knew what a mating bond meant. Soren had no hope she’d accept it, and maybe selfishly, he almost hoped she wouldn’t.

That wasn’t entirely true. He wanted her to talk to him. He wanted to know if she was worth going to bed alone two nights alone. If she was worth trying over and over while she offered him nothing but the scent of her fear and uncertainty.

He rubbed at his jaw as he tossed Sage to the blue tiled patio. “Go change your clothes before father sees,” he ordered, rounding on Sierra.

“If I catch you putting your hands on anyone again, there will be hell to pay. Do you hear me?”

She opened her mouth to argue but Soren crouched. He was the fun one. The laid back one. If it had been Ivy with her finger in Sierra’s face, the girl wouldn’t have dared to offer a rebuttal. Ivy was busy, their fathers shadow like she always was in these functions. There wasn’t usually so much chaos, he reflected. The kids were getting older and testing out their court loyalties and their magic and they did it on each other.

“Or what?” Sierra dared to ask.

Soren leaned closer. “I'll tell you the date of your daddy’s death,” he hissed. It was a lie—Soren would never be so cruel. But Sierra’s eyes widened, the threat enough to put her back in line.

That was all he wanted.

Sierra scampered away, leaving Soren alone in the afternoon sun, shirtless and in pants, of all fucking things. He grabbed his jacket angrily, striding into the palace without bothering to put it back on. Who cared if he was bare chested? He’d been born naked, hadn’t he? He intended to die naked, too.

“Soren?”

He froze in his tracks. That same urge from the day he’d first seen Mei flared in his chest. Soren had to physically swallow in order to turn around and look at her. And fuck him, but Mei was still the most beautiful female he’d ever seen in his entire life. Mate or not, he was certain he’d have been panting after her had he ever seen her before.

“Mei,” he breathed, regretting his lack of jacket. He’d let his mom talk him into it when she’d sworn up and down a nice girl like Mei would want to see he could dress like a gentleman. He immediately slung it over his shoulders, trying to pretend he didn’t want her to see him half naked like this.

He could dress better if he had any sense of what she liked. Mei didn’t wear dresses—well-fitted pants and a pretty pastel shirt were her typical uniform. He liked it, though he didn’t dare tell her. Her long, dark hair hung in a silken sheet down her back and her pretty face was make-up less and glowing. He wondered if she even knew how lovely she was.

“You look…” she bit her bottom lip.

“Devilishly handsome?”

“Upset,” she disagreed. Ah.

“Just…my younger sister is difficult,” he confided. “Ten is a tough age.”

The metal hand clicked softly and like always, he wondered how she’d gotten it. Soren didn’t dare ask her. He knew his fathers was a source of insecurity and he guessed it might be the same for Mei. He wanted to know.

Soren wanted to know everything when it came to Mei.

Tell me why me. Why you? Why us?

“She was soaking wet,” Mei murmured, not coming an inch closer. He took that step, his fingers on the golden buttons of his jacket.

“Sierra shoved her in the pool.”

Mei’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“She says Sage lied about their argument. She’s probably right. Sierra’s not one to downplay her own mischief.”

“And Sage would?”

Soren exhaled softly. “Sage grew up in Ivy’s very long shadow. I think she doesn’t know where she fits…or how. So she acts out for attention and she tries to make herself seem sweet and soft and innocent.”

“But she’s not?”

“She’s a Spell-Cleaver,” he replied, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket casually. Like this conversation was of no importance to him. “And an Archeron. She is none of those things.”

“Oh,” Mei whispered. Soren swallowed his urge to snatch her, throw her over his shoulder, and tie her to his bed until she told him what she was thinking. He knew how this went. Oh meant conversation over. It meant Mei scurried off and he wouldn’t see her until one of them bumped into the other again. Courting her would have been easier if she’d let him court her. She retreated behind Thesan, who watched him with open suspicion that almost bordered on hatred. She was just barely fulfilling their end of the bargain and he resented that, too.

“Soren?” she said, catching him off guard. “Will you do something for me?”

And stupidly, Soren replied, “Anything.”

Her eyebrows shot upwards. “Can I poison you?”

Of all the things he’d expected to hear her say, that sentence was not one of them. Breathlessly, he replied, “What?”

“If my anti-dote doesn’t work, I have a vial of healing elixir—” blood, she was talking about blood— “So there’s no true danger.”

A wise male would have told her no. Would have said this was a stupid plan. Mei didn’t know how reckless he could be, how foolish and impulsive he often was. She wanted to poison him? All Soren heard was she wanted to spend time with him.

“Yeah,” he nodded, catching how her face radiated like sunlight after a storm. She smiled, nearly driving him to his knees. Did he miss fucking other females? Had he been resentful he was forced at her side? All that vanished in the wake of her obvious delight.

He’d pleased his mate.

“Come with me.”

Stupid, stupid Soren.

He would have gone anywhere with her.

MEI:

Soren Spell-Cleaver was in her bedroom. Mei still had the image of his chiseled, naked chest burned behind her eyelids as she led him in. His russet eyes swept the room curiously, but she’d barely unpacked. She was still trying to keep herself from turning on her heel and throwing herself into his arms. She’d heard the rumors about him.

His reputation with females.

He made her nervous. Not just because he was so absurdly handsome it made her body ache with want, but because at some point he was going to realize what a lousy hand he’d been dealt. Mei had spent the last few days watching the way females watched him. She’d listened to how they spoke of him, had seen their disdain when they realized he was stuck with her. Soren was too blinded by the mating bond to realize that Day Court’s prince should have been gifted a princess. Someone bright and lovely and effortlessly easy.

She was none of those things. They urge to shove him out of the room washed over her. He was going to figure her out. Mei dreaded that more than anything. It wouldn’t be her who rejected him but the other way around.

He smiled when he realized she was staring. Color flooded her cheeks and Mei dipped her head, embarrassed.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, his voice far too suggestive.

“Right here,” she managed, gesturing toward a chair by the open window. Soren strutted towards it, his eyes burning against her skin. He was so easy, so casual as he dropped into the chair.

“Do your worst,” he offered, so obviously hopeful.

Mei nodded, walking to her work table for the spray she’d created. “I know Spring Court thinks it must be faebane,” she began, shaking up the little bottle in her hand. His eyes fell on her golden hand, his amusement sliding into something darker. Something almost angry. She wondered if Thesan had told him, or if he had merely guessed it must have been violence.

Maybe the sight of it disgusts him.

“You don’t?” he questioned curiously. Mei wrinkled her nose.

“Would faebane stop you if you’re children were being threatened with fire?” she asked without thinking. A feral edge slid over his features, those eyes tracking her every breath.

“No,” he whispered.

Mei swallowed hard.

“We’re still stronger, still faster,” she continued, trying so hard to keep her tone light when his scent had so obviously shifted. “Even if you didn’t want to fight, you could still flee.”

The look on his face told Mei Soren would fight. Looking over his body, even covered in more clothes than she was accustomed to, he had the look of a warrior. She’d heard a rumor he trained with the Illyrians, though if that was true or not, she didn’t know. Didn’t dare ask, either.

“So what is this?” he asked warily.

“Just faebane aerosolized,” she replied before spraying four spritzes in his handsome face. Soren gagged, coughing loudly against the invasion. She didn’t risk warning him and letting him hold his breath. That would knock his magic out for the rest of the day—maybe even the next, too.

Soren looked up at her with wild eyes, gripping the edge of the chair hard enough the wood groaned beneath his fingers.

Mei just needed to see if it would keep him down.

“I’m thinking of reject—” she didn’t even get the words out before he was on his feet, pushing her up against the far wall with a speed that even she struggled to track. Soren ran his nose up her neck, inhaling roughly.

“Don’t,” he whispered, releasing her when he realized what he’d done. “Please.”

She looked up at him, eyes lingering on his full mouth. “Imagine if I’d been human,” she whispered, feeling only a little bad at the manipulation. “If I was a human threatening your family.” He took several stumbling steps backwards, running his hand through his thick curls. Soren stared, his horror at being told she might reject rapidly shifting. She braced herself for his anger, unprepared for what she’d actually see. Hurt. His whole expression crumpled when he realized she’d pulled that little string to manipulate him into coming after her.

She didn’t understand him. He’d been so feral when they’d first met and Mei had just assumed…Soren nodded his head, eyes glazing over.

“Glad I could help,” he said, clearing his throat. She felt awful. She’d hurt him. It had never crossed her mind that Soren was the sort of person who could be hurt. Not by her, anyway.

“I have an antidote,” she told him softly, unable to just say sorry. It felt all wrong in her mouth, besides. Soren remained silent as she crossed the room again, reaching for her tablet. Pacing back to him, heart pounding, Mei wondered if this counted as feeding him. She didn’t dare risk it and instead set it on a side table.

More hurt ghosted his expression, blinked away just like before. He took it, sliding it against his tongue while she watched. Wishing it had been her who’d done it. He shuddered–the taste was disgusting–before turning his hot gaze back against her.

