#【 della gray ❖ the confident 】

[aquamanandfriends]

words about love that cannot be translated into english (x) 

for @thestoriesincoffeestains our ships, inspired by [x]

[aquamanandfriends]

stelllacarlin‌:

[pochiperpe90]

[L’Officiel Hommes] Luca Marinelli, rising star of Italian cinema

To win his first film role, Luca Marinelli agreed to put on sixteen kilos. For the second, he had to shave his whole body and learn to walk in heels more than eight inches high.

"If I believe in the part, there is nothing I'm not willing to do," says the twenty-six-year-old protagonist of ‘The Solitude of Prime Numbers’, the film by Saverio Costanzo presented at last year's edition of the Venice Film Festival.

To play the role of a boy devoured by guilt due to an accident that happened to his sister, Marinelli did not hesitate to ruin his athletic physique by gorging himself on fats and carbohydrates, and giving up any activity for three months. As soon as he could, he started running again to lose the extra pounds. Between football and swimming he has always been used to playing sports. But the forced immobility had atrophied his muscles, and at the end of the first runs he ended up vomiting his soul from the effort. After a month of intense exercise, however, he had already lost the extra pounds.

"Changing your body makes you feel more vulnerable and you become prey to irrational fears: when I was fat I was afraid of dying every time I took the stairs, when I was hairless I was afraid that my eyebrows would never grow back," says the actor while he eats a salad sitting at the bar of the Palazzo della Triennale in Milan. "But it's always a very interesting experience", he continues, absently stroking the hairs on his forearm, still growing since the end of the shooting of “L’ultimo terrestre”, a film that will be released next year by Gipi, an Italian illustrator making his debut behind the movie camera. It’s a love story set against the backdrop of an invasion of extraterrestrials, in which Marinelli plays the role of a transvestite friend of the protagonist. To prepare for the part, the actor watched dozens of crossdresser and transgender footage and had to practice for hours walking with extravagant stilts instead of shoes.

“I was told that, as a woman, I move well and I'm quite beautiful. In short, the experience gave me a certain satisfaction”, he jokes, winking with gray-blue eyes.

Compared to the film debut of ‘Solitude of Prime Numbers’, this new film offers him a smaller role and visibility. But Marinelli is not concerned about this. He knows he was very lucky to end on the red carpet of one of the most important festivals in the world with the first film. And he would almost feel calmer if his career were to continue more gradually.

"It was so lightning fast that I was not prepared. Venice was a wonderful experience but I was in panic. In the evening I came home with a terrible headache, I felt like I had two tight screws in my skull. I almost felt at fault to start out so great. And now I'm happy to start again slowly”.

Marinelli finished high school in 2006 and three years later graduated from the Silvio D'Amico Academy of Dramatic Art in Rome. Before being chosen by Costanzo for the feature film that gave him notoriety with the public, he had already played several roles in the theater with directors such as Carlo Cecchi and Michele Monetta. His father, actor and film voice actor, tried to introduce him to the world of entertainment as a child, without achieving great results. He had made him voice the voices of Tip and Tap, the grandchildren of Mickey Mouse from the cartoons, and had offered him some amateur roles. Despite being fascinated by the profession, however, the son didn’t feel cut out to be an actor.

“As a child I was shy. I liked being the center of attention, but only with people I had a lot of confidence with. More than being observed, I was interested in observing the lives of others. Not the present ones, but the past ones”.

After high school, Marinelli enrolled in the faculty of archeology in Rome. But after two months in which he attended only lessons that had nothing to do with his course, he realized that the university wasn’t for him and threw himself into acting, overcoming the fears he carried within him since he was a child. Even today, however, it retains some of that shyness. To the point that, whenever he is about to go on stage, he has to resort to small exorcising rites to reduce tension and cancel thoughts. And when we ask him how it feels to tell a complete stranger about himself, he confesses to being a little nervous.

"This is my second interview. From the first, I came out as some kind of psycho. I hope this time it goes better”, he jokes.

He has pain in his neck from a fall that occurred a few days earlier and moves his torso in a slightly stiffly way. He jumped on the ball and crashed to the ground during a game of "calciotto", the eight-a-side football that is popular in Rome, the city where he was born and raised. Every time he turns his head he makes a grimace of pain. Apart from that, Marinelli seems to be quite at ease, and does not resort to clichés. Nor does he try to hide behind sophisticated characters: he wears a blue shirt, military green trousers and brown jacket, in a style that he simply defines "for men", made up of garments unearthed among vintage shops and thrift stalls rather than in the boutiques of the big names. He loves to run around with his bike, although he admits that the longest trip he has done was from Rome to Fregene with a friend. And as soon as he has a free moment he takes his dog Nonò, a foundling dachshund who also follows him on tour, and takes him around the capital for long walks in the company of Sandy, the dog who lives in his parents' house.

Even though he’s aware of the difficulties and uncertainties he risks facing in his profession, he speaks of his dreams with passion and without anguish. He would like to pursue a project as a director and is enthusiastic about the collaboration with Cecchi in “Sogno di una notte di mezza estate”, a piece with which he will tour Italy between November and February.

"I know that being an actor is a job with a very high risk of failure and depression, but for the moment I try to live this lucky moment to the fullest."

Marinelli is not religious, but he’s particularly fascinated by the figure of Christ. He loves reading books and watching films that tell the Nazarene in his human dimension (from the Gospel according to Matthew by Pasolini to Scorsese's Last Temptation of Christ), because when he sees a miracle he feels the "smell of burning" and is immediately distracted.

"The story of Jesus, understood as a simple person, is a proof of the wonderful things that man is capable of. And studying it helps to understand how far we live from the example that has been given to us".

Among the dreams in the drawer, remains to work with Eimuntas Nekrošius, the Lithuanian theater director who recently staged Albert Camus' Caligula in Rome. And with Pedro Almodovar, the master of Spanish cinema whose language he knows well. In fact, Marinelli's father spent his childhood in Argentina and passed on to his son his love for Spanish, which Luca speaks with a slight South American inflection.

Of course, the situation in Italy for novice actors is not reassuring. Most of his fellow academics are still looking for work. The lucky ones earn a few euros by acting in the theater or making fiction which is exhausting for the body and demoralizing for the spirit. The others are making a living with alternative uses waiting to be discovered.

“I'm working, but not because I'm the best of those who came out of my class. Luck matters a lot. In Italy the environment is closed and there is little money. Abroad, however, it seems that this art is much more accessible".

His response is interrupted by a strange sigh that sounds like a whale song. It’s the ringtone of his cell phone, a reconstruction of the original music used in the Greek tragedy. Marinelli doesn’t respond, but begins to show signs of unease. He noted that the Palazzo della Triennale hosts an exhibition of Pasolini's portraits that he would like to see. He has little time left, but he adores the poet and insists on entering.

Inside the exhibition, observe the black and white photos taken by Dino Pedriali in 1975 which show the artist reading in his villa in Chia, writing on an Olivetti 22 and walking on a bridge in Sabaudia with his hair down from the wind. Then he stops in front of a photo of Pasolini naked, portrayed in his bedroom.

"What a fascinating man, in this image he reminds me of the bad lieutenant in Abel Ferrara's film," he says as he heads towards the exit. Then, unexpectedly, he turns to his interviewer and asks him with the relieved tone of someone who knows he has completed a business: "Prof, how did the exam go?".

“I'd give you a nice twenty-eight”, we reply according to the game.

"Okay, I accept it".

L’Officiel Hommes

Just wanted to translate this old interview for the non-italian’s fans ^^ (sorry for my English)  

[astrodances]

So you said that Drake and Gosalyn are basically Bajorans so what are there faith to the Prophets or your Versions of the Prophets in your au

Linking to the original Drake + Gos answer for easy reference

(This is gonna get convoluted but in the best way, because I love Bajoran spirituality and all the world-building, inspiration, and lore it brought to DS9, and the way that the show addressed both science and religion as having shades of gray.)

So, when I was writing the original answer that I linked above, I did think of some stuff regarding Canardian religion that I think I forgot, unfortunately, but part of it was about how Drake is very much a man of faith in this AU, and that stems directly from his love, his worship, of Darkwing Duck (from the character himself to (especially later) the principles that make him up) in DT17, and how it influences and guides his life. I'm not trying to equate a religion to a character, or to philosophize or anything like that, but what I am saying is that Drake has a propensity for faith.

And so at first, Drake is like any other Canardian during the occupation, relying on his faith in the Prophets for hope and strength, for his people to survive. He grew up with it, and also grew up wanting to become a resistance member as soon as he could, and he did. But as the fight goes on, he feels that he has to do something more, something to make a difference and throw the occupying force off their game, and from that thought he develops the Darkwing Duck persona.

And it works. Darkwing inspires others to rise in the fight and becomes a symbol of the Canardians' will to keep getting back up (there was always something about him, even just as Drake, some extra strength and courage, that made him stand out from the rest), eventually leading them to victory. He meets, saves, and adopts Gosalyn as a partner and a daughter, and Drake feels like he's fulfilling the path the Prophets have laid out for him, his destiny.

Little does he know how right he is.

As things settle after the occupation and Drake and Gos move to DS87, Drake gets the chance to have an orb experience with the Orb of Prophecy and Change, and from there he travels into the wormhole and meets the Prophets. (Basically, a parallel to that part of events for Sisko from DS9's premiere - although whether the wormhole has already been discovered yet in this AU, depending on Della's arc, is yet to be decided.) And what does he learn?

That he's the Emissary of the Prophets ("The Darkwing"), the destined protector of his people on Canard and DS87.

About Gos and faith: when Drake first meets her, her faith is very much shaken, as she's young and just lost her grandfather. She's probably wondering why the Prophets would let this happen to a man who believed in them more than anyone she's ever seen until then, who taught her everything she knows. It takes time (and he never pushes), but Drake helps her regain her confidence in the Prophets, and helps her honor and mourn her grandfather according to custom. And as Gos sees how Drake goes through his own journey in becoming the Emissary, she has some of her own revelations regarding faith, and her spirit mends.

A quick note about Launchpad, for when he moves to the station and joins the Mallard family: he might see the Prophets more as wormhole aliens than gods, at least at first, but he understands Drake and Gos' faith, being Jewish himself (and having that same propensity for faith as Drake does regarding his love for DWD in DT17), and I think that'll be one of the things that draws them all together. Or as Kira puts it in one of my favorite DS9 quotes: "That's the thing about faith...if you don't have it, you can't understand it. If you do, no explanation is necessary."

As for the Prophets themselves, I mean, I guess they physically behave the same as DS9's versions? Like, they're those wispy non-corporeal lifeforms at their core, but when they interact with others in visions or in the wormhole, they appear as people that person knows (so in Drake's case, the Prophets might appear as Gos, LP, Commander Owlson, Louie, Goldie, etc.).

A couple other thoughts about Canardian faith...

I mentioned before the possibility of Taurus Bulba being the equivalent of Kai Winn (So Kai Bulba). Just want to confirm that, and going along with that...

Negaduck is the equivalent of Gul Dukat, but with some twists. (Here's something for the mind: NegaDukat. XD) Been thinking a lot about him tonight for the AU, and his role just made even more sense after I realized that Drake would be the Emissary. So, Negaduck would lead the occupation of Canard, and Darkwing would defeat him, and later on, Negaduck would release the Pah-wraiths and let them possess him in an attempt to destroy Darkwing and Canard. Standard Dukat parallel with that spice of Negaduck destruction.