“I’m sorry,” she rushed out. He cocked his head, more curls spilling against his forehead. He was so impossibly handsome, made worse by his obvious and overt attraction to her. Mei could barely breathe as he made his way towards her, halting when there was merely a breath of space between them.

“For what?” he whispered, his long fingers brushing a piece of her hair off her face. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

She wanted to tell him everything, in that moment. She wanted to tell him about being seventeen and in love for the first time. Wanted to tell him how that male had been nearly two hundred years old—not that it mattered to her. How much she’d wanted him, how Mei had given him everything, and it had never been enough. He took and took and took until she was a shell, too afraid to even smile lest it set him off.

She’d tried so hard to leave. Had fled to the northernmost territory—practically in Day, not that she’d known what was waiting for her back then. It never mattered. She’d always been dragged back, kicking and screaming and pleading. And the last time—oh, the last time. He’d been so certain she was leaving him for another male that he’d cut of her hand from her arm while he held her down, knees on her chest so she had to choose between trying to draw a breath and saving her limb.

Thesan had killed him for it. Mei’s screaming had woken the palace and no longer could their tumultuous relationship be ignored. She’d never told anyone that Thesan had offered mercy—if she wanted it. Mei could have spared his life and the High Lord would have granted it. It was a small token of power, her first choice she’d been allowed to make in five years.

Mei hadn’t flinched when the High Lord removed his head. She’d held his pleading gaze, her face stone. She didn’t regret it. Mei had loved him and only much later had she come to terms with the fact that he had never loved her. He only hoped to possess, to control, to own.

Soren’s thumb trailed over her bottom lip.

“Where did you go?” he whispered. She blinked.

“What?”

“I know that look,” he murmured, still holding her face with a gentleness that threatened to break her heart. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere I want to revisit,” she replied. She wasn’t ready to tell him yet. He was still a stranger, after all.

He lowered his mouth, his thumb and finger tilting her chin for a feather soft kiss. He smelled incredible—tropical and masculine, edged with the salt of his lust. She wanted him, even though she thought she probably shouldn’t. He wanted her, too, and who was she to argue with a prince?

Who was Mei—

Soren’s legs buckled. Those russet eyes widened before rolling upwards in his head. A strange, milky blue light replaced the once radiating daylight. She didn’t have time to catch him, so stunned by what she was seeing that she froze. Soren fell face first into the marble, hard enough his nose cracked, pouring blood even as he went utterly limp.

Mei screamed. What had she done? She ran to the door, unsure what to even do. What would the High Lord say when he realized her concoction had killed the Day Court prince? Mei took off running, slamming into Ivy just down the hall, lost in some serious conversation with her cousin Nyx.

Ivy caught her with warm hands.

“Soren—” Mei wept, tears sliding down her face. Ivy looked over her shoulder, as if she expected to see her brother. “He—”

“Where is he?” Ivy asked softly. She was too kind.

“I killed him,” Mei whispered. Nyx’s dark brows raised upwards, eyes sliding to Ivy.

“Show me,” she murmured, taking Mei’s hand. Mei’s heart pounded as she all but ran Ivy back down the hall. Soren was still face down in a pool of blood, still so, so still.

Nyx sighed softly as Ivy made her way to him, the green of her dress sliding against his blood. She pulled her brother upwards, revealing the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Help me get him on the bed,” she told her cousin with a gentleness that told Mei this wasn’t the first time she’d found him like this. Nyx stepped carefully past Ivy, adjusting the sleeves of his black jacket to help haul Soren’s large body onto Mei’s bed.

“What’s happening?” she asked, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. Ivy looked over sympathetically.

“A vision,” she replied, smoothing curls from Soren’s face. “They don’t normally come like this, but they used to when we were little. He didn’t have as good of control back then.”

Nyx peered over his cousin, a strand of thick, dark hair flopping in his eyes. He looked up at Ivy, who nodded.

“Tell me,” she whispered. Nyx’s jammed his hands into his pockets, staring intently down at his cousin while Ivy sat on the edge of the bed.

“What happened?” she asked Mei, her voice free of judgment.

Mei wondered if it wasn’t his magic returning after being suppressed by faebane that had brought this on. Before she could tell Ivy, Soren took a gasping breath, swinging at Nyx overhead.

“Get out of my fucking head,” he mumbled as Nyx jumped back, his wings flaring in alarm. “Don’t look at that.”

“Look at what?” Ivy demanded, arms crossed over her chest. Both Soren and Nyx winced.

“Just…” Nyx’s brown cheeks colored almost red with embarrassment.

Soren held her gaze for a moment. “Mating ceremony.”

Ivy’s eyes widened, sliding to Mei, who was still crying, still gripping the bedpost to keep herself upright.

“Oh,” she whispered.

“Get out of here,” Soren demanded, rising up on his elbows with another wince of pain. Ivy stayed on the bed, fingers hovering in front of his face.

“Your nose is broken,” she told him. “Want me to set it.”

He set his lips in a thin line. “Do it.”

Mei turned just in time to hear the crunch as she pushed it back into place, punctuated by Soren’s grunt of pain.

“Good as new, cousin,” Nyx praised, still a little too pale, a little too embarrassed, to be as casual as he was trying to project. He didn’t look at Ivy when she crossed the room, her hand sliding over Mei’s shoulder as she went. She paused in the doorway to look at her brother.

“Behave yourself,” she warned before closing it behind her. Soren scowled.

“Behave yourself,” he mimicked, looking over at her. “Come here.”

“Did you really see our mating ceremony?” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her chest. If he had, what was the point in fighting? She might as well feed him right then and there if the future was so set in stone. If—

He scoffed. “Not ours. Ivy’s.” His mouth pulled in a deep frown. “Nyx interrupted something bigger with his meddling…”

“Ivy has a mate?” Mei dared to ask, creeping closer. “Who?”

Soren smiled. “Fuck, Nyx knows now. I’ve been keeping it a secret for a long time…and Nyx has a big ass mouth.”

She came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Who is it?”

“Swear you won’t tell,” he murmured, unaware of the strange, squirming excitement she felt at having some little secret between them.

“I swear,” she promised, putting her hand on the bed just beside his own. She was too chicken to touch him.

“It’s Alexander from Spring. They’ve been dancing around each other for years. Something else is happening,” he added, some of his amusement fading. “But I don’t know if I have a right to go searching for it.”

“Why not?”

He sighed, taking her hand in his own and pressing it to his chest. Mei could feel his pounding heart through his jacket. “Well…I don’t enjoy seeing my sister compromised, first of all. But secondly, the future is fluid. It’s in motion, undecided. I get pieces, usually, unless something has been concretely decided or is so unmovable it can’t be changed. Ivy’s mate can’t be changed, so I can see who he is, and her accepting it is a given thing. But other things…” he sucked in a breath of air. “You can make things a lot worse if you’re not careful.”

Mei shuddered. “That sounds like a terrible burden.”

Soren kissed her palm softly. “It is. No one sees that. But it is.”

SOREN:

“You know what we should do?” Nyx’s voice cut through Soren’s daydreaming. His cousin was a menace on a good day and today seemed to be proving himself every inch the Lord of Nightmares. He’d seen that vision of Ivy and Alexander in the woods, kissing frantically. A vision Soren would have preferred never to have had, made worse that now Nyx knew his cousin had a mate.

And not just any mate. The heir to the Spring Court. Nyx lacked vital context that Soren was disinclined to share, given it wasn’t his fucking business. He loved his cousin, though if he were truly honest, he would have said he preferred Selene to Nyx. She was less of a busybody…mostly because she was nine years old.

Ivy was seated across from him examining her nails. She hadn’t looked at Alexander once, who, as far as Soren could tell, hadn’t looked at her either. It was clearly irking Nyx.

“No one cares what you think,” Violette chimed from across the table. She stared him down with her icy, pale eyes. Waiting for him to contradict her. Finn chuckled while his pretty, blonde sister Saoirse looked over at the Winter princess, unaware of how the shadowsinger’s son was watching her with suspicious eyes. No one in Night liked anyone in Spring, though how Auden could dislike Saoirse, Soren couldn’t say. She was nice. Nicer than anyone at that table, at any rate.

In a rare moment of not needing the last word, Nyx ignored Violette entirely. “We should go out to the islands—”

“Ugh,” Ivy interrupted, rising from her chair. “What happened to sleep?”

“Are you getting much of that these days?” Nyx asked, his voice silky smooth. Soren was going to murder him. He was going to tell Ivy and she’d avoid Alexander like the plague, thwarting any chance at being actually happy. All over a stupid fucking conflict three decades before. Soren dropped the barrier in his mind.

If you tell her, I’m going to tell you when your mother dies.

It was his favorite threat. Nyx flinched when he heard it, eyes sliding to Soren.

Stay out of this.

Nyx frowned, unaware Ivy had responded. Soren just barely heard it, too.