But here's where I shake things up.

At some point (probably during the Pah-wraith situation), Negaduck would face off against DW and lie to him, saying something like, "The Prophets sent me. This is what they want for Canard! The Pah-wraiths are the true Prophets!" Maybe he even makes some claim to being the Emissary. And DW's able to prove all of those as lies, but there's one thing that he can't disprove: Negaduck did come through the wormhole, years ago, before he went on to lead the occupation (which is another distinction from Dukat, that he's not of the AU's equivalent of the Cardassians, just their leader - which gives more support to the Fearsome Five being the occupying force).

So if not the Prophets, where did Negaduck come from? He has all this evidence pointing to his own mysterious origin point, and openly flaunts it (but stubbornly doesn't provide answers), but Team DW can't find anything. (And no, he's not from the Gamma Quadrant.)

No, Negaduck is from...*drum roll*...the mirror universe! And he got to the prime universe much like how Kira and Bashir did in "Crossover", by going through the wormhole.

So, drawing more on DW91 than DT17, Negaduck is the mirror version of Darkwing Duck, and is from the mirror Canard (and so on and so forth, bringing in some Negaverse lore into it). In many ways, the lies above probably hold more truth than I was letting on, but not for this universe. Negaduck is probably the mirror Emissary of the Pah-wraiths, and it was them who sent him through the wormhole and between dimensions, filling his head with "plans" for the occupation of prime Canard (which was probably just a part of a larger plan to infiltrate the prime wormhole and take that over from the Prophets).

[ilserafino]

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME

Francesco de Medici.

MEANING 

Francesco.

— Italian form of the Late Latin name Franciscus meaning "Frenchman", ultimately from the Germanic tribe of the Franks, who were named for a type of spear that they used.

De’ Medici.

— Patronymic of Medico, occupational name for a physician. (Latin medicus, from medere "to heal").

MONIKERS / NICKNAMES 

Ciccio.

— a childhood nickname, not often in use anymore.

Il Serafino.

— a widespread moniker, whispered of his angelic beauty and his fame in the arts.

TITLE

Lord of Tuscany.

— his title upon the passing of his father. 

GENDER & PRONOUNS 

cis male, he/him.

ETHNICITY 

White Italian.

DATE OF BIRTH & AGE: 

January 12, 1531, 28 years old.

ZODIAC SIGN

Capricorn.

ORIENTATION

homosexual homoromantic.

MARITAL STATUS

Single.

OCCUPATION

Artist.

— A master of the arts, though he has not yet formed his own atelier. focused particularly on painting and secondarily sculpting, though more often he prefers to be the subject than the creator.

Advisor to the Grand Duke of Florence.

— Primarily honorary, though this allows him a seat in his brother’s council. His presence is rarer than his absence.

CURRENT LOCATION

Castelgrande Castle, Switzerland.

BACKGROUND

PLACE OF BIRTH

Villa del Trebbio, Tuscany, Italy

RESIDENCES 

Villa del Trebbio, Tuscany, Italy (1531 - 1532 ) Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, Florence, Italy ( 1532 - 1540 ) Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, Italy (1540 - 1549 ) Palazzo Pitti, Florence, Italy ( 1549 - current )

RELIGIOUS VIEWS

Roman Catholic.

— Publicly, anyway. He is critical of the church and sympathizes with the religions of infidels, inquires about heresies and gleefully delves into the mystical. He believes in an Almighty, but he has rather a different conception than one that the Church would accept. 

EDUCATION

Educated in the court of one of the wealthiest families of Europe, the schooling that he has received would not at all lag behind the best educated of the continent. Though Francesco didn’t always seize the opportunities that were granted to him, and he was mediocre in most matters and excelled in only the few that excited him. He was often overshadowed by his sister, but he did not particularly seem to mind.

However, he received further education in catechism and theology in contemplation of the possibility for the life of the cloth. It seemed as though he was always in contest with his brother Giulio, and it was a contest that he never won. He did learn gleefully, but he tended to learn at his own pace and without care for the standards of others. 

Once it was clear that it was Giulio who was meant for the cloth, it was a struggle to find a vocation for Francesco. It was art, in the end, that suited his passions and his skills, and he was apprenticed in the ateliers of great masters, the most renowned of which was Titian.  

LANGUAGES SPOKEN 

Italian (Standard Italian as well as Tuscan), French, Latin, Greek, Spanish, Hebrew

ALLEGIANCES 

House of Medici

Holy Roman Empire

FAMILY :

Giovanni de Medici — father (deceased)

Agatuccia de Medici — mother (deceased)

Piero de Medici — older brother 

Giulio de Medici — older brother

Giovanna de Medici — twin sister

OTHER FAMILIAL RELATIONS :

Lucia della Rovere — sister-in-law

APPEARANCE

FACECLAIM

Niels Schneider

HAIR COLOUR / STYLE

Dark blonde to brown, a mess of curls that falls below his ears. 

EYE COLOUR / SHAPE 

A deep emerald green, with flecks of gold when the sunlight hits just right.

HEIGHT 

180cm

BUILD

Tall, muscles defined only by his leanness. 

SPEECH STYLE

Francesco normally speaks in slow, relaxed tones, drawn out and with an unfortunate tendency to sound mocking. His voice is easily animated by his emotions, and his heart is often on his sleeve. 

RECOGNIZABLE MARKINGS 

None.

BEAUTY HABITS 

Always dressed in the finest fabrics, dressed vibrantly and modern by the best tailors of Florence. Francesco devotes himself to looking like art itself, to embody beauty, and so he keeps careful never to sprout a single flaw.

PERSONALITY

TROPES

The Hedonist, The Dandy, Idle Rich, Brilliant, but Lazy, Ditzy Genius, Undiscriminating Addict, Cloudcuckoolander, Pretty Boy

INSPIRATIONS 

HISTORICAL:

Salai, Michelangelo

LITERATURE: 

Dorian Gray, Lord Henry Wotton, Francis Abernaty, Loras Tyrell

MYTHOLOGY:

Baldr, Apollo, Dionysus, Ganymede, Narcissus

MBTI

ENFP — The Campaigner

ENNEAGRAM

Type 7 (7w8) — The Enthusiast

ALIGNMENT 

Chaotic Neutral

TEMPERAMENT 

Sanguine

HOGWARTS HOUSE

Ravenclaw

POSITIVE TRAITS 

creative, charming, energetic

NEGATIVE TRAITS 

hedonistic, self-absorbed, ambitionless

HABITS 

tapping his feet, tapping his fingers

HOBBIES

drinking, playing the fiddle

USUAL DEMEANOR 

Bright and joyous, an effervescent soul that lights up the room with his presence. He walks with confidence and everflowing smiles. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and his emotions easily express themselves through his entire body.

HEALTH

PHYSICAL AILMENTS 

None.

NEUROLOGICAL CONDITION

Neurotypical.

PHOBIAS 

Pyrophobia — a fire at an atelier that cost a lover’s life has made him wary of fire. Though there’s not much he can do to avoid it at night, he’s very cautious.

ALLERGIES

None.

SLEEPING HABITS 

Often awake at night, working on a new creation, reading a book, or carousing. Most days he sleeps 5-6 hours, and he follows no schedule.

SOCIABILITY 

A social butterfly through and through. He enjoys meeting new people and spending time with old friends. He gets restless when he’s alone.

ADDICTIONS

Francesco is heavy on vices, often found with a goblet of the finest wines from all over the known world, and by himself, in private company, and in small parties, he consumes and purveys a variety of mind-altering substances. 

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Flood my Mornings: Found

I know, right??? Thank you for bearing with me while I’ve taken a wee ten month sabbatical! And thank you, too, for dropping in every now and again to remind me of how much you love this story. It means the world! - With love, Mod Bonnie 

This story takes place in an AU where Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

FMM Master List 

Previously: Hectic

Found

Early December, 1952

.

“Hey, Mummy?”

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Um! Why come—”

“How....”

“—How come my hairs is all gray in all tha’ pictures?”

One grammar victory at a time.

“Cameras only can show things in black and white. Ours, anyway.”

Taking pictures was always great fun; poring over them once they’d come back from the developer, a joy, particularly coupled with Jamie’s still-sharp wonder in their implicit magic. Actually following through with organizing them into albums, though? A bloody-hateful chore I’d managed to put off for nearly a year, this time. The red album already held Ian’s first six months or so, but most of his subsequent life had accumulated in lazy shoeboxes and (better late than never) now lay scattered around Bree and me in a shiny arc on the living room floor. 

“Wouldn’t them—those pictures be better if it was all the right ones?” She popped up from hands and knees to shove a fistful of ginger curls toward me. “The good colors?” 

“Absolutely! Maybe someday.”

She nodded once, satisfied. “You should go tell them to.”

“Tell who?”

Shrug. “Camera people.”

“I’ll write Mr. Kodak right away.”

“Good. Which picture’re we doin’ next?”

“Hmmm....” It came out more like a ‘heeeeeee’, since I was grinning with complete, albeit exhausted joy at my unstoppable eldest. 

“How ‘bout THIS one?” She came up with a snapshot from the Fernacre Halloween party this year: Jamie beaming as he held Ian securely atop Kugel, one of the newer horses. 

“Oh,” I moaned, heart squeezing as I held the photo next to the page showing Ian at four months, fuzzy-headed and drooling happily with his hands clapped together. “Bree, when did my tiny baby become a grown-up boy?” 

“He izzzz a baby, Mummy.”

“Well, yes, but....”  

But oh lord, to see his infant photos again, compared with the walking, sometimes-talking little man across the house! Where had all the baby fat gone? When had the generic softness of his features been replaced with cheekbones and Jamie’s dimpled chin?! Jesus H. Christ, it made me want to curl up and sob for days and then get down to business making another one. (Except, no, absolutely not). 

“He IS a real baby,” Brianna was saying, with a sass that spilled over into guilty-glee: “He still poopies in his pants!”

“Touché, lovey,” I giggled along with her, rifling through our pile to make sure I hadn’t missed any from Ian’s birthday. “OH! This is pure Ian, right here, don’t you think??”

This was from just last week, from the packet Jamie had picked up on his way home yesterday. No special occasion: just our sweet, sweet boy standing in the doorway to the back garden, beaming with a magnetic smile even as he shyly resisted any coaxing to come out, blanket over his shoulder and pressed comfortingly against his cheek.

Somehow, he alone had managed to miss the gene for curly hair. His was still thick, though, brown and unruly as mine, with a tendency to poke up in little cowlicks every time you turned your back (and good bloody luck to anyone that tried to come at him with a comb and triggered a caterwauling to wake the dead). His eyes—dark honey—were slanted, seeming even more so as he grinned at the camera. So like Bree and yet so much his own. 

Resemblance wasn’t the only difference between my little ones, for Ian was less tempestuous than Brianna, to say the very least. Whereas she had seemed to exit the very womb inclined to speak (or howl) her mind with a fierce, vocal confidence in herself, Ian Fraser was a more subtle charmer. He got what he wanted by lavishing snuggles and carefully-placed puppy-dog eyes on his target, speaking his few words when necessary, but usually content to wheedle in his own way, or else let Bree do the talking for him.  