She could do better than that brute. You’re going to let him drag her off to Spring? After what his father did to my mother?

Soren snarled, rising from his chair.

“Not everything is about you,” he warned, an uncharacteristic outburst. Nyx stood, flaring out his wings threateningly. Who would win, he wondered? Nyx had his parents' combined power, was set to take their throne. He trained far harder than Soren ever had and still they were both princess of their respective courts. Soren could anticipate every move Nyx might make ahead of time and wear him down to dust.

“If it were my sister—”

“Maybe it will be,” Soren interrupted furiously. “And you’d still have no right to intervene. Stay out of it.”

“Stay out of what?” Ivy interrupted softly, dragging Soren and Nyx back to the present. The entire table was staring at them with curious eyes. Begging Nyx to let them in on this fight. It was unusual to see Soren angrier, and more unusual still to see him pick a fight with a family member.

“Maybe we should leave,” Saoirse murmured, pulling at Finn’s arm.

“I want to hear this,” Finn replied.

“There’s nothing to hear,” Nyx snapped, stepping around his chair angrily. Ivy was staring at Soren with those clever eyes—their fathers eyes, while Nyx stormed from the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

“What was—”

“Mind your own business, Ivy,” Soren snapped, chasing down his cousin before he did something stupid…like track down the prince of Spring and fight him over a bond Alexander likely didn’t even know he had. It would be a terrible way to inform them both.

Soren caught Nyx on the outdoor terrace, grabbing his cousin’s arm roughly. “You need to keep this to yourself.”

“Does she reject it, at least?” Nyx asked, eyes searching. Soren only shrugged, though he knew Ivy wouldn’t. Alexander would make her happy, something Nyx could never understand. His mother had every right to hate Tamlin and the Spring Court but Soren’s father had lived there—had been friends with their High Lord, for a time. They hadn’t grown up the same.

“Would you reject a mating bond?”

“I would if it was with a Spring Court princess—”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Soren breathed. “And you know it.”

“Why do you care what Ivy does?” Soren asked, facing off with his cousin. Night kissed power punched into Soren’s gut, pushing him back several paces.

“She’s going to be High Lady,” Nyx whispered softly. “Is she not? Or is she giving it up for you?”

Soren didn’t know why that made him snap. He didn’t mean to slam into his cousin, head butting him so hard in the chest that Nyx toppled backwards. It was, perhaps, the sneering assertion that Soren wasn’t worthy of ruling. Of the assumption that of course he’d never sit on that throne. And Soren would have sworn up and down he’d never wanted that kind of power. That Ivy had taken that burden off his shoulders so he could have fun…and yet Ivy had never made him feel lesser because she was presumed heir and not him.

Nyx, though. Nyx knew exactly how to get beneath his skin. Nyx, who was so fucking smug, who thought he knew best. Who had been born, much like Soren’s sister, to rule. Spoiled, pampered—favorite.

Soren’s fist collided with Nyx’s jaw as the realization swept over him. Nyx and Ivy were the favorite. And he…he was just extra. The person who could take over if Ivy did decide she wanted to go to Spring.

Nyx had Soren on his back in six seconds flat, pummeling him viciously. “You’re a shitty brother—”

“That’s enough!” a snarling voice cut through their furious fist fight. Alexander had come with Finn, Saoirse, and Aine, likely to retire for the night. Rough hands yanked Nyx back, tossing him off Soren without holding Nyx for even a second. Alexander knew better than to pick that fight.

Nyx did not.

He rounded on Alexander as Soren scrambled to his feet, pushing his magic into Alexander so violently Alexander’s massive body went flying through a glass door. It shattered upon the impact, spraying glass shards at the young Spring Court princesses.

Auden caught Saoirse, mere footsteps away from his friend, and spun her away from the blast. His wings flared outwards, catching the worst of the blast though Aine was not so fortunate. Glass cut over her cherub’s cheeks, undefended when Finn had lunged for his elder brother. She looked up at Nyx, her round green eyes filling with water.

Alexander roared with fury. Gone was the placid male that kept out of their way, replaced with a terrible, golden furred beast snapping his teeth in rage.

Aine burst into tears at the sight, just in time for both Ivy, Sage, and Violette to stride onto the scene. Ivy looked around, her sharp eyes falling on the scattered glass, of Alexander’s form and Nyx and Soren’s bleeding faces.

“Pathetic,” she said, her voice soft and filled with condemnation. Sage trailed after Ivy, who reached for Aine’s cut face before scooping her up like she was a little toddler. “All of you are pathetic.”

Soren looked up at the vaulted ceiling, his sister's words settling into his stomach like a stone.

He certainly felt like it.

MEI:

She knew it was a mistake, creeping through the Day Court palace in the middle of the night. All anyone was talking about was the fight between Day and Night and Spring—Soren, Nyx, and Alexander. Mei had no business interfering and she knew it, and even less slipping into the prince's bedroom. Not when he had the reputation he did, and not when the bond between them seemed to be riding him so much harder.

And yet there she was. Facing him down when she slid into his unlocked room. Soren was propped up in bed, white sheets tangled around his powerful legs. If he’d been fighting, he hadn’t been hit badly. There were no bruises on his beautiful face, no blood or swelling.

He cocked his head. “Have you come to fuss over me?”

She flushed. “I uh…thought maybe you’d need…” Mei felt foolish. Silly, admitting she’d just wanted to make sure he was okay. “I should go.”

He shook his head back and forth, curls flopping into his russet eyes. “I’d rather you stay.”

Mei looked over his muscled form, a new, more terrifying though creeping through her mind.

“Are you dressed?” she whispered. His lips curled into a smile.

“In my own bed?”

“Then I shouldn’t—”

“Of course you should,” he interrupted smoothly. “I want you to.”

And she knew he did. Mei could scent his want just as surely as she could feel her own. Had she met him years before, she thought she would have jumped at the chance to have him. To accept the bond between them and climb into that bed. She’d been different back then. More trusting, certainly.

She hesitated and he caught it. Soren leaned forward, his lower half still covered by that blanket. Every inch of her wanted to see it fall away, if only just to know. Mei tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She needed to leave. He was okay and she needed to go.

“If I put on pants, will you get in my bed?” he murmured. She blinked. She hadn’t expected him to compromise with her.

“I uh…” she didn’t know how to get a coherent word out.

“I won’t touch you unless you ask me to,” he promised softly. “But I would like to be near you…if that's what you want, too?”

And she did. She wanted it so badly it made her whole body ache. Just his mere presence set her blood aflame. Denying the bond between them was a herculean task when instinct begged her to just give in. He belonged to her. Beautiful, lovely Soren—it hardly seemed possible.

She nodded her head and he smiled, pushing errant curls off his face.

“Turn around,” he told her, waiting until she presented her back before getting up. She knew other males would have flung off that sheet, forcing her to drink him in. Mei was certain that every single inch of him was glorious and he knew it. She listened to the sound of him shuffling through the room, trying so hard not to picture what might be hanging between his legs.

Then, he was coming towards her. She felt his fingers skim oh so lightly against her arms. “I put a shirt on, too,” he told her before she turned, her heart thumping erratically. “Hoping to convince you to stay the night.”

He’d have to put a bag over his face, then. That was the real problem. Soren was too beautiful for words, so handsome she didn’t know what to make of him. Mei turned, looking up into his russet eyes practically burning with flame.

“Do you have Autumn’s magic?” she asked, blurting out one of her many, many questions.

His face split into an easy smile. “A little,” he admitted. “Don’t tell the High Lord or he’ll make me train with his soldiers.”

Soren held out his broad, strong hand and with a little twitch of his long fingers, flame ignited against his skin.

“You don’t want to train?” she asked, watching that fire vanish in a flicker of smoke.

Soren chuckled. “Not unless I have to.”

“But you have trained?” she pressed. She wanted to know everything about the unusual Day Court twins. They were connected to nearly every court in Prythian in a way no one else was and the inherent privilege that came with that was something she noticed irked the others. Ivy was treated like Prythian’s High Queen for all the deference Day, Night, Spring and Autumn seemed to pay her.

And Soren, she supposed, was the emissary between them. Thesan had done a good job keeping the Spell-Cleavers out—he didn’t want to be an extension of their court. Mei wondered if he’d let Soren in earlier, if she would have been spared her ordeal with her former lover.

“Yes,” he agreed, stepping back towards his bed with hopeful eyes. “With my father first, and then my uncles in Night.”

“Are you any good?”

He smiled again, climbing back beneath the sheets. Draped in a breezy white shirt and matching loose, linen pants, Mei was suddenly overwhelmingly disappointed she couldn’t see the bronzed musculature of his chest or thighs.

“Do you intend to duel me?”

She inched forward until she was at the edge of his large bed. It smelled like him—masculine and warm and strangely tropical. “I don’t know how to fight.”

He raised his brows. “Do you want to learn?”

She watched as he reached one of his long arms towards the bedside table and procured a dagger from the top drawer. Flipping it in the air, he caught it easily by the blade, offering the golden hilt. Mei swallowed, reaching for the carved handle bedecked in red and yellow gems.

“You sleep with a dagger?”

“There are enough lords in this court that would see my sister and I dead,” he replied casually. “I like to be prepared for that eventuality.”

“Your own court wants to see you dead?” she murmured, daring to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Well, Ivy really. I think they’d be fine if I took her place.”

“Because you’re male?”

He nodded. “Because I’m male.”

Poor Ivy.

“Will you come closer?” Soren murmured, pulling Mei out of her thoughts. She did as he asked, sitting fully on the bed, though there was still a respectable amount of distance between them, though it wasn’t helping at all.

“I don’t bite,” he said, flashing a grin that told her he very much would, if she asked. Still, she scooted until her thigh was pressed against his own. Soren sighed, reclining an arm behind his head so she could admire his bicep without being so blatant.

“Tell me about yourself,” he murmured. “All we do is talk about my family—about me. Tell me about you.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she told him quickly. He’d back off if he ever learned how damaged she was. Surely the prince of Day Court could do better than her.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

His other hand laced through her golden fingers, catching her off guard. Soren brought it towards his face, she thought to inspect. Mei started to pull back but he merely kissed her knuckles, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment.

“My father has an eye from Dawn,” he murmured, his lips still pressed to that limb. She could feel it like a phantom—not quite a touch, but almost, like a memory just out of reach. Soren held it against his chest, thumb stroking gently. “It was ripped from his face.”

“I’ve heard the story,” she admitted.

His jaw flexed. “The—” he halted, and she waited, heart pounding, for him to just ask. “The person who caused this…are they still alive?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he continued, eyes sliding to her face. And she did—oh, how Mei wanted to tell him everything. She didn’t dare. His anger was enough. Mei came closer, daring to rest her head against the hard plain of his chest.

“No…but if he was alive…” she drew a shaky breath. “If he was still alive…what would you do?”

“He?” Soren questioned, his voice soft and lethal. “Is he dead, Mei?”

“Yes.”

“Swear it?”

“I swear it.”

He relaxed, but only slightly. She could feel him vibrating, his body utterly taut with anger. She knew what he was imagining. It felt good to have him angry on her behalf in a way she couldn’t explain. She buried her face into the cloth of his shirt, inhaling his scent.

“I would give Thesan a reason to haul me before a tribunal,” he murmured, his nose sliding through her hair. “I’d paint his court red with blood.”

She shivered. “For me?”

“For you,” he agreed, his other hand reaching for her face to tilt it upwards. His thumb stroked over her cheek, holding her for a moment. “Do not doubt the things I might do for you.”

She let him brush his fingers over her lips, drinking in the musky scent of his arousal. She wanted to stay, to give in and knew it was a mistake. She’d have food down his throat in six seconds flat if she ever found herself beneath his naked form.

She wondered if he knew it.

Mei pushed upwards, halting only when his hand wrapped around her wrist. “Stay,” he urged. “Nothing has to happen.”

He was such a liar and they both knew it. All she wanted was to touch him, to taste the salt on his skin. To know what he sounded like when he came.

To please him.

“I can’t,” she admitted, well aware he was drinking in her own arousal. Soren’s eyes were impossibly dark, ringed with the most vibrant shade of gold she’d ever seen. She tried to tug from his grasp and he growled, though he let her go all the same.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her as she scurried for the door.

Mei glanced over her shoulder, nodding. “I know.”

“I’ll wait—forever, if I have to.”

She’d be lucky if they waited a week.

But oh, how it felt good to hear just the same.

#ivy x alex #soren x mei #sorry im too tired to keep writing tonight #so accept this as an apology

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purpledragongaming · 3 years ago

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Hey there, y’all! I’m going to kick this blog off with a little bit of info about me. My name’s Miranda and I’m what you’d call a ‘casual gamer.’ I play all kinds of things, but what I play and how I play is based purely on personal enjoyment. I’m not a competitive person, by any means, and I’m just as likely to play a Hidden Object game as I am to play an MMO. My very first computer games came as part of a package on my parents’ Tandy 1000. I was no older than 3 or 4 and I LOVED the drawing program, which was a bit like a digital Etch-a-Sketch, but you could change the color you were using as you went.

We were never without a computer in my house from that point onward, and it wasn’t long before my parents started buying actual games to play. I quickly became a fan of Sierra Online, and cut my ‘baby gamer’ teeth on classics such as Winnie the Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood, The Black Cauldron, and Donald Duck’s Playground. ;) When I got old enough to read/comprehend, I also enjoyed a handful of text-based games, my favorite probably being The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, though I vaguely recall playing the first Zork game and another fantasy game that my mom checked out from the library, but I could never beat before we had to return it. >.< LOL!

Anyway, this is all to say, that I’ve been enjoying various kinds of games for my whole life. I play a game for one of two reasons (usually) - story and/or art style. My tastes haven’t changed over the years, but I feel that they’ve broadened. This new blog is a way for me to share some of the things I experience in the games I play. Maybe it’s a cool landscape, or a favorite scene, or an awesome creation that some other user has set up for the enjoyment of others - whatever it is, it’s something that I think is worth sharing.

All of that said, I don’t expect this blog to get a lot of traction. I kind of view it as more of a personal photo album of gaming memories. If you happen across something you see and like, please feel free to reblog it. ^_^ I would ask, however, that you keep any negative opinions to yourself. If you don’t like the game, or the company or any of the people involved with the making of said games, or whatever else - don’t voice your negativity here. That isn’t what this blog is about for me, and I’m not above blocking people in order to keep my blog free of those kinds of attitudes.

Right then, now that that’s all said and done - I’m going to start this blog off by reblogging a bunch of screencaps and gifs I originally made and posted on my personal blog and from my gif blog. From there I’ll start adding new things. I’ll do my best to keep things tagged well for searching purposes, but if you think a different or new tag is needed, just ask and I’ll see what I can do. I’m also happy to chat about games via the Ask and Submit features, so feel free to ask questions - but again, please avoid negativity. It’s okay, if you didn’t like a game (all of our tastes are different, after all) and you can say as much and ask me why I DID like something, but please don’t trash talk anything. ‘I didn’t like that game because the graphics were outdated and the story was weak’ is very different from ‘THAT GAME SUCKED BALLZ!’ ;)

So, there we are, then. Enjoy the blog and happy gaming!

#intro

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unrighteousbooks · 4 years ago

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By the Prickling of My Thumbs

This happened about 10 years ago. I try not to think about it, because thinking about it keeps it fresh in my mind, and I need it to be hazy. Maybe if I tell you this story you'll say: That had to be a dream. Maybe you'll convince me.

But I know I wasn't a dream.

I spent a lot of time in bookstores back then. I still do, but after this happened, it was a very long time before I went into a bookstore at night. And to this day, I still won't go into an empty cafe. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

At the time I was doing technical writing as a consultant, and I'd been assigned to a project at an engineering firm about a mile from my home. It was October, and I'd been working late nearly every night. When the weather was good, I'd walk home, and sometimes I'd take different routes. I felt like I didn't have any time to myself, and walking gave me a little time to unwind. Now and then I'd detour down a side street, just because it bought me another five or ten minutes alone. One night, during one of those detours, I happened to pass a little bookshop. They had a display set up in the front window: Big stacks of books with brown and black and orange covers, some pumpkins, a cauldron and a witch's hat. They had one of those big paper skeletons, too, about five feet tall... the ones printed on heavy card stock, with little rivets connecting the joints, so that you could swing the arms and legs into different positions. Very retro. I was sure that I'd been down that street before, and I felt like I'd surely gone past the store before, but I'd never noticed it. It was close to 9, and I was surprised that they were still open. I knew I ought be getting home, but I decided it was worth a quick look, even though they'd probably kick me out after five or ten minutes to close up shop.

I pulled the door open and when I did I remember hearing a bell. This wasn't an electronic chime like so many places have now. It was an actual, old-fashioned brass bell that rang when the door swung open. As I went inside, my first thought was that it was heaven. Book heaven. It was exactly the kind of shop I loved. There were rows and rows of tall wooden bookcases. There were overstuffed armchairs here and there, each with a little table and a reading lamp next to it. The floor was made of wood, and you could tell that it had been there for at least a century. There were places where newer boards had been patched in, and here and there they had patched small holes with little pieces of sheet metal. It had that rundown charm that suits a bookstore perfectly.

And obviously, there were books. Books everywhere, overflowing from the shelves. Beautiful old books. Not a new book anywhere in sight, and for some reason that always appeals to me. Books stacked in the corners and piled high on practically every flat surface.

I didn't see anyone else around, but that didn't strike me as particularly odd. That was the point of the bell on the door, right? And I knew that if it were my shop, I wouldn't sit up by the front counter. I'd curl up in one of those chairs, and I'd read book after book after book.