His own unique spirit, I marveled, running my thumbs against the glossed edges. Bree was, in a word, intense; her brother..... what? More shy by contrast, absolutely, but I’d always hated the milquetoast connotations of that word. He wasn’t at all skittish or morose; when in his element, he could be as boisterous as she, and if he sometimes preferred to play by himself in a group of friends, it always seemed to be by choice, not exclusion. In fact, I’d observed that he even spoke more when on his own, when he was absorbed in organizing a Gathering of the cuddly toys, or making tiny stick-villages in the garden, narrating his playtime in a mixture of English, Gaelic, and (the vast majority) Toddler. It was only when someone was watching that he would flash them a sheepish grin and start keeping his thoughts to himself. 

No, see, Ian’s quieter nature bespoke something beneath it, something that always struck me as remarkably developed and complex for a child of his age. Cunning, I’d call it, or some deep, satisfied knowing—slyness, in the best way! His twinkling eyes often seemed to so, so sweetly say, ‘You can’t make me do what you want, Mummy, but I sure do enjoy watching you try!’ A strain of the MacKenzies, I thought, not for the first time. 

“Hey-Mummy?” My little Fraser had her brows scrunched up as though contemplating murder, poring over the blue album from the shelf under the coffee table. “I dinna remember this pictures.”

“Those are of you as a baby,” I grinned, “so you were too small to remember.”

“Well....then...Da! He must—!” She nodded, full of budding conviction. “He remembers a whole, whole-lot, then, cause he’s really big!”

"Ah—” My lips hurt as little fizzles escaped from between them. “You’re not wrong, smudge.” 

“Uh-huh, I know.” 

She had flipped open to the middle of the album, to a series of snowy shots taken when she was...what...sixteen months old? We had gone sledding for the first time, and Ms. Byrd had captured the fleeting joy of it so perfectly. Little Bree’s jack-o-lantern teeth bared in glee above her muffler, the point of her elf-bonnet tickling my chin. My own hat had flown off into the wind, curls a blurry cloud above us.

She turned the pages to the left, going back in time. Cackles erupted at the images from her first birthday, elbows and eyebrows deep in chocolate cake, then she straightened gravely at the evidence of some of her exuberant early steps. “Was I walkin’ as good as Ian?” she dared me. 

“Very well! Though he did start sooner.”

“Hey-Mummy?”

I inhaled through a secret, tired smile. Eighteen hundred times a day.  At least. “Yes, Bree?”

“Hey-Mummy, where’s Da?”

“Putting Ian to bed.” I glanced at my watch. “Which means you, sweet pea, need to get your pajamas on, and—”

“NO, where is he in heee-rrrrre?” She lifted the album, glaring. “Where I was the baby?”

My jaw was open as though I’d started to say something. If only I knew what it might have been. Maybe then I’d know what came next. 

“See-look,” she insisted, turning the thick pages of the other album and pointing emphatically.

Jamie, showing Ian around the house on the first day he’d come home with us . 

Ian, in my arms in the hospital bed with Jamie at my shoulder, smiling down at us with Bree on his lap.

She thunked the album down, half on top of the other, contrasting the very first family photos I possessed: just the two of us, meeting one another in the morning light of that lonely, heavenly hospital room. “Where’s the Da-ones for me, Mummy?”  

“Da…he...” 

Damn it. 

“....He wasn’t there when you were a baby.”

Brianna blinked twice, and her eyes went fierce as she cocked her head. “Wasn’t?”

“No. He wasn’t.”

“Why wasn’t he?”

“He was away at—at the war when you were born.” 

Seeing the questions stacking up behind her eyes, I tried to explain, though my blood was thudding in my ears. “You know how Miss Della’s beau Peter is a soldier? And how he has to be away in Korea? That's like where Daddy was, too. He…” My voice cracked a little. “He was away, and didn’t get to meet you until you were Ian’s age.”

“Da was-not away!” Bree insisted, though her eyes were wide, unaccustomed doubt creeping in.

“He was, though, darling,” I whispered. “You don’t remember because you were still very little when he came back.” 

I turned the pages slowly, past those scattered glimpses of our early days, when we were the Randalls, then the Beauchamps. “Da was—” Goddamn it, what was the bloody story? “—captured, and we were told he died.”

I thought she hadn’t heard me. I cleared my throat and started to repeat myself, more audibly this time, but I glanced down and my heart clenched so hard the tears broke through. For, my little warrior’s face had completely fallen to despair. “....Daddy died?”

“No! No, no, no, sweetheart, he didn’t, but he was….lost....for a long time.”

She sucked in a breath, almost a gasp, all trace of fierceness gone as she searched my face. “Was he scared?”

I could only nod, the tears stinging, squeezing the walls of my throat. “But, one day, he did come back. He found us and he got to meet you. His wee lassie. See?”

Jamie, on our second wedding day, so very thin in his suit, but glowing as he held little Bree in his arms, looking down at her with unrestrained, awestruck  tenderness.

“You made him — make him  — so happy, lovey,” I whispered, pulling her close onto my lap and against my heart as I turned the page. 

The two of them, stretched out on this very couch, both their mouths open as they slept, her cheek smushed cozily against his chest.

I pressed my own cheek against her head. “He’d loved you the whole time he was lost. Getting to finally meet you was....” I flipped over to Ian’s first photos, pointing to Jamie. “Just like how happy he was here, when he met baby Ian for the first time.”  

“Mummy....I dinna—” Her voice was choked, tears streaming as she whispered: “I dinna w-want Da to be lost when I w-was Ian.”

“Ohh, love, sweetheart, I—”

The door from the kitchen opened. “Alright, Bree, your turn for—”

“DA!”

By long instinct, he dropped to a crouch to let her run, sobbing, into his arms. “Christ, what's this, then, cub?” He rubbed her back, coaxing brightly to ease her worries, his expert skill. “Heyyy, lass, there, now.....Dinna be troubled so, wee love—tell me what’s amiss.”

She couldn’t say anything coherent at first, but at last, she choked it out. “I dinna want—y-you to b-be—lost again!”

“I’m no’ lost, Brianna,” he nearly laughed. “I’m here, see? Safe and—”

“Mu—Mummy said you were dead and l-lost when I was littlest and–I don't—dinna—w-want—you—to—ever— ”

“Och, no, lass,” he moaned at once as he pulled her tight against his chest and rose to his feet, his eyes meeting mine with an understanding that ached in us both as he saw the tracks of my own tears. “Never. Not ever.”

He swayed with her for a very long time as she sobbed into his shoulder. His eyes were closed and I could barely hear what he murmured into her hair: 

“That was the saddest time of my whole life, mo chridhe....” In Gaelic: ‘I'll never be parted from ye again...nor your mother... nor Ian…...I swear it.’

“She’s truly growing up, then,” Jamie whispered, softly rubbing Brianna’s back where she lay curled up asleep on the sofa behind us. “That she can feel things so in her heart…..” He turned from her to lean fully against the bottom cushions, resting his arms on his knees. “It makes me want to weep, Sassenach. All the sadness that awaits them in the world....That I could keep all of it at bay.”

“Will we ever tell them differently?”

His head swiveled around, surprised. “Tell them what, mo ghraidh?”

“The truth.” The word was a ball of ice in my stomach. “About....everything. The stones... How we met. Who you really are.”

“I confess....I had assumed we never would tell them.” 

“When it was only me and Bree, I had thought...well, it was a vague thought, only....but I assumed someday she would know. Now, though....it doesn’t seem as simple, somehow.” 

“Aye.” His chest rose and fell heavily as he ran a hand backward through his hair. “In truth, ‘tis indeed a weight on my heart to think that they might never know all the dear memories—only the wee fragments, disguised as they must be.”

About Lallybroch. Jenny and Ian. All their little cousins. Murtagh. Brian and Ellen. Names the children knew, but only a surface-version; a bedtime story about people in a faraway land who were now lost; no more real than any other; far less so, with no photographs or brightly-colored illustrations to prove those people had existed. 

Still more....might they never know what their father did for them at Culloden? Of the sacrifice and pain we both chose on that day? 

“But we must bear it, no?” he was saying sadly, even as a half-hope grew in his eyes. 

“How can they ever truly know us, Jamie,” I said, “understand us without knowing where we’ve been? What we’ve been through?” I thought of my own parents, shrouded in so much mystery, so much not known; unknowable, now. 

“Perhaps...when they’re older? When they might be trusted to keep such a big secret, we might tell them. Though....” he considered. “They might both be fully grown before t’would be the right time for such a—"

“And yet, that’s the other side of the coin.” I hated this; scolded myself for being the devil’s advocate of cloying gloom. “It’s like adopted children that aren’t told until adulthood. If we wait so long, won’t they resent us for keeping such a monumental thing from them? The truth of who they are and how they came to exist?” My eyes must have looked as hopeless as Bree’s. “What do you think we should we do?”

A pause, then his mouth twitched in a weak attempt at a smile. “I wish I kent the certain path, Claire. I do.” Any light in his eyes ebbed. “In truth, we rob them — and ourselves, forbye — of something dear no matter the choice, aye?”

It might have lingered, the worry. It might have been a cloud over us throughout the fallen night. Instead, our eyes met and we softened in unison. He leaned his forehead against mine, pulling me closer to kiss my cheek. Many years stood between us and that day, should it ever even come. 

I was about to rest my head on his shoulder, but a photo caught my eye, right there by my ankle. 

It was barely in focus, fully half the image a diagonal, black nothingness, a childish finger covering the lens. Still, it had been captured at precisely the right moment, before Jamie or I had had time to react. 

Both of us were in pajamas in front of the stove, my hair an absolute wreck (though, when was it not?), the cup of tea in my hand in serious danger of slopping over the side, since Jamie had me by the waist and was working to pull me close. His head was bent to my neck, his grin sweet and roguish, though his eyes were hidden. Mine were closed and my head was thrown back, as though no other damn thing in the world mattered but the moment’s silly joy. 

I cradled it between us and spoke the simplest version of the ache within me.

 “I’m so happy you’re not lost anymore.”

[rosetowers]

Ducklings as they grow up masterpost

hey, so i’ve made a lot of posts about how everyone grows up and for your convenience i’ve decided to put the important bits plus extra into one post.

this gets long to under the cut it goes

Huey

13-16: wears sweater vests because he’s a nerd. Around 15 he realises he’s asexual and is generally pretty chill about it and is generally not interested in dating. Puberty is fine except for when his voice breaks and for a while it just… randomly pitches higher. Donald gets how he feels since when he hit puberty the same thing happened (so between that and his speech impediment puberty was not fun for Donald). Huey’s siblings tease him relentlessly for it tho.

17-21: still wearing a sweater vest. Still not interested in dating, but people who talk to him are and his naturally sweet nature means a lot of people crush on him, not that he really notices (boy can tell from the next room that Louie has fallen in love again but can’t tell when someone is flirting with him smh). Is learning to fly from his mother and Launchpad, so he’s not only going to be able to fly expertly, but also be able to survive and repair/rebuild after any crash. Ends up about average height for a duck, like Donald or Scrooge’s height and gains some muscle.

21+: finally changed his look and now tends to wear overalls. At some point, Ma Beagle passes away and Huey is asked by Bouncer and Burger to take over, which ticks off Big-Time and a small group of the other Beagle Boys. the rest embrace his leadership and make peace with his family as he changes the groups from a criminal gang to model citizens. They do a lot of charity work like recycling, building homes for the homeless and raising money for the needy etc. and the Junior Woodchucks are flooded with the youngest members of the family. There are also a lot of turf wars with the Beagles who broke off, they call themselves the Big-Timers now.