I wandered around a bit. Near the back of the store I found a huge stack of vintage paperbacks, and I started sorting through them. About halfway down the stack I came across an old copy of a Ray Bradbury book -- Something Wicked This Way Comes -- and realized that it was exactly the same edition I'd had when I was young. It brought back so many memories: Hot summer nights with the window of my room open and crickets chirping outside. Lying on top of my bed with my head propped up against my pillow, and the little lamp on my nightstand was the only light on in the entire house. I remember wanting the book to last forever and wanting the night to last forever.

I was standing there, holding the book, staring at the cover and reliving those memories, and suddenly I heard a woman's voice, whispering in my ear:

"By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

Holy hell, it startled me so badly that I actually dropped the book. I don't know where she came from. I hadn't seen her and hadn't heard her and then suddenly she was right there.

And then I turned and saw her.

My god, she was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, an athletic build. Wire-rimmed glasses and a little black dress. Stylish, but stylish in a way that seemed effortless. And she was holding a book.

She looked down at the book I'd just dropped, and when she spoke she had a voice like honey. "Look at us. We're both wicked." And then she held up her book: Macbeth. It took a second for it to register, but then I realized the title of Bradbury's book -- "something wicked this way comes" -- was from Macbeth. The witches around the cauldron.

I wanted to say something clever. Or at least something not completely stupid, since I'd already embarrassed myself. But all I could think of was, "Do all the wicked readers congregate here?"

She tilted her head to the side, and she was smiling. "Certainly not all of them," she answered. "There wouldn't be room."

She was still right by my side. Obviously I don't mind being next to a beautiful woman, but she was a little too close. I took at step back and then said, "This is an amazing shop, isn't it?"

She ignored my remark and looked down at the book. "Aren't you going to pick that up?" I immediately knelt to retrieve it, then stood up promptly. This seemed to please her, as if she'd just confirmed that she could easily make me do whatever she instructed. The way she smiled and the way she watched me was intoxicating. "You love books, don't you?" she asked.

"I do," I answered.

She was still holding Macbeth, closed, with her left hand beneath the spine. She opened her hand slightly and ran the thumb of her right hand along the edge of the pages, causing the book to start to spread open, but only slightly. As she did, she spoke softly, as if choosing each word with great care. "So many mysteries." As the pages began to part, she placed the middle finger of her right hand against the gap. "So many secrets..." She slowly pushed her finger into the narrow opening. "...inside."

I don't know how to describe what I felt at that moment. Or maybe I know exactly how to describe it, but would rather not.

Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and yet there was something forceful in her tone: "There are people who burn books. There are books that are forbidden. Can you imagine that? Doesn't it make you wonder what's inside the book? Doesn't it make you want it so much more, knowing that you can't have it?" She looked up from the book, but kept her head tilted down slightly, so that she was looking over her glasses, rather than through them.

How can I describe that moment? The common phrase -- eye contact -- is so terribly inadequate. She held my gaze: Held it, made it her captive. Made me her captive. I couldn't look away.

She asked again: "How badly do you want it?"

I admitted the truth. "Very badly."

She put Macbeth down on the nearest shelf. I was still holding the Bradbury book. She reached out with her right hand and placed it on the cover, next to mine. Slowly she ran hand across the cover, letting her fingertips brush across my fingers, my hands, over the bare skin on my wrist, and then up my arm. It was electrifying.

"How do you feel," she asked, "once you've had the forbidden things? What then?"

She was still looking at my eyes, and I knew that she wanted an answer. "Not all the forbidden things are the same," I replied.

She nodded slightly, as if she approved of my answer. I felt her hand close around my wrist, and then, with her other hand, she took the book from me and set it down.

Her voice was still very low, and she spoke slowly. "What if I told you that it was forbidden to tell you my name?"

"Then I would ask you: What is your name?"

"Don't you think I would lie to protect my secrets? That I would make up a name?"

"That would be up to you."

"If it were forbidden," she said, "then certainly I'd lie to you at first. I would make up names that sounded intriguing. A little unusual."

"What is your name?"

"Mara," she said. Then she brought her lips to my ear and whispered, "I'm lying." She drew back slightly. "My name is Rubi." Then she paused and added, "Or perhaps it isn't. Perhaps it's Stephanie. Or possibly Sierra. Or some other name that you won't remember."

I should have known then that something was very wrong. Those names, the first few names should have been enough to warn me, but I wasn't thinking. I was looking at her eyes, such dark eyes, and I wasn't thinking.

"I won't ask your name," she whispered. "But if you really want to know mine, I'll tell you. Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"My name is Luci," she said. "Luci Black. Luci, Princess of Darkness." She took hold of my hand and turned it, palm up, and with a feather's touch she ran her fingers across the lines in my palm. "Do you know that I told you the truth just now? I wonder why I did that."

"Do you make it a habit to lie?"

"I make it a habit to not have habits," she said. "Habits are dull. Doing the same thing over and over is pointless, don't you think? Life is about new things. New experiences. Different experiences."

I wanted to answer her, but I didn't get the chance. She placed both of her hands around my hand and pushed her thumbs into the center of my palm. She leaned forward cautiously, and tilted her head as if to kiss me. And I wanted her to. Oh, god, how I wanted her to kiss me. She let her cheek brush against mine. She squeezed my hand and, with her cheek against mine, she whispered: "By the prickling of my thumbs..." She pressed her body against mine. "Something wicked this way..."

The last word, the unsaid word, lingered like electricity in the air in the last moments before a thunderstorm, until she whispered it so softly: "...comes." Then the lightning struck: her arms were suddenly around me and she kissed me hungrily. I felt it, the hunger from deep inside her and deep inside me. A kiss like the witches' brew, toil and trouble and fire burning. I felt a moment of absolute bliss. She pulled away from me and whispered: "You're wicked. I can taste it on your lips." Then she kissed me again, a long delicate kiss until suddenly I felt her teeth on my lower lip, biting down slowly. Hard. Too hard. I put my hands on her waist to push her away, but she opened her mouth and pressed her lips to my ear. "You're very wicked," she said. And then she looked me in the eyes and whispered, in a taunting voice. "Wicked," she said, "and unfaithful. There are others, aren't there? Other women. I can taste them on your lips. I can taste their innocence. The traces of everything that you devoured."

She took a step back and tilted her head to one side, looking at me carefully, as if she were evaluating me. "Both of us, wicked," she said. "Which one of us will devour the other?"

I don't know how to describe what I felt. My heart was racing. Fire and ice at the same time: I was burning up and yet there was an unsettling chill racing down my spine.

Then, without another word, she turned suddenly and walked away quickly between the rows of tall bookcases. She turned the corner and disappeared from view.

I wanted to run after her. Didn't I want that? Yes. No. Yes. "Please wait!" I tried to strip the emotion from my voice, because I wanted to sound unfazed, but I know I failed. I took a step to follow her and carelessly kicked over the stack of old paperbacks. I gathered them quickly just as I heard the chime of the bell on the front door.

By the time I reached the door she was gone. I stepped outside and saw a figure hurrying away through the street. I started to follow but realized that it wasn't her.

I stopped in the middle of the street and realized that I was shaking. I took a deep breath, turned around, and started walking back toward the store. As I did, the lights inside blinked out.

Closed.

I stood there for a moment longer. I knew that I should forget about it. Forget about her. But I knew I wouldn't. I knew I would come back the next night, looking for her.

* * * * *

There was no reason to believe I'd see her again. All day long I kept thinking about her. I made sure to leave work a little earlier that night, thinking I'd have a better chance of meeting her. I told myself that if she wasn't there, that would be fine: After all, even if she wasn't there, the books would be.

The night before, I hadn't given much thought to the path I'd taken on the way home, and I soon realized that I wasn't sure which street the store was on. I took a wrong turn, then another. Somehow, even though I prided myself on a good sense of direction, I'd gotten turned around. For a moment, I started to think that I was genuinely lost, even though I knew I couldn't possibly be far from home. To try to get my bearings, I turned another corner. As soon as I did, I saw the shop ahead of me, half a block away.

I'd like to be able to say that I had a sense of foreboding as I started to approach the store. That would make it seem as if I were slightly less foolish. I should have known that something wasn't right. The truth, however, is that I was thinking about only one thing: I'd met a beautiful woman, and I wanted to meet her again.

When I opened the door I felt as if I'd stepped back in time. But how far back? To the previous night? Twenty years? Fifty years? I only know that I felt as if I were suddenly somewhere else entirely. The sound of the little brass bell, the rows and rows of books, the smell of the place... they all belonged to another time. An ancient brass cash register -- surely just for show -- sat on counter to the left of the door, but was unattended. The store looked empty. In fact, the store felt empty.

I walked back toward the spot where I'd found the old Bradbury paperback the night before. The stack of paperbacks was gone, probably carefully sorted and tucked away in their proper places. I stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, waiting for something. She wouldn't be back. Of course she wouldn't. It didn't matter anyway, did it? It was nothing: A kiss from a stranger in a strange place on a strange night. It didn't matter.

I shut my eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of old books. I told myself that when I opened my eyes I would look at the books surrounding me and appreciate them for what they were. The truth is, however, that I believed if I closed my eyes she might suddenly be there, whispering in my ear, and I would open my eyes to find her standing next to me.

When I opened my eyes, of course she was not there.

I walked back to the front of the shop. I paused for a moment, looking at the display in the front window, and realized that it had been created with a great deal of thought: Although it was clearly intended to attract the attention of anyone outside the shop, it was equally arresting from inside. The paper skeleton, the pumpkins, the carefully-chosen books with their autumn-themed colors had all been arranged in such a way that they could also be appreciated from within the store.

I began working my way through the aisles, looking for anything unique or unusual. The front section was mostly very old books from the 19th and early 20th century. That struck me as slightly odd; most stores put more recent books and popular books at the front, and kept the obscure antiquarian fare at the back. The condition of the books, too, was surprising. They showed relatively little wear, and I wondered if the bulk of them had come from a single source. An auction or estate sale from a dedicated collector, perhaps?

One other thing seemed strange. Many of the books were no doubt quite valuable, and yet there seemed to be no one minding the store. Probably, I thought, it was an illusion that the owner had cultivated deliberately. The antique cash register, the old books, the old bell on the door: It was all intended to evoke a simpler time, but there were probably cameras monitoring every inch of floor space, RF scanners concealed somewhere near the door, and an iPad with a card reader under the counter. And although I couldn't see anyone else, there was a closed door near the counter, and light streamed out from the crack at the bottom of the door. An office, perhaps, with the owner relaxing inside?

I knew it was getting late, but didn't want to leave. I was still hoping that Luci might show up again. Luci: for whatever reason, I had suddenly decided that she had been telling the truth when she said her name was Luci Black.

I tried to focus my attention on the books. Near the back of the store, an old volume caught my eye: Stories of Strange Women. I pulled it down from the shelf. The cover showed a forest nymph, unclothed, but covering herself modestly. I made my way to the end of the aisle, where a pair of armchairs flanked a small table beneath the warm glow of a Tiffany lamp. I sat down and opened the book. The date inside said 1906, but the book was still in excellent condition. I scanned the chapter titles: The Garments of a Girl, His Mistress and Her Maid, Leave it Alone...

I heard footsteps. Light steps, deliberate, approaching slowly. The sound of hard heels on the wooden floor. I did not look up, but I knew it was her. As she drew closer, she began to speak, timing each word with a single step:

"Something. Wicked. This. Way. Comes."

I looked up. She stopped a few feet in front of me. She held an open book in front of her face concealing everything except her eyes.

The book was by Gregory Maguire: Wicked. She looked at me for a moment, then looked down at the book, and read a passage:

"'It seems to me that you have come here to -- shall we say -- relieve yourself of some sad business or other. You have the look about you. Don't be startled, my dear, if there's a look I do recognize, it's the look of someone carrying a burden."

I smiled. "What do you think my burden is, Luci?"

She sat down in the other chair, separated from me by the small table. She was wearing a short red sundress, one that seemed too thin for the season. A small red leather purse was slung over her right shoulder. She put the book on the table and then removed her purse and set it on top of the book. She crossed her legs demurely, smoothing the dress as she did. I tried to ignore the graceful curve of her calves, tried not to stare at her smooth thighs, tried not to remember the way her lips had felt when she'd kissed me the night before.

She leaned back and regarded me silently. "Unfinished business, perhaps? Maybe that's the problem: There's something that you ought to be carrying with you, but instead you always leave it behind. Then it becomes someone else's burden."

Was she trying to tell me something? Warn me about something? Would things have been different if I had asked her what she meant? But I didn't. I simply said, "How wicked of me."

She turned away from me and looked around slowly, as if she were carefully memorizing the details of the store. Without turning back to face me, she asked, "What brought you here tonight?"

"You." It was a truthful answer, and although I hadn't said it to flatter her, I thought she would be pleased.

Instead she turned to me and asked, "Was it really me? Or do you just enjoy temptation?"

"Possibly," I said. "But it would be fair for me to ask why you're here, as well. Isn't there a line from Shakespeare about temptation? 'The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?'"

"Measure for Measure. Shall we compare our sins? Do you suppose one of us would walk away feeling virtuous? Or would we both be sinners?"

"Surely there's no sense in dwelling on the sins in our past."

"When we could instead dwell on our sins in the here and now?"

Was there a slow, steady current of seduction flowing through her words, or was it all in my imagination? I shrugged. "All our sins are purchased on credit, aren't they? Sin now, pay later."

"Do you ever wonder who does the accounting for all these sins? Do you keep track of your own?" Her voice became a whisper. "I don't think you do. What happens when those bills come due?"

I felt a slight stir of uneasiness. I remembered that sudden chill that had overcome me the night before. Why? Was it what she said, or the way she said it? I decided to steer the conversation back to the mundane. "All this talk of accounting and credit and bills. Do you work here, Luci? Is this your shop?"

"I don't work here," she answered. "I just like being here. I feel a connection to this place. One of my favorite haunts, you might say."

"I never noticed this place until last night. I don't know how I missed it. I must have passed by so many times."

"Maybe you're too focused on other things. Sometimes we don't see what's right in front of us." The tone of her voice changed slightly, and the next sentence sounded almost like a taunt: "Or perhaps your memory isn't very good."

Had we met before, long ago? I felt certain that we hadn't. Best not to take the bait. She had intended to tease me, but I would compliment her. "I certainly doubt if my memory is as good as yours. At the very least you're well-versed in Shakespeare."

"We both have a passion for books," she replied. She looked down at her lap and paused, slowly running her finger over the smooth metal clasp of her purse. "But I think mine runs deeper. Do you ever think about books as physical things? I don't mean the stories and the ideas inside the books. I mean the books themselves, as objects. Do you know what I've always found fascinating? All these books had to be made. Manufactured. Or sometimes sewn by hand." She unhooked the clasp and looked up at me. "Do you know what I have? Let me show you." She lifted the flap of the purse and reached inside.

"I bought this long ago," she continued. "I wanted to make some books by hand." She pulled out a small object and held it up. It was a single piece of black metal, perhaps six inches long, half an inch wide, a quarter inch thick. "It's called a kiridashi knife."

It had no handle of any kind, and my first thought was that it was not a knife at all. Then, as she slowly turned it over in her hand, I saw that one end had been cut at a long angle and ground to a steep bevel. The bevel gleamed with a mirror finish. Even without touching it, I could tell: It was razor sharp.

The uneasiness that I had felt a moment earlier enveloped me. I felt cold, as if my blood were draining away.

She held the knife beneath the lamp, examining its edge in the light. "This one is made from laminated steel. Precise, like a scalpel, but so much stronger." She fixed her gaze on my eyes. "In the end, I never made the books I wanted to make," she said. "But I keep the knife with me."

I willed my voice to remain flat and free of emotion. "Is it safe to keep it in your purse that way? With no sheath?"

"Are you worried that I'll cut myself? Or worried that I'll dull the edge?"

"Both are valid concerns, don't you think? Not to mention what might happen to anything else that you keep in your purse."

"I don't carry much with me." She laid the knife down gently on the copy of Wicked, staring at it. "Do you ever think about the words in the books? I mean: What the words are. They're tools. Writers build entire worlds out of them. The words on the pages, those aren't what a writer creates. A novel, a poem, a beautiful love letter... those are the creations. Stories." Her voice faded slightly as she spoke. She looked at me again briefly, then looked around the shop, as if she sensed something in the air, but couldn't see it.

The fear I had felt seconds before began to subside.

"The writer's creation is... where, exactly? Where is the world that a writer creates? It takes up residence in our heads, I suppose. In the imagination. But it's not really in the book." She turned back to me, and looked me in the eyes again, as if she wanted to be certain that she had my full attention.

"This is why books fascinate me: The book isn't the story. The book is just the record that tells us how the story was created. It's a recipe. A formula. It's a list of all the things that went into the potion and all the things that were used to create the spell: Fenny snake, owlet's wing, gall of goat. But reading the formula doesn't make the magic go away. We're still under the spell of those words. They are there, on the pages in front of us, and yet we can't undo the magic."

"Do you want to break the spell, Luci?"

She thought for a moment. "How do you think it feels to be bewitched, when you know that the witch no longer remembers casting the spell? All you have left are the empty words that entranced you. Like tool marks on a carving made long ago." With her right hand, she picked up the knife again. She turned her left hand palm up, directly under the lamp, opening her hand and spreading her fingers out.

She put the tip of the knife against the tip of her little finger and pushed until a single drop of blood appeared.

"Luci --"

"How many? How many cuts?" Her voice was barely audible, but shockingly harsh. She pressed the tip of the knife against the next fingertip.

"Luci, put the knife down."