Dewey

13-16: cycles through various adventurer-style outfits and does not suit any of them, mainly because he has dozens of zits and keeps having random growth spurts which makes him all gangly and awkward. Bi as hell and uses bad pick-up lines when he has a crush. Getting a more in-depth education on sailing from Donald. Has developed a tendency to jump onto high places and belt out musicals out of nowhere. Is also being taught to fight by Webby.

17-21: finally picks a look, tank tops and sleeveless denim jackets, and he’s also considering getting an anchor tattoo (don’t tell Donald). Actually looks pretty good since he turns out really tall (like, a head shorter than LP) and gains a lot of muscle, he loves being tall since it drives Huey crazy. Tries to be a suave, flirty adventurer, but can’t flirt to save his life, so it drives him nuts that Huey gets so much attention without even realising it. Loves to party, sneaks into clubs a lot.

21+: sticks to denim, does get the tatoo (Donald faints), still can’t flirt. When Scrooge retires they go adventuring together with Dewey working as skipper. Very capable on adventures now, what with the skills he learned with Webby and Scrooge, but often needs his uncle to drag him out of danger (and visa versa).

Louie

13-16: goth phase. He ends up with Scrooge and Fergus’ sideburns, and more or less looks like Scrooge did as a teenager. Wears a black, zip up hoodie over a green shirt, green hair dye on his bangs, and too much eye-liner. Gay edgy boy with a diary full of bad poems. Reads the Duckverse equivalent of Twilight and develops an unhealthy concept of romance where his type is jerks with heart of gold; falls in love with jerks with hearts of jerk super easily, cries a lot. Retains some sense of humor, mainly in the form of standing behind Scrooge and mirroring his movements, Manny sometimes joins in.

17-21: over his goth phase. Very confident, snappy dresser, wears blazers, scarves, and bling. Also really short and chubby and cute, loves himself. A good hustler and gambler (he cheats like crazy) to make some cash since he’s stuck as an unpaid intern at the Money Bin (Scrooge: you’re being paid in experience. Fenton: that means he’s cheap. Louie: don’t I know it). Has moved on from duck-Twilight to awful romance novels and duck-Fifty Shades of Gray. So he still has terrible taste in men and gets his heart broken (he eats so much ice cream). Can use his rep as “Love-struck Louie” to trick suckers into thinking he’s fallen in love with them for hustling purposes, but he has to be careful because this can backfire if he accidentally does fall for them. Also flirts to get what he wants and has a really good gaydar, no matter how deep in the closet someone is.

21+: turns out hard work really does pay off! When Scrooge retires to go adventuring full-time, Louie’s the only one with the experience and any actual desire to run the company. Wears tailor-made gray suits and silk, green ties. Remodels the manor and loves throwing lavish parties hosted by the ghosts of Beakley and Duckworth. Is actually a hard worker, pulling all nighters, as well as putting a lot of money into charity. “Recommends” the board of vultures who stopped Scrooge from searching for Della retire, replaces them with new members, including Gyro and Fenton, and makes Manny head of R & D. Also hires Webby as his bodyguard and keeps LP on as his chauffeur. Also finally burns all those romance novels and tries harder to protect his heart. For reasons i don’t fully understand, I love the idea of Louie and Mark Beaks becoming enemies. Like, maybe mirroring Scrooge and Glomgold; they take over the Billionaires club and spend their time there glaring at each other, whilst their bodyguards Webby and Graves (because I said so) are on hand to keep them from getting into a slap fight. The rest of their time is spent trying to outdo each other in new tech (and with Gyro and Fenton now being part of his board of directors there’s no end to the ideas to one-up the jerk).

Webby

17-21: doesn’t grow much, she and Louie end up around the same height as adults. Lesbian. Still loves the colour pink, and also denim jackets; wears a handkerchief wrapped around her head instead of a bow (like this but pink). As hyper and excited about the world and adventures as she’s always been, but thanks to the influence of her honorary siblings she’s ridiculously sarcastic. she’s also become a bit of a prankster, so everyone in the manor has developed a habit of slowly and carefully opening doors and cabinets in case anything jumps out, checking “treasure” for price labels, and making sure maps and documents relating to treasure and artifacts are what they appear to be. Duckworth and occasionally Della are often her partners in crime. Joins in when Dewey randomly starts singing. She’s in the process of officially joining SHUSH.

21+: as I said, she becomes Louie’s bodyguard, but that’s mainly an excuse to hang out with him, and is also her cover for her other job as a SHUSH agent, since Louie can actually defend himself just fine (she also keeps him awake during board meetings). Wears a black suit when on bodyguard duty and a pink catsuit on missions. Grows her hair out and ties it back with a pink bow.

Lena

16-21: pansexual. Generally wears a heavy coat over a dress and various enchanted items of jewelry that Scrooge lets her keep. BTW yes Scrooge has long since adopted her and is now her dad. About as interested in dating as Huey is, but might still flirt if she finds someone cute; having said that she’s gotten into more than one fight with Louie over a boy (but if the guy is interested in Louie she chases him off since he’s clearly a creep, Louie’s a kid after all). She’s generally a pretty chill person, but she does struggle to make her needs known to her family and is kind of closed off around new people. Has power over both dark and light magic (a connection to shadows and celestial objects, can travel through shadows and shape shift + general magic stuff), but for a while she has poor impulse control, even though she wants to use it for good. Luckily, she finds Scraps the familiar, and black and white corgi who protects her and tries to keep her from doing dumb stuff with her magic.

21+: develops into a powerful sorceress, recognised by various magical authorities as Empress of Light and Queen of Shadows. Wears black with various shades of blue and purple, wears long skirts and long baggy sleeves, generally develops a more elegant style. Outside Duckburg everyone believes her to be the town’s mysterious sorceress and protection, to its citizens she commands a certain amount of respect but is generally regarded as Lena McDuck, the girl who blew up Funzo’s when she was fifteen and who occasionally shows up out of nowhere, her corgi likes to be petted too.

[engmjr419]

Skipping along the Surface: Exaggeration in the Antebellum Era

Illustrations from a collection of animal fables, The Public and Private lives of Animals from 1877. Source.

       In the early half of the 19th century, the cities were where you wanted to be. An unexpected number of young people were suddenly packing their humble, rural lives and going to the city in hopes of wealth, social life, and to join the tail end of the industrial revolution.

From the moment people set foot in these utopias of stone and iron, the culture around them shifted. These people were no longer in their small towns where everybody knew everybody else (think Huckleberry Finn) instead they were in large cities, with streets full of bustling strangers (who you could never know every single of as more arrived daily). This caused a massive cultural shift in how people interacted with each other (not unlike our technological age), where people feared each other, the unknown, the stranger.

An illustration of a New York Street from the book “Nooks and Crannys of Old New York” (1899). Source

Granted, a fear of strangers has always been present, however there is a stark difference between a single carpetbagger (a lovely word I know) entering your small farming town and an entire street being filled with faces you don’t know. This fear of being unable to discern who can be trusted and who cannot from face alone, caused people to turn to Advice manuals, psuedosciences, and become interested in the externality of the human form with daguerreotype (a form of early photography) galleries, the “art” of Minstrelsy, and what the surface of the form tells. This use of Exaggeration of the human form in the 19th century, from Literature to the pseudoscience of Physiognomy to Minstrelsy, served as the surface of underlining societal fears and beliefs.

The term “Exaggeration” typically simply means, as defined by Merriam – Webster “an act or instance of exaggerating something, overstatement of the truth.” However, I will be asking you to, well, exaggerate the meaning a bit, to include any act twists the truth, draw excessive notice to certain aspects to something, or overall, to make a situation seem comedically unrealistic.

Count Alfred D’Orsay’s 1843 Help Manual on Proper Etiquette, Howe’s 1856 Complete Ball-room Hand Book. Source / Source

        This mass migration of the youth to urban areas caused moralists to worry over how these young middle-class people separated from the “surveillance” of their families, towns, and churches would learn how to “properly” live life. Thus, this issue was solved by dozens of teachers, clergymen, and writers in the 1830s who published numerous manuals for living life, in an endless number of topics, like the ones pictured above. These manuals instructed young readers how to have proper manners, morals, appearance, good habits, along with more specific topics like proper dress, ball room dance, what to eat, when and whom to marry, among all other things (Haltunnen 1).

While some were simple etiquette books other manuals exaggerated the dangers of the city, likely only furthering this fear of strangers. While new arrivals were likely easy targets for what these authors describe as “Confidence Men” who preyed on trust, the descriptions of them and their influence was often fantastical. One manual stated, “The moment the inexperienced youth sets his foot on the sidewalk of the city, he is marked and watched by eyes that he never dreamed of” later on in the same passage, “There is she…who now makes war upon virtue and exults in being a successful recruiting-officer of hell.” (2)

These manuals would use words and phrases like “Seducer” and “Force of Evil” to describe the criminals in the cities, linking them to the devil and hell (as Christianity still held a firm grasp on people). Some even claiming the mere presence of these young people in the city can “corrupt them”:

“Feel as they may, contact with evil it is impossible to avoid. If they walk the streets of the city, or tread the floors of the hall, it is to see the sights, and hear sounds, and be subjected to influences, all of which, gradually and imperceptibly, but surely and permanently, are drawing the lines of deformity on their hearts” (5).

They would twist and exaggerate these conmen into masterful archetypal villains, cloaked in the shadows of the large city buildings. In the antebellum advice literature, the dramatic plot became an “inexperienced young man had just set foot in the city when he is approached by a confidence man seeking to dupe and destroy him” (3). This exaggeration of these conmen simply stood in because of people’s fears about strangers in this era (and their influence), along with the fears people had about being duped and deceptions.

The Norton Critical Edition Cover for The Confidence-Man. Source

      Herman Melville, famously known for Moby Dick, published a satirical book in 1857 about “Confidence Men” simply titled The Confidence-Man, commenting on people’s fears of these conmen and the general fear of “the other” people held. In this book, nearly every character is questionable regarding their motives, personality, and “truth” as it were, with very little description regarding them beyond appearance. Some characters only characteristic is their appearance, like “the man in the gray suit” who is a supposed charity man, making light of how people constantly questioned the people around them on surface level characteristics. The man in the grey suit makes a plea of charity, of confidence, to a rich man after explaining his dream of a “world-wide” charity fueled by the taxation of the entire globe:

"Eight hundred millions! More than that sum is yearly expended by mankind, not only in vanities, but miseries. Consider that bloody spendthrift, War. And are mankind so stupid, so wicked, that, upon the demonstration of these things they will not, amending their ways, devote their superfluities to blessing the world instead of cursing it? Eight hundred millions! They have not to make it, it is theirs already; they have but to direct it from ill to good.” (The Confidence Man, pg. 61)

The expanse and exaggeration of this scheme was obviously a prodding to the audience, as the man repeats the phrase “Eight Hundred Millions” to draw the listener back in time and time again as they get lost in his words. While this man is purposely left grey, he uses the language help manuals specified to “Confidence Man” later in the book egging a woman on by preying on her religion and morals. “"Entire stranger! …Ah, who would be a stranger? In vain, I wander; no one will have confidence in me… No one can befriend me, who has not confidence” He says, stretching a hand out to the woman in true or mock desperation, exaggerating his words so it seems he has no assistance in the world (despite the fact two other people gave money to him earlier in the book) (68). The book allows a fog to be cast over everybody, the conmen might be a singular conman in costumes, multiple conmen, or not conmen at all, it is up for the reader to decide after all.

Leonine specimens: Illustration in Giambattista della Porta’s De humana physiognomia (Naples, 1602). Source

      This fear of strangers pushed people to figure out methods of determining who is “malicious” and “conniving” in the streets. What better place to turn than a pseudoscience entirely focused on outer appearance? Physiognomy is a pseudoscience about determining people’s inner characteristics by their outer appearance. It focuses on how people’s heads, features, and sometimes limbs are shaped, sized, and compared with themselves and each other. It is readily apparent why people in the 19th century readily enveloped this, choosing to exaggerate people’s appearance for the sake of satisfaction.

Physiognomy have roots dating back to 500 BC, where “Aristotle wrote that large-headed people were mean, those with small faces were steadfast, broad faces reflected stupidity, and round faces signaled courage”. In the 1600s, the first book regarding Physiognomy was published by Giambattista della Porta, believed to be the “Father” of the psuedoscience. The above illustration is from that book, comparing humans to animals (that one being a rather odd-looking lion), implying shared personalities. He guessed that humans have a “pure essence”, suggesting “that one could deduce an individual’s character from empirical observation of his physical features” (Waldorf).

Various books were published regarding Physiognomy in the 19th century, including Comparative Physiognomy: or, Resemblances Between Men and Animals in 1852 and Portraits of Patients from Surrey County Asylum in 1855. We can see the fascination of Physiognomy continue into the 1900s with books such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader from 1902, and The Physiognomy of Hands from 1917.

An illustration from Comparative Physiognomy, comparing “Negreos” to the profile of a fish, pg. 171. Source.

     Comparative Physiognomy: or, Resemblances Between Men and Animals thus calls back to the first book of Physiognomy, comparing the human form to that of animals and implying shared traits with an emphasis on nationality. From simply reading the chapter list it becomes obvious there is some racial bias in play (Which comes all too easily to Physiognomy).  Germans, Englishmen, and Prussians are compared to animals representing strength and cunning like lions, bulls, and cats while “Negroes”, Jews, and “Chinamen” are compared to prey and service animals like fishes, goats, and hogs. The book states, “Are not those half-closed, drowsy eyes, as seen in the portrait on the following page, a striking element of Chinese beauty?”  and “The best point in the character of a hog is not a ravenous disposition, but simply a taste for anything and everything—an un-bounded appetite, perfect digestion, and great tendency to grow fat” (Redfield, 167-168).

An illustration from Comparative Physiognomy comparing a portrait of a woman to that of a hog, pg. 167. Source

In the chapter that compares Africans to the fishes along their coast, the author states an interesting argument:

Catching negroes is akin to fishing, and the caught are stowed away on board vessels like cod-fish and whale oil; and were it not that they resemble fishes, and that there is a feeling of this, and a dim perception of it, the business would be perfectly infernal. There is always something to relieve men from the charge of being devils incarnate, and to place them in a position in which their reformation is not to be despaired of  (81).

James W. Redfield, M.D. (the author of this strange fiction) implies, moreover states, that Physiognomy, the exaggerated dehumanization, enables them to conduct the act of slavery without being condemned in the eyes of god. By dehumanizing the people they are enslaving, comparing them to mere fish on a pole, it enables them to characterize the other. By exaggerating the African form, they enable themselves to follow the beliefs they hold, primarily the act of slavery.

It is curious then that Physiognomy manages to survive to our present day, from the stereotype of the “jewish” nose and exaggeration of African Americans lips, to my mother saying my hands are “piano players hands” to people being described as “mousey” to the term “stuck-up” which comes from Physiognomy thinking.

          Various works of the time touched on the topic of Physiognomy either by using the pseudo-science, either seriously or satirically, reversing it as means of discussion, or using it as a means to explore identity. We return to our friend Herman Melville, as he forces the reader to use Physiognomy to decern people, primarily a character called “Black Guinea”. “Black Guinea” is described as “cut down to the stature of a Newfoundland dog; his knotted black fleece and good-natured, honest black face rubbing against the upper part of people's thighs” he later is continually being described as having a “Newfoundland-dog face”. This use by Melville is both a racial and Physiognomy comment, as “Black Guinea” is first treated as if he literally were a dog and later he is considered a conmen, a white man in black makeup (Melville, 13-25).

Lydia Maria Child in her older years. Source.

Lydia Maria Child, known for her skills at letter-writing and endeavors for racial justice, fights this pseudoscience by stating the “incongruities” plain in life. Child writes to an unknown, probably nonexistent, recipient about a Scotsman she met:

“A regular Sawney, with tartan plaid and bag-pipe. And where do you guess he most frequently plies his poetic trade? Why, in the slaughter house!...There, if you are curious to witness congruities, you may almost any day see grunting pigs or bleating lambs, with throats cut to the tune of  Highland Mary, or Bonny Doon, or Lochaber No More.”

Alongside this, she talks about a sea captain, “Few have interested me more strongly than an old sea captain, who needed only sir Walter’s education…his familiarity with legendary lore, to make him, too, a poet and romancer” (Child, 58). By revealing these incongruities in life, she breaks this simplicity Physiognomy attempts to create, by showing a Scotsman playing beautifully in a place of slaughter, and a sea captain as a poet, a romancer of the masses (a slight jab at “Confidence  Men” as well).

Walt Whitman, a poet famously attributed as creating the modern poem, also comments on Physiognomy. In his poem Faces he has lines “Do you suppose I could be content with all if I thought them their own finalé (truth)?” and “This face is a dog’s snout sniffling for garbage. Snakes nest in that mouth, I fear the sibilant threat” And later in, a whole stanza criticizing judging people from the surface:

“I saw the face of the most smear’d and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum,

And I knew for my consolation what they knew not,

I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother,

The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement,

And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,

And I shall meet the real landlord perfect and unharm’d,

Every inch as good as myself” (The Portable Walt Whitman, 103-105).

Whitman argues that the exaggeration and focus on the human outer form, does not truly state the complexities a human has reducing them to, as he says, a “smear’d and slobbering idiot”. He says you cannot be content if you simply took people at face value, quite literally in this context.

An advertisement for the Virginia Minstrels, a pioneer minstrel show company from 1843. Source.

       Finally, exaggeration of the human form in this era is blatantly seen in the tradition of Minstrel shows, otherwise called Minstrelsy. Minstrelsy in the basic sense was white men in blackface, performing the enslaved African Americans dances and songs in an exaggerated caricature. Popular performers of this style were Jim Crow and Tom Rice (jokes on African Americans skin color and occupations). Minstrel shows were popular from the early 19th century, reaching its high point in the years 1850 to 1870. The advertisement above is from one of the most popular and pioneer minstrel groups, the Virginia Minstrels (“Minstrel Show”). This tradition typically had the performers exaggerating their lips and nose, performing a form of theatrical physiognomy.

Again, we return to our friend “Black Guinea” from Melville’s Novel, The Confidence-Man. A part of “Black Guinea’s” implied con is that he is accused of being a white man in black face. “He's some white operator, betwisted and painted up for a decoy. He and his friends are all humbugs” states a man with a wooden leg (Melville, 18). Prior to this, “Black Guinea” is acting extremely exaggerated as these minstrels would be, stating he lives “On der floor of der good baker's oven, sar” then reveals that the baker is the sun, and crawling around like a dog as stated previously. Additionally, he performs a popular minstrel act that readers in the era would know,

“Still shuffling among the crowd, now and then he would pause, throwing back his head and, opening his mouth like an elephant for tossed apples at a menagerie; when, making a space before him, people would have a bout at a strange sort of pitch-penny game, the cripple's mouth being at once target and purse, and he hailing each expertly-caught copper with a cracked bravura from his tambourine” (15)

This exaggeration is used to further cloud what “Black Guinea” really is, is he a crippled black man exaggerating his identity for the sake of the white crowd, or is he a white man in black face performing the illusion of blackness in exaggeration? The book never tells for sure.

      Exaggeration in art has, is, and will always be a part of the process. As humans focus on certain aspects, those aspects get enlarged, spotlighted, exaggerated to the point their impossible to ignore. These exaggerations can reveal concerns and beliefs of that society, from the Antebellum help manuals fears of young getting conned, to Melville’s pessimistic satire on way people interacted, to cartoons depicting grown men as cowering children, to comparing humans to fish, to the overtly racist acts of Minstrel shows. These over-the-top, fantastical views of the world reveal to us, in the present, the society’s deepest beliefs and fears of the new age.

It is peculiar then how some of the Antebellum era manages to reflect our own, from the polarized political state, to the discussions of race as unanswered, silenced minorities seek a voice, to the new era of interaction we have over the metaphorical city of the internet.  I may be making yet another exaggeration to add on top of the ones I have already shown. What can I say but, it is just another skipping stone along the surface of our culture.

Works Cited

Child, Lydia Maria. “Letters from New-York”. 1841. Pg. 58.

Halttunen, Karen. “Confidence Men and Painted Women : A Study of Middle Class Culture in America, 1830-1870.” 1982, pg. 1-5.

Melville, Herman. “The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade.” 1857. Pgs. 13-25, 61, 68.

“Minstrel Show”. Encyclopædia Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica, September 2nd, 2020. https://www.britannica.com/art/minstrel-show

Redfield, James W. M.D., “Comparative Physiognomy or Resemblances between Men and Animals.” 1852, pgs. 81, 167-168.

Waldorf, Sarah. “Physiognomy, The Beautiful Psuedoscience.” The Iris, October 8th, 2012. https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/physiognomy-the-beautiful-pseudoscience/

Whitman, Walt. “The Portable Walt Whitman.” Edited by Michael Warner, December 30th, 2003. Pgs. 103-105.

[lena-went]

Salvezza dell'uomo e Della Bestia Pt 2

F: Around 4 pm we finally rose from bed and assessed the damage. The sheets were half pulled off the bed and the duvet had long been lost to the dark mahogany floors. We both laughed heartily and collected our discarded clothing from their places scattered around the room. 

“I’m going to grab a shower.” She announced sauntering into my bathroom with a cheeky grin. 

I furrowed my brow in confusion, did she expect me to follow? Feeding my anxieties and hearing the pattering of water coming from the bathroom I refocused myself and proceeded to strip the bed and remake it after carrying the sheets to the small laundry room tucked away between two of my guest rooms. Arriving back in my room I suddenly felt very exposed and alone so I hurriedly put a pair of boxer briefs and my white undershirt back on. I sat on the edge of my bed and regarded my hands as they fidgeted, suddenly unsure of their place. 

“FREDERICK!” Her voice screamed from the bathroom, coated in fear. My bare feet slapped against the floor as I sprinted painfully to her.

 Opening the door to the bathroom I saw her backed into the corner of the glass shower pointing at the corner opposite her. 

“Y/N What is it? Whats wrong?” I inquired moving closer before realizing the danger.

A spider the size of a beverage coaster had crawled its way onto the marble bench inside the shower and was making slow patterned steps towards Y/N as she giggled but recoiled in fear. I clutched my stomach which was now throbbing from my brief olympic speed strides and rolled my eyes. 

“Save me!” She insisted as I moved to get a better angle on the spider before looking around the bathroom for weapons. 