"You shouldn't tell me what to do." She pressed the knife in and another drop of blood appeared. "Do you think writers forget the stories they tell us?" She put the knife against the tip of her middle finger, drew another drop of blood. "What about the people who live in the worlds they create?"

"Please put the knife down. Let's talk. I'll listen to you."

"What if a writer starts a story, but never finishes it?" She cut another fingertip.

I thought about grabbing her wrist and wrenching the knife away from her, but in the same instant she stood up suddenly and took a step backward. She held her left hand out again and sliced into the skin on the tip of her thumb deeply. Blood began dripping down into the palm of her hand.

"Don't follow me!" Her voice was louder now, a staccato torrent of anger. "Don't look for me. When you leave this place, don't come here again. Ever."

She spun around and walked toward the door quickly, each step echoing in the empty room. "Luci!" I stood up, wanting to follow her, wanting to help her, but the thought of the knife and what she might do -- to me, or to herself -- kept me rooted in place. I couldn't think clearly and I didn't know what to do. I lost sight of her as she reached the end of the aisle and turned toward the front of the store. I had to go after, I knew I had to.

I remember seeing little drops of blood on the floor, and then I heard the sound of the bell on the front door, heard the sound of the door closing.

"Luci, wait! Wait, please wait!" I rushed down the aisle, turned toward the front of the store, and then...

There was a loud, deep noise that reverberated through the store, almost like thunder. I heard the sound before I saw her, before I knew what had caused the sound. Then I saw her hand, the knife still clenched in her fist, as she slammed the heel of her hand against the plate glass window. The glass didn't break, but it rattled deeply. She was looking at me through the window. Looking at me with pure hatred. All those Halloween decorations in front of the window, the jack-o'-lanterns, the cauldron and the witches' hat, the paper skeleton swaying back and forth slowly: They all suddenly looked absurd in the presence of something genuinely terrifying.

On the other side of the glass, Luci lowered her fist slowly and bent over slightly, and for a moment I couldn't see her hands, couldn't see what was happening, and now I tell myself over and over and over that there was nothing I could have done even if I had seen...

And then I saw her wince, and then she threw her head back, almost as if she were laughing, and for a moment she looked at me and her face looked suddenly very serene, and then, then...

Then I saw her swing her fist again and there was that same loud sound as she slammed her hand into the glass, but this time it was not the hand that had held the knife. It was her left hand and she slammed it against the glass and suddenly a horrible, bright red smear appeared on the glass, and she looked me in the eyes and her voice became a terrifying, haunting screech: "By the prickling of my thumbs..."

And she spread her hand open against the glass and I saw what she had done. She had cut off her thumb.

And then she backed away from the window quickly and disappeared into the darkness, and the bitter cry hung there in the night air: "Something wicked this way comes!"

* * * * *

Everything after that was a blur. Maybe I was in shock. I can't piece together exactly what happened next, or in what order. I just know this: I ran out after her. I couldn't see where she had gone. I think I crossed the street, I might have run down an alley, I'm not certain. I don't know exactly how long I looked. I think I had yelled something as I ran out of the store: call an ambulance, call the police. When I couldn't find her I went back to the store, and there was no one there. No police. No one behind the counter. No one at all. I remember walking back through the store, and seeing those little drops of blood on the floorboards. I remember that her purse had fallen to the floor and was still there. I bent down and picked it up, and realized that it felt much too light. I opened it.

There was nothing inside.

I walked to the counter. There was still no one there. I don't remember if I said anything, or if I called out. I think I did. Or I think I didn't. I don't know anymore. But I know that I put the purse there, beside the cash register, and then I walked out. I picked a direction at random and started walking, and then realized: Blood, she was bleeding so much, whichever way she had gone there would surely be blood. I could follow the blood. I think about that now, and I know it's such a horrible thought, like a fairy tale twisted and gone wrong. Instead of a trail of breadcrumbs to lead the way out of the forest, there was a trail of blood to lead me... where, exactly? To lead me astray? To led me to a furious woman with a razor-sharp knife?

I turned around to head back toward the store one more time, and when I did I saw that the lights were off. I walked back, looking at the window, and I realized with a shock that there was nothing there. No blood on the glass, no blood on the sidewalk, nothing. Only a small amount of light filtered in through the window. I couldn't see anything inside, except for one thing: The paper skeleton. It was still swaying back and forth slowly, a silent Danse Macabre.

* * * * *

I went back the next night. Or I should say: I tried to go back. I couldn't find the store.

It would be reasonable to ask why I waited until nighttime. I can't explain. I could have searched for the store in the morning, on the way to work, and I could have looked for traces of what had happened. Or maybe what hadn't happened. Maybe I thought if I went to work as usual, went through the usual routine, the world would suddenly go back to normal.

But as soon as the sun went down, I knew I'd go again. I left work as early as I could, and I took the same route I had taken the night before. Didn't I? I suppose I was so confused, maybe I wandered down the wrong street again.

I couldn't find the store. I was certain I was on the right street, but I couldn't find it. I walked to the end of the block, then down the next block and back, and it just wasn't there. I tried to remember what was nearby, and I couldn't recall. I hadn't paid attention. Nearly everything else on the street was already closed. Then I noticed one little coffee shop, still lit up. Light streamed out through a large plate glass window, spilling out onto the sidewalk. I realized that I was getting cold, and the cafe looked nice and warm and inviting. There was one of those little folding chalkboard signs in front of the door. It had a drawing of a pumpkin and a few autumn leaves, very nicely done in yellow and orange and red chalk, and above it, the name: THE LOST CAFE.

I swung the door open, and do you know what? They had another one of those brass bells, just like the one they'd had at the bookshop. The space was small. There weren't any other customers inside, but I had the same thought that I'd had when I'd gone into the bookstore: It was late, they'd probably be closing soon, and there was never much activity on these little side streets anyway.

The floor was made of dark wood, unfinished, timeworn but somehow elegant. The walls were bare brick, with framed Art Nouveau prints on one side and replicas of old metal advertising signs on the other. There were a few tables in the middle, with booths along one side wall and, in front of the rear wall, a long counter with bar stools. The counter was illuminated from above by a long strand of bare light bulbs, like the ones you used to see at car lots. One bulb kept flickering on and off, like it had a short circuit. I caught a glimpse of someone behind the counter, bent over and facing away from me, but I didn't pay them any attention.

I sat down at a table for two in the center of the room, choosing the chair on the opposite side of the table, so that I was facing the front windows. In the center of the table there was a laminated one-page menu tucked between a basket of sweetener packets and a chrome napkin dispenser.

I pulled the menu out and scanned it. For the most part it was typical coffee house fare: An assortment of coffees and espressos, lattes, muffins and biscotti. At the bottom of the menu, however, there was a single line, set apart from everything else. It said:

THE SPECIALTY OF THE HOUSE IS ALWAYS ON THE HOUSE

I stared at it for several seconds, wondering what it meant. Then, behind me, I heard one of the floorboards creak, and a woman's voice. Her voice. Luci's voice.

"Do you want to know the specialty of the house?"

I froze. I wanted to turn around but I couldn't will myself to do it. I had a horrifying image of my head suddenly being pulled back, my throat exposed, and the kiridashi knife slicing across my neck.

I heard another floorboard creak and I could tell that she was still behind me, but had moved slightly to my right.

"You would rather not know," she continued, "but it's too late. You already came here." I heard the floor creak again, but it did not seem that she had moved. It was as if she had shifted her weight slightly, but remained in the same spot. "Do you ever wonder what it's like to be forgotten?"

In that moment, another thought rushed into my head. The names. The names she told me, on the night we met.

As if she'd read my thoughts, she whispered: "Mara. Rubi. Stephanie. Sierra." She raised her voice slightly, but her tone was flat and registered no emotion. "Shall I go on? There are so many names, all forgotten. Lauren. Renad. Ashabi. Faith. Devi. Andrea. Sher. Layla. Angelica. Eliza." She paused briefly, and the silence hung in the air until she said quietly: "Do you remember those names now? Do you remember all of them? I can tell you what it's like to be forgotten. It's like losing a part of yourself."

Maybe at the moment I knew what was coming. Or maybe that's what I tell myself now, so that I don't feel so guilty for all the things I had forgotten. I still didn't turn to face her. I couldn't.

I heard the floor creak again and I knew that she had leaned down, right beside me, and she whispered into my ear: "It's as if someone cut away a part of your body." I felt her hand come to rest gently on my shoulder, my left shoulder, and I knew that meant that it was her left hand, the one she had cut so horribly. I didn't dare look. Then, in a bitter voice, she spoke again the words that had become a horrible mantra: "By the prickling of my thumbs..."

I was still staring down at the table, paralyzed. Suddenly she stepped forward and she reached past me with her right hand. She slammed something large and heavy down on the table in front of me. A jar. A large, heavy glass jar, and packed tightly inside, in a reddish liquid...

Thumbs.