“With what?” I laughed as her squeals grew louder. 

I pulled a white towel from its shelf and opened the door to the shower taking care not to slip on the slick gray granite tiled floor. 

“Careful baby!” She squealed moving herself behind me as I approached the trespassing creature. 

I blushed at her high pitched endearment. I felt her warm wet body press up against my back as she wrapped her arms around me placing her palms on my chest. I threw the towel over the spider in a swift motion trapping him under the thick cotton and blocking his escape route. 

“Wait!” She cried as I moved to step on the lump beneath the white cloud. I looked at her half in exasperation and half in curiosity. 

She slid out of the glass box that was my shower and pulled a decorative vase from the sink counter with care. Returning she knelt down and gestured for me to corral the hairy arachnid towards the mouth of the vase now flush with the wet floor. As soon as I lifted the edge of the towel the spider hurried its way into the vase and she quickly covered the mouth with the towel. 

“Hold this!” She exclaimed placing the makeshift jail into my arms. I followed her to my closet where she pulled on one of my black undershirts which looked like a dress on her petite frame. 

I limped gingerly along as she reclaimed her trap and hurried down the hallway and descended the stairs leaving little wet footprints as she went. Reaching the front door she gestured for me to open it and when I did she hurried out to the edge of the concrete steps where she laid the vase. I observed as she lifted the towel from the entrance and the spider made its aggravated exit, racing for the sanctuary of the grass. Still crouched down she turned to me with the most childlike glee on her face. I smiled back and opened the door for us to reenter the house. She picked up the vase and towel as we returned to my bedroom depositing the towel in the laundry room on the way. 

“Thank you for letting me save him.” She spoke softly before kissing me on my cheek. 

My hands found and cradled her face sweetly as I treasured the look on her face. I couldn't find any words so I spoke the only way I could think of, a small hum and a gentle kiss on her forehead. She giggled and placed her hand on top of mine which was resting on her cheek. Pulling me with her towards the bathroom she grinned. 

“Come on.” 

I stopped where I was and looked at her questioningly. 

“Are you sure…you want me in there…with you?” 

She paused and tilted her head in confusion before smiling again. 

“Well…if I’m being honest…I’m still a little frightened from the spider incident…and I can think of no one…no one who makes me feel safer.” With each pause she had taken a step closer to me and on her final words she placed a light kiss on my lips. 

I made her feel safe. I raised my head confidently and allowed her to guide me with her again.

R: The morning could not have been more euphoric. Frederick was sensational in bed and surprisingly confident. As he should be in more aspects of his life. Finally after both showering we settled on the couch with salads and cut up fruit Frederick had ordered from the Greek restaurant a few blocks away. He flipped through Netflix quickly, nothing quite grabbing his attention. Suddenly a documentary on Edward VIII was pulled to the front and I smacked his thigh lightly to get his attention. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. 

“That one.” I stated pointing to the icon on his large screen. 

“You want to watch a documentary?” He said in a skeptical tone. 

I moved myself to face him and placed my salad bowl on the coffee table. 

“Have you ever heard the story of Wallis and Edward, Frederick?” 

He leaned back, amused by my theatrical enthusiasm. “I cannot say that I am familiar with the narrative.”

I flipped my hair over my shoulder and reached for the remote he held loosely in his hand. He offered it willingly and I began searching for W/E, a biopic about Wallis and Edward’s romance. Frederick watched me patiently and took a few bites of his salad as the movie began to buffer. 

“Frederick the soundtrack is breathtaking, you're going to love it.” I continued describing the music that would accompany the film with an obnoxious enthusiasm at which Frederick chuckled and pulled me close to him by wrapping an arm around my waist.

He reached for another remote and turned off the ceiling and kitchen lights while gesturing for me to turn off the large lamp that hung over us via the wall. I turned it off with a few clicks and then settled close to him once more. The blue shirt he was wearing when coupled with his pajama pants seemed so strangely casual for a man who was normally dressed to the nines. I nuzzled my nose into his shoulder looking up at him tenderly. His eyes widened for a moment and then he pressed a kiss to the top of my forehead before focusing on the film once more.

This was complete fluff and I’m not even sorry.

[throughtheflamesnovel]

MINOR CHARACTERS

• Jon Jane

- Lydia's father

- Full Name: Jonathan "Jon" Jane

- Age: 45

- Marital Status: Married to Lily Jane

- Death: Killed by Ethan Hawthorne on September 22, 2015 (burned alive)

- Physical Appearance: gray hair and blue eyes; stood at 6'0" with an athletic build. Jon was professional, and mostly wore a suit and tie to work.

- Personality: Very protective over his daughrer and only wanted the best for his family moving forward; he firmly believed that Jack was not good enough for Lydia.

- Education: Honors diploma from Cleveland High School (1988); Realtors' license from Realtor School of Oregon (1993)

- Occupation: Realtor for Hasson Company Realtors' (1993-2015)

- Biography: Jon spent his entire childhood in an orphanage; when he was 15, after months upon months of begging, they allowed him to go to school with kids his own age. There, at Cleveland High, he met Lily Smith and thought she was pretty. He fell in love with her over the next four years and they married on August 18th 1990. All Jon ever wanted was a family, and a good job; he got both. In the summer of 1993, Jon got a good job at a realtor company; in October of 1996, Lily conceived a child. A daughter, whom they would name Lydia Nicole. It was the perfect age, the perfect time, and they lived little Lydia more than life itself. Leading into Through The Flames, Jon had just celebrated his 25th wedding anniversary with Lily, and he makes it clear that he does not like how close Jack and Lydia have grown to be.

• Janet Daniels

- Jack's mother

- Age: 35

- Marital Status: Single

- Physical Appearance: Brunette; light brown eyes and stands at 5'5" with ivory skin; has an athletic build. Janet's hair is always curled, and she wears black most of the time.

- Personality: A tough cookie to crack; very protective over her son, and blamed Lydia for Jack's near-death experience.

- Education: Mead High School (1998)

- Occupation: Restaurant owner/chef at Janet's.

- Biography: Janet Daniels had a rough start in life, being born to a sixteen year old prostitute and her pimp in the backseat of a 1977 Chevrolet Camaro; Janet’s childhood was something no child should ever have to go through. Living in filthy conditions, with her mother having a different man in her bed every night, Janet was taught that sex was just something fun to do; meaningless. At eleven years old, Janet was placed in foster care after her parents were arrested; six counts of illegal prostitution and eight counts of illegal drug dealing. Tyson, her father, was sent to prison for twenty years; Gina, her mother, was given five years at a woman’s correctional facility in Seattle, Washington. Janet’s foster family typically left her to her own devices, and like her mother, Janet became sexually active at the young age of thirteen, losing her virginity to her sixteen year old boyfriend; he broke up with her when he graduated. Janet, sixteen, then had rebound sex with his 24-year-old brother, resulting in her pregnancy with her son. Embarrassed, Janet never told him of her pregnancy, believing he’d want nothing to do with his unborn child. When Janet was eight months pregnant, Gina got out and requested to have her daughter back; Janet was happy to go home with her mother, hoping it could be a fresh start without her toxic father around. They both got waitressing jobs at a diner in town. In January of 1997, Janet gave birth to Jack; Gina helped her daughter out a lot, allowing her to finish school. Six years passed before Gina went back to her old ways;  Janet came home from work one day to find her six year old son crying over his grandmother’s dead body. With a mixture of fury and sadness in her heart, she fled with her son, only stopping once she was six hours away, in Oregon, to call the paramedics. In Through The Flames, Janet owns a restaurant named Janet’s; she bought it on lease after a few months on living in a motel in Portland, using the money she took from Gina’s apartment.

• Julie Ryan

- Choir teacher; Lydia’s close confidant

- Age: 28

- Physical Appearance: Golden blonde curls and brown eyes; stands at 5′7″ with an athletic build

- Personality: Southern charm; kind and extroverted; a great teacher and a true friend to Lydia

• Laura Bailey

- Anna’s sister

- Full Name: Laura Marie Bailey

- Born on March 1, 2001 to Adam and Anne Bailey in Portland, Oregon

- Physical Appearance: Dark brown hair and eyes to match, with ivory skin; stands at 5′5″ with a petite build. Like Anna, Laura enjoys wearing makeup and expensive, brand-name clothing.

- Personality: A lot like her sister; bubbly and energetic.

- Education: Da Vinci Middle School (8th Grade)

• Dylan Harris

- Cleveland High Student

- Age: 15

- Physical Appearance: Sandy blond hair and brown eyes stands at 5′4″ with a fair complexion.

- Education: Cleveland High School (9th grade)

• Torrance Johnson

- Holly’s father

- Age: 43

- Marital Status: Single

- Physical Appearance: Blond hair and brown eyes, standing at 6′0″

- Occupation: Author

• Melissa Jaton

- Victim of Ethan

- Age: 34

- Marital Status: Widow

- Death: Killed by Ethan Hawthorne on September 27, 2015 (slit throat)

- Physical Appearance: Sandy blonde hair and blue eyes; stood at 5′5″

• Tylee Jaton

- Victim of Ethan

- Age:13

- Death: Killed by Ethan Hawthorne on September 27, 2015 (stabbed)

- Physical Appearance: Blonde hair and blue eyes; wore her hair in a braid and stood at 5′4″

• Sandra Clover

- Eric’s mother

- Age: 32

- Marital Status: Married to Andrew Clover

- Physical Appearance: Raven hair, brown eyes, and stands at 5′6″

• Andrew Clover

- Eric’s step-father

- Age: 39

- Marital Status: Married to Sandra Long-Thomas

- Physical Appearance: Raven hair and blue eyes, standing at 6′0″

• Sherrie Blanchard

- Julliard Musical Associate

- Physical Appearance: Blonde hair and blue eyes; tall, at 5′8″ with soft beige skin

• Dr. Jones

- Holly’s attending doctor

- Physical Appearance: Bald with silver/grey eyes; stands at 5′6″

• Nurse Irina

- Holly’s nurse

- Physical Appearance: Light blonde hair and grey eyes

• James Hawthorne

- Ethan’s father

- Full Name: James Jedidiah Hawthorne

- Born on March 23, 1963 in Milwaukie, Oregon

- Age: 35

- Marital Status: Separated from Delilah Hawthorne; in a relationship with Billie Larson

- Death: Killed by Ethan Hawthorne on September 22, 1998 (strangled)

- Physical Appearance: Light brown hair and brown eyes; fair-skinned and stood at 6′1″

- Education: Diploma from Putnam High School

- Occupation: Auto-shop owner/mechanic; Hawthorne Auto Repair

- Biography: James was born to a mechanic named Jed, and his wife Cecilia. Unfortunately, Cecilia died giving birth to James, so he never got a chance to know his mother. He grew up in a nice house, in a good neighborhood, and never wanted for anything. Growing up, his dad was like his best friend, teaching him all about hunting, and sports, and cars. When James was sixteen, while visiting his grandparents in Salem, he met Delilah Farris; she was thirteen. James’ flirting game was strong that night, and Delilah developed a strong crush on the older boy. All three days that James was in Salem, he spent with Delilah. He nicknamed her Della, and the two shared their first kiss the night before he left. Once arriving home, James tried calling her everyday but there was never an answer; James was obsessed with Delilah Farris. After two weeks of nothing, James became fed up; he bought a bus ticket and rode over two hours to Salem, and to Delilah. James walked in the night, finding Delilah’s home with the lights on. Delilah answered the door, a purpling bruise just under her left eye. Furious, James demanded to know who had harmed her; Delilah tried to brush it off, claiming she ran into a door at school. Her father came to the door, then, and a fight ensued. Gangly 16-year-old James against a 45-year-old ex-convict was not a fair fight, but James won, punching and kicking; he took a few jabs himself, and fell down a few times, but he got back up. After falling through the glass table, Delilah’s father was knocked unconscious, and the two teenagers fled. Over the next three months, James and Delilah grew extremely close; Jed offered Delilah a home, no questions asked. James learned that Delilah got daily beatings from her father ever since her mother passed when she was eleven; he secretly wished he had killed him. On Christmas night, after knowing each other for a little over six months, James made love to Delilah for the first time; that night resulted in a pregnancy. Although they were both terrified, James only sixteen and Delilah just now fourteen, they kept their unborn child. Jed, being the man the man of God that he was, made the two get married; On January 26, 1980, they married when Delilah was a month pregnant. On September 11, 1981, Delilah gave birth to a baby girl; they named her Samantha June, named after Delilah’s mother. The three were happy together for a time; however, in 1985, Jed was diagnosed with lung cancer, which was already well progressed. With nothing for the doctors to do, James was by his father’s side every waking moment, until he eventually died in his sleep. James was devastated, feeling like he lost his best friend; the night of the funeral, however, James just needed to feel close to someone and he and Delilah made love, resulting in her pregnancy with their second child. It was a rocky one for Delilah; James began to drink heavily, no doubt stressed from having to take over the auto shop his father had left to him. On top of that, she had to take care of Samantha, who was only three years old at the time, all the while only being eighteen years old herself. James was falling into a depression and didn’t want to be around anyone or anything. On March 22, 1986, the day before James’ 22nd birthday, Delilah gave birth to a baby boy. Ethan James, after his father; but, James wasn’t there. He was too busy having sex with Billie, the mechanic he had hired to help out at the auto shop. James didn’t admit this to his wife until she was 7 months pregnant with their third child in 1997. Delilah didn’t have any choice but to forgive him; they two children and another on the way, and they lived off of James’ paycheck. On July 22, 1997, Delilah gave birth to their third child; Vivid Nicole. Only a month later, after finding James and Billie together in his office, Delilah called it quits; James let Delilah and the kids keep the house, and he moved in with Billie. Through The Flames begins with the Hawthorne family still reeling from the impending divorce between James and Delilah after 18 years of marriage, all the while trying not to break their children’s spirits.

• Delilah Hawthorne

- Ethan’s mother

- Full Name: Delilah Kaye Hawthorne (nee Farris)

- Born on October 11, 1966 in Salem, Oregon

- Age: 31

- Marital Status: Separated from James Hawthorne

- Death: Killed by Ethan Hawthorne on September 22, 1998 (burned alive)

- Physical Appearance: Raven hair and caramel brown eyes; stood at 5′4″

- Education: Stephens Middle School (8th grade)

- Occupation: Waitress at Red Lobster (8 months)

- Biography: Delilah was born to Johnny and Samantha Farris in 1966; she spent most of her childhood with her mother, as her father went to prison for vehicular manslaughter when she was only four years old. In November of 1977, Johnny got out on good behavior, and returned home to his wife and eleven year old daughter. Not long after, Samantha died of head trauma; Delilah never knew for sure, but she suspected Johnny killed her mother. That’s when the beatings began; at breakfast, after school, before she went to bed at night. Her life was hell, and Delilah saw no end in sight. When she was thirteen, Delilah found a savior in sixteen year old James Hawthorne. He was sweet and flirtatious, and Delilah was instantly smitten with him. Johnny, was however, less than ecstatic that Delilah had gotten a real boyfriend. Her beatings got worse, managing to sprain one of her ankles when she pushed her down the stairs. Delilah refused James’ phone calls, terrified of her father; when James showed up on her doorstep two weeks later, a mixture of fear and hope passed through her. Fear of what her father would do to both of them; hope because she finally saw a way out. Delilah fell in love with James when he fought for her, and won. When she saw her father’s body, passed out on the broken glass table, she prayed that he was dead. They left together, and Delilah knew she’d never love another man the way she loved James Hawthorne. Returning to Milwaukie with James, she found a home. On Christmas night that same year, after only knowing each other a little over three months, Delilah and James made love for the first time, resulting in the pregnancy of their first child; James’ father, being the man of God that he was, insisted that the two get married. On January 16, 1980, they got married at a lovely ceremony in a snowy landscape. Then, eight months later, Samantha June was born, completing their little family. The three of them were happy for a while; James finished high school and worked at his father’s auto shop, and Delilah was a fourteen year old stay-at-home mom. Then, in 1985, James’ father died from lung cancer, and their marriage started to deteriorate. Out of grief and loneliness, the night of Jed Hawthorne’s funeral, Delilah conceived her second child from James; Delilah thought this child would somehow bring James out of his depression, and drunken stupor, but she was wrong. She gave birth to Ethan James on March 22, 1986, but James wasn’t there to see the birth of his son; in reality, James was having sex with his new mechanic, Billie Larson. Delilah, however, didn’t find this out until she was 7 months pregnant with their third child, leaving her with no choice other than to forgive him. Delilah didn’t have a job or a high school diploma, with two children and another on the way; she knew she couldn’t survive without James. On July 22, 1997, Vivid Nicole was born, bringing peace to the Hawthornes. For a time. For Delilah, it was the last straw when she found James and Billie together in his office, thus setting into motion their long coming divorce; they both believed that’s what was best. James was in love with Billie now, and Delilah admitted she hadn’t truly loved James in many years. Leading into Through The Flames, Delilah has a good waitressing job at Red Lobster, and has all her children under one roof; her impending divorce from James was in its final stages and she was actually happy about it. 

• Samantha Hawthorne

- Ethan’s older sister

- Full Name: Samantha June Hawthorne

- Born on September 11, 1981 in Milwaukie, Oregon to James and Delilah Hawthorne.

- Age: 18

- Death: Killed by Ethan Hawthorne on September 22, 1998 (burned alive)

- Physical Appearance: Raven hair, dark brown eyes and ivory skin; stood at 5′4″

- Education: Putnam High School (12th grade)

- Biography: Samantha was born to teenage parents, 17-year-old James and 14-year-old Delilah; she had a happy childhood, though, living with her parents and grandpa Jed. She was a grandpa’s girl and was devastated when he died when she was four. Samantha had a close relationship with her mother, as her father was almost never around after the death of her grandfather; she witnessed the downfall of their marriage, through two more children, Samantha saw their couldn’t possibly last. Though she loved her siblings, Ethan and Vivid, more than anything, Samantha couldn’t help but wish her parents had stopped with her. Moreover, Delilah filed for divorce when Samantha was seventeen; she couldn’t help but think “about time”. Though she never knew what made her mother file, she figured it had be a really good reason. Leading into Through The Flames, Samantha and her siblings lived with their mother, and she helped her mom as much as she could to take care of Ethan and Vivid without James around.

• Vivid Hawthorne

- Ethan’s little sister

- Full Name: Vivid Nicole Hawthorne

- Born on July 22, 1997 to James and Delilah Hawthorne

- Age: 4

- Death: Killed in a car accident with her foster parents on December 24, 2001

- Physical Appearance: Dark brown hair and brown eyes, with an ivory complexion.

[yespoetry]

Watch

By Cameron DeOrdio

               As Nat chopped peppers, the thing on the counter watched, unseen. As she lifted the peppers up and over its knees – which it had bent carefully to avoid contact – the thing watched, its black, glassy, perfectly round eyes fixed on her as they always were. She moved across the tiny kitchen to the fridge, and the thing unfolded itself, all dark gray and black and hard and sharp angles, but still humanoid, and stood beside the stove, the long, thin black filaments extending from its fingertips waving lazily over the handle of the frying pan.                Nat turned.                She looked directly at the stove, and the thing’s filaments stopped, sticking out straight, stiff and thin and diamond-sharp, ready.                Nat brought the meat over to the counter and began chopping, humming to herself now.                The filaments went back to their lazy wave for a moment before folding down to rest on the back of its hand. It circled around behind Nat, always maintaining a couple-inch cushion between them. A small puff of breath hissed out between its sharp gray interlocking teeth and rustled the hairs on the back of Nat’s neck. Her hand shot up to rub the spot, and the thing dodged smoothly, quickly, expertly, as in tune with Nat’s movements as her shadow.                The thing continued to circle to the other side of the kitchen, moving noiselessly on the white-tiled floor. Nat continued to cook.                Its long, thin forked tongue flitted out between where the top and bottom of its gray mouth met – there were no lips – and tasted the air, detecting each of the food’s chemicals and how they were changing as they cooked.                “Stella!” Nat bellowed, doing her best Marlon Brando, as she always did when she summoned her roommate for meals.                “You quit that howling down there!” Stella shrieked back from her room, which was, to her chagrin, on the same floor as Nat’s. The bit had worked better at their last place. She bounded from her room and down the hall to the kitchen, barreling for the doorway. The thing, which had felt the vibrations of Stella’s approach, planted a foot on the opposite wall and leapt up, curling into itself. It hung from the side of the refrigerator, anchored by its filaments, barely taking up any space. “Wow,” Stella said as she entered the kitchen, tilting her head back and sticking her nose as far up into the air is it would go. “Smells great. What is it?”                Nat continued to poke at the frying pan’s contents with a wooden spoon. “Dinner,” she said, as she always had when Stella asked. “Now grab the tortillas from the microwave, and let’s eat.” Stella complied, the women assembled their burritos, and the three made their way down the hall to the living room.                Nat and Stella sat in their trash-picked – but thoroughly disinfected, Nat had made sure – wooden kitchen chairs, sitting in relative silence as they ate, letting the TV fill the gaps. The thing crouched, perched like a bird on the back of Nat’s chair, its long, sharp toes wrapped tightly around the wood, its knees carefully placed to either side of her head, spaced far apart so as not to disturb her.                Once she’d finished eating, Nat stood abruptly, and the thing rolled down the back of the chair to its seat, deftly keeping the piece of furniture from tipping.                “I’m going to Della,” Nat declared, eliciting an immediate groan from her roommate.                “Why?” Stella asked, drawing out the vowel in a whine. “It’s mid-term break. The word ‘break’ is right in there. You’re familiar with the word, I take it?”                “‘Break’?” Nat replied in her best robotic voice. “Does not compute. What is this hu-man word ‘break’?”                “First off, it’s English, not a language for all humans, you uncultured swine. Second – ”                “Second,” Nat interrupted, “if I’m out of the apartment tonight, you and Alicia will have the place to yourselves.”                “Have I ever told you how much I admire your strong work ethic?”                “Not nearly enough.” Both girls grinned. Nat worked her way around the low unvarnished wooden table to pick up their dishes and continued: “Now you have a good time tonight. Make sure you’re in bed by ten.”                “Nine, if I can help it.”                “Anyway,” Nat continued through her laugh, “I’ll be back around midnight. Please remember that.”                “Sure, sure,” Stella said, following Nat to the kitchen. The thing, which had long since left the chair, pressed itself to the hall wall to let them pass, its finger-filaments extended and its teeth locked shut. “Now, you have a good time, too. Try not to end up on any watch lists.”                “I think it’s too late for that,” Nat said, her shrug reflected in the thing’s black eyes.

#

               About twenty minutes later, Nat swiped her ID card and entered De La Ville Hall. The door swung shut and locked behind her. She fumbled with her keys for a moment, struggling to untangle them from the cord connecting her earbuds to her phone, before unlocking the grad lab door. She’d been doing this for three years now, and she still refused to tape or otherwise mark her keys, confident (based on no discernible evidence) that she could pick out the right key for the right lock from the crowded ring she took with her everywhere.                She went to her workstation, unlocked the desk drawer, and pulled it out. She carefully removed a pair of notebooks and a copy of Thermodynamics with Chemical Engineering Applications from the drawer and reached into her bag, then stopped. High up on a wall, where a set of cabinets adjoined the lumpy white plaster of the wall, the thing crouched, watching.                Nat walked to the large windows and carefully closed each set of thick beige blinds, having performed the procedure often enough to navigate the room even in the deepening dark. Not until all the blinds were closed did she feel safe using the glow of her phone’s screen to find her way to the light switch by the door, flipping the lights on and flooding the room with harsh fluorescence. The thing in the corner blinked once, its translucent gray eyelids closing and opening slowly.                Nat returned to her workstation and removed a butter knife from her bag. She slipped the knife in between the back of the drawer and its false bottom, tripping the latch and gently flipping the light wood up and into her waiting hand.                She used the knife to pry a long, wide, shallow box that nearly exactly filled the drawer up and out. She again tried several keys before getting the right one and drawing out a small black volume, dozens of pages marked by brightly colored sticky notes. The front cover bore simple white lettering: “The Anarchist Cookbook,” the infamous book that was so volatile it could get you arrested for just having it in some countries, the infamous book she’d set out to verify the claims of as her master’s thesis, which her academic adviser had reluctantly approved on the condition she not tell anyone until her oral defense, scheduled weeks before his planned retirement. Maybe she was being paranoid with all this secrecy. But maybe not.                Nat selected a bright pink sticky note poking out from the top of the book and flipped to the marked page. She read the list of chemicals and other materials she’d need twice, the second time mouthing the words to herself to help her remember. Once she’d finished, she donned her rubber gloves and safety glasses and circled the lab, carefully selecting the chemicals from her list.                She lined up the various reagent bottles on the desk in front of her, double checking the labels against the book, and then unstoppered the first and lifted it to the edge of her station’s Erlenmeyer flask.                Nat stopped without pouring. She frowned and bit the inside of the corner of her lip, thinking. After a moment of chewing the soft tissue – a habit her mother abhorred – Nat’s face brightened. She removed her gloves and went to the back of the room, to the fridge whose front bore a pair of strips of masking tape marked in pencil:

FOOD FRIDGE

DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID

Below the tape was a photoshopped safety poster, a black-and-white depiction of a woman with short hair, her eyes covered by cartoonish X’s and her mouth area a surprisingly graphic mess of blood, gore and shattered teeth. Large white lettering on the black background declared, “Carol never washed up thoroughly before eating. Now she doesn’t have to.”                 Nat opened the fridge and took out one of the glass Classic Coke bottles she’d been saving for a few weeks. She levered it open on the counter edge and rubbed her thumb over the spot she’d used, hoping to smooth over the scrape. Nat took a swig of the Coke as she walked to the wide, deep sink and eye-rinse station in the corner. The thing pushed itself higher, its back bent low, pressed to the ceiling, well out of Nat’s way. She poured the rest of the Coke down the drain and rinsed it out thoroughly, humming along to the Taylor Swift chorus in her ears. Still humming, she returned to her workstation, put her gloves back on, and plucked a funnel from another drawer. She placed the funnel in the mouth of the Coke bottle and began to mix.

#

               More than forty minutes later, Nat pulled into the wide, barren paved lot that had, until recently, housed the long-abandoned and burnt-out textile factory that Stella had dragged her to last Halloween, certain it was haunted and willing to give up one of the biggest party nights of the year to prove it.

#[CD1] 

               As they had drawn closer to the factory that night, their soft features had come into sharper relief. Their flesh had a blue tinge now, which was more disconcerting than the simple shadows they’d seemed from afar. One – Stella, it would come to know – dragged a pair of bolt cutters lazily behind her, letting one of the handles dangle free, levering up and down with each of her steps. They were almost at the door when Stella turned on her heel to look at the other, called Nat.                “You’ve got the booze, right?”                Nat nodded.                “OK, good. Because you’re nervous as shit, and it’s freaking me out. Take a shot before we go any farther.”                “OK, Mom.”                “Your mom was never this cool,” Stella replied, but the other was already slipping the bag off her shoulder and unzipping it. She took a swig and hid a wince. She held the bottle out to Stella, who shook her head. “Got a head start, and you need all the help you can get.”                As Nat slid the bottle back into her bag, Stella stepped forward and eyed the huge padlock that held the factory’s double doors together, holding the bolt cutters in both hands now.                “I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” she said, her tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of her mouth as she tried to decide where to apply the cutters.                “Breaking and entering, mostly.”                “Naw,” Stella said, lining up the bolt cutter’s jaw on a section of the lock, scraping the sharp edge carelessly along its length as she did so. “You were all antsy before this, too.”                Nat looked annoyed at this analysis. “It’s my thesis.”                “What about it?” Stella asked, opening the tool a bit, reconsidering. The lock was not going to make this easy for her, nor should it have.                “Exactly that. I don’t know anything about it. I’m supposed to do some sort of groundbreaking research, but everything’s been done. Twice.”                As Stella slid the jaw down the bar some, closer to the lock mechanism, rust flaked away and the metal hissed. “Well, what’s something a nerd like you wouldn’t normally do?”                “What?” Nat sounded confused.                “What’s something you wouldn’t normally do?” Stella repeated slowly, pressing down lightly on the top handle, testing the lock’s resistance, biting into the rust and leaving a mark in the metal. Stella lifted one knee and propped the bottom handle on it, gripping the top handle in both fists, ready to use her whole body to lever it downward and slice through the stout stretch of steel.                Nat clapped her hands, looking surprised and pleased. “Wait, I know! I never break the rules.”                “Now that’s an idea,” Stella grunted. “Do that.” She yanked down on the bolt cutters, and the lock’s bar snapped loudly, allowing the heavy mechanism to slam to the pavement, unbinding the factory doors.                Now it was open to them.                A once-hallowed temple of purpose-driven efficiency, a continued testament to unified effort under relentless direction, a physical manifestation of staunch service, finally coming to the end of its years of painful disuse, only to have its function ignored, forgotten, mocked by these trespassers.                Their disrespect was palpable, and their intentions were unclear, which only made them more abhorrent, more dangerous.                Its decades of efficiency, direction, and service under a watchful eye coalesced and seethed in the shadows, unheeded by those that would deny or destroy them. And thus, the thing’s watch began.

#

               They hadn’t found anything, just as Nat had suspected they wouldn’t, but Nat had come up with the idea for her thesis, and they did get drunk enough that having broken into a condemned building full of outdated, rusty, sharp equipment had the potential to be an even worse decision than usual. They’d called Henry, Nat’s boyfriend at the time, a straight-edge visual arts MFA who was certain he did his best work after midnight – that is, someone who was bound to be awake and sober enough to drive – and got home safe. But Henry was long gone from her life now, even more long gone than the factory building.                She slowed, ensuring a smooth stop before parking, one eye on the lot and the other flitting between the Coke bottle pressed between her thighs and the large stoppered Erlenmeyer flask wrapped in newspaper and buckled into the passenger seat. Once the car was parked, she slipped the rubber gloves, also on the passenger seat, back on. She got out of the car, taking the Coke bottle with her, and went over to the other side to unbuckle and remove the flask.                Standing next to the car, she guided the Coke bottle slowly, gently into the flask – the narrow neck was a tight fit – and restoppered it. She took a deep breath, exhaled.                Nat threw the bottle as high and far as she could. It sailed through the night air – the stars so much clearer here than by her apartment, she noticed – for what seemed like forever. Eventually, finally, it met the pavement. The first sound was that of shattering glass, as the flask and the Coke bottle both became hundreds, if not thousands, of sharp shards. In that instant, Nat wondered if she should have stood behind her car. Before the thought was fully formed, the second sound came to erase it: BOOM!                Flames erupted skyward from where the containers had smashed, and shards of glass of varying sizes shot outward and upward from the site. A few tiny ones caught Nat in the face, irritating her, but not breaking skin. Others bounced harmlessly off her fall jacket, while still more added what Stella would call “character” to Nat’s car’s paint job.                Almost as impressive as the explosion were the flames, a foot high, flickering a bright yellow-orange. They contained themselves to the immediate area of the explosion, never straying farther than a couple of feet, and Nat figured it’d stay that way until it burned itself out for lack of anything to feed it.                The thing clung to the car’s undercarriage, as it had for the entire drive from campus. The flames danced in its dead, black eyes. She had crossed a threshold. It could end this now, before she became more of a Problem. It had a duty, but it also had a code. Many were to be watched, but so few were to be taken. What did she respect? What did she fear? Were they enough?                Should the thing decide this girl was not merely a threat but an actual Problem with means and intent, all it had to do was reach out, extend a filament, and slice the girl’s hamstring. She would fall. No one knew she was here, far from everything. No one would look here for her. She’d either bleed out or die of thirst.                Its hand reached out, one filament unfurling, extending, stiffening. Impossibly thin and sharp, it swung forward, slicing through the air, through denim –                And that’s when it noticed the phone.                When the fire had started, Nat had taken her phone out to record it.                “Ow!” she exclaimed, pulling her leg up to rub at it. It felt like something had stung her, and when she put her hand to her calf, she felt a slash through her jeans. She wrote it off as a late glass-shard ejection from the fire and didn’t worry about it, ignoring the physics that largely ruled that out.                She got in the car; cast one last proud, giddy look back at the flames; whispered, “Coolest thesis ever;” and drove off, smiling.                The thing, rocking gently with the car’s movements as it continued to cling to the undercarriage, mulled its next course of action.

#

               Nat rapped four times in quick succession on the apartment door, her and Stella’s agreed-upon signal for when they had company, before counting slowly to ten and opening it. Stella and Alicia were snuggled up under a blanket on the living room couch, watching some Schwarzenegger flick.                “Well look who’s back,” Stella said, smiling and awkwardly propping herself up on her elbows, trying not to disturb Alicia, who was mostly asleep.                Nat whirled, theatrically turning her head every which way, her gaze sliding past the thing in the corner twice. “Who?” she demanded.                “Laaaaame,” Stella said. “Anyway, you wanna join us, or are you going to bed?”                Nat dropped her bag on the living room floor. “Define ‘join us.’ Doesn’t seem to be a lot of room for group activities at the moment.” She nodded, pointing with her chin at Alicia, who was burrowing her shoulders deeper into Stella’s chest and letting out a small groan as she made herself comfortable.                “Well,” Stella said, stroking Alicia’s hair while training her eyes and a slight smirk on Nat, “you know we were hoping to turn you to our sinful ways.”                “Yeah, sure, don’t tell my mom.”                “Of course not. She’s my Tuesday night.”                “Burn.” Nat continued across the living room and to her bedroom door. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’m gonna get some rest.”                “You suck.”                “That’s exactly