Severed thumbs. The jar was full of them, so many, I don't want to think about how many, so many of them and I leaped up from the table and my chair slid backward and tipped, crashing to the floor and I shoved Luci away without looking at her and ran toward the door, ran in horror and threw the door open and I wanted to vomit and wanted to erase the hideous image from my mind and turn back the clock, make everything go away and be like it was before I went to the bookstore, before I met her, before I went to the cafe, before I saw the jar and I want so badly to burn it out of my memory but even now I still see it, the once-delicate thumbs bloated and horrible and some still with polish on the nail and I don't want to remember and but I can't make it go away and then I was running, running out into the street, into the night as fast as I could, and I did not look back.

* * * * *

That night I ran until I couldn't run anymore, and I collapsed. Maybe I passed out, I'm not sure. I remember opening my eyes and realizing that I was in a park, not far from Clark Street. I couldn't remember which way I had been running or how I gotten there.

The next morning I called in sick. I tried to find the cafe, but couldn't. I tried to find the bookstore. I couldn't.

Even now, so many years later, there are times when I wake up at night, certain that she's close by. If I close my eyes I hear her reciting that list of names.

I'll tell you something that you probably already know: Those names weren't random. I don't know how she knew them. I won't tell you anything about them, but they were not random.

And then there is one other name: Her name. Luci Black. Luci, Princess of Darkness. Wicked like me. Was she real? I don't blame you if you think she wasn't. But I know the truth: She was real. She is real. She's still out there. I can feel her presence by the prickling of my thumbs.

#halloween story #ghost story #prose #ray bradbury #macbeth #shakespeare #wicked #haunted bookstores #he told me this is true #mara #luci black #scary stories

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365days365movies · 4 years ago

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February 21, 2021: The African Queen (1951) (Part 1)

The leading man!

It’s an old term from old Hollywood, and while leading men certainly exist today, it’s not something we really use anymore. And yet, we all have some concept of the leading man. First modern one that came to mind for me was Chris Evans. For the GF, it was this guy:

And that’s valid! But if we’re gonna talk about Hollywood’s leading men, we have to go BACK. FAR back, to the beginning of film, and to some of the most iconic film stars that helped define the term. These are guys like Errol Flynn, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, James Dean, Rock Hudson, yesterday’s Cary Grant, and of course, Clark Gable.

And some of those guys will appear on this blog at some point this year, most likely. One of them is gonna pop up this month, even! But there’s one more leading man to talk about, and that’s Humphrey Bogart, one of the most prominent of the leading men of the 1940s and ‘50′s.

I mean, come on! Casablanca! He’s a classic leading man, and I’m excited to see more of him. But every leading man needs his leading lady, and there are plenty of classic ones to choose from. Lauren Bacall, Jean Arthur, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Natalie Wood, Mae West, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Olivia de Havilland, Greta Garbo, Lena Horne, Sophia Loren, yesterday’s Deborah Kerr, my mom’s favorites Doris Day and Audrey Hepburn, and OF COURSE, today’s star: Katharine Hepburn.

The Philadelphia Story, Bringing Up Baby, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner! Another classic leading lady in another set of classic films. And, OF COURSE, these two starred together in today’s movie, The African Queen. And who’s the director of this film? MOTHAFUCKIN’ JOHN HUSTON BOIIIIIIIIIIII

Director of The Maltese Falcon, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The Asphalt Jungle, Moby Dick, The Misfits, the original Casino Royale, and weirdly enough, Annie. AND he was an actor in The Bible, Chinatown, The Hobbit, The Black Cauldron, and weirdly enough, Annie! Goddamn, this movie’s got a lot of talent behind it! I’m genuinely looking forward to watching this, considering that it’s often considered one of the best films of the 1950s. So let’s do it, yeah? SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

We begin in German West Africa, where...yeah, it’s a little uncomfortable from modern day standards, as a group of indigenous people are in a service at a constructed Methodist Church, where two missionaries, Rose Sayer (Katharine Hepburn) and her brother, Reverend Samuel (Katharine Hepburn), are pretty unsuccessfully leading the singing of hymns.

As they do so, a boat called the African Queen pulls up, captained by Charlie Allnut (Humphrey Bogart). When he pulls up, he delivers needed supplies and mail to the village, which disrupts the ceremony (thank God), and leads to an interaction between Allnut and the Sayers, who invite him to tea.

The Canadian Allnut seems to be pretty relaxed, while the British Rose and Samuel are obviously pretty stuck-up. But this is probably not going to matter soon, as Allnut delivers the news that World War I has begin, leaving the status of the British missionaries in German-occupied West Africa in danger.

And as soon as they realize this, a group of German soldiers comes through the village, and soldiers gather up all of the people from their houses, and...Jesus, they set fire to the place! Why? I mean, it’s war, duh, but WHY? The villagers are taken away for what I’m sure are totally good reasons, as the village of Kungdu burns to the ground. Samuel and Rose are left behind, and Samuel’s clearly a little fucked up by the encounter with the soldiers.

Soon after, Samuel seems ill, forgetting that they’re even in Africa. She helps him to his room, and he falls to the ground, obviously not well. It’s central Africa, so this could be malaria, trypanosomaisis, yellow fever, a BUNCH of shit. But I’m sure he’s gonna be fine. He’ll be fiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

Oh, wait, he’s dead. We find that out when Charlie arrives to deliver more bad news: people are being taken from their homes to forcibly join the army, and the villages are destroyed in order to give them no place to go back to. Which is...disgusting, fuck me.

They bury Samuel, and Charlie takes Rose onto The African Queen so that they can get away from the village before the soldiers return. This is backed by...very light-hearted music. Very poorly-timed sprightly music. I dunno, it really just doesn’t match the done, given that Sam just died, and they’re trying to escape.

We learn what some of the issues are for our two. The British won’t easily be coming because of the various German fortifications, including a large ship called the Königin Luise on a nearby lake. Said boat has a massive gun on it, posing major damage to any enemies.

But Rose has an idea: using explosive gel and some pipes and cylinders, she has an idea to use The African Queen itself as a torpedo to plow up the Luise. Charlie points out that the only where there is down the dangerous Ulanga River, and past a German fort. And Rose guilts him for not wanting to help his Queen and country. And, with that, he agrees.

From there, it’s time for a boat trip! Like a road trip, but with a boat! Katherine learns to steer, and Charlie notes that he hasn’t fixed the safety mechanism on the engine because he likes kicking it. Y’know, psychologists say that catharsis doesn’t work like that, Charlie.

It would seem that Charlie knows this, and settles instead for a drink. And as he brings out his bottle of gin, Rose looks ABSOLUTELY HORRIFIED. Like he brought out a dead body instead of a bottle of alcohol; it’s even backed by this bombastic DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUN in the score! It’s weirdly hilarious.

The two take separate baths in the river, which has gotta be FULL of a bunch of stuff, but whatever. They tuck in for the night as it rains, and Charlie’s stuck outside while Rose gets the tent. Which is...supremely unfair, and ASKING for Charlie to get malaria or other diseases. Thankfully, Rose realizes this and allows him inside.

The next day, they come upon the rapids, which look dangerous...but also kind of fun, it that weird to say? I dunno, I’d go rafting down those. On a related note, I’ve never been whitewater rafting. Maybe one day, huh? Well, despite the ride and again, WEIRDLY sprightly music, they survive...and more. See, Rose LOVED it. Like, really LOVED it. She compares it to a bonafide religious experience, and says that she’s never experienced such joy from a...physical experience.

So, either she’s an adrenaline junkie, or that was some, uh...foreshadowing. Charlie’s a little less excited by this, and notes that the upcoming rapids are far worse. And Rose is just...SO FUCKING PUMPED for this. Shit, I think something’s awoken in her. Get this lady to a theme park, STAT!

But again, Charlie is NOT happy about this, and gets kinda drunk later in the day. While drunk, he insults her plan, and goes back on his agreement to go on. She calls him a coward, and she calls him a “crazy, psalm-singin’, skinny old maid.” Um, Charlie, maybe not the best idea to do that to a woman who’s just learned to joys of adrenaline and tsting her limits. She might retaliate by, I dunno...throwing all of your gin over the side of the river while you’re asleep.

Yeah, like that. Exactly like that. Some drunk fish in the river today, lemme tell you.

Anyway, despite this, Rose is pissed off, as Charlie still won’t go down the river. As he insists that all that’s down the river is death, she still insists that he promised to go. He finally agrees, despite thinking that they’re doomed to be food for the crocodiles. And so, they go.

They pass the fort, the Shona, and the Germans do indeed fire at them as they go down. And I mean the ENTIRE time they pass. They hit the engine, and Charlie has to fix it right amidst all of this. They also hit the boxes of blasting gel, but they don’t go off. And, as Rose rightly suggested earlier, the sun gets in the soldiers’ eyes as they try to fire on them. And they pass without a hitch! Except for oooooooooone tiny detail.

HALFWAY POINT! See you in Part 2!

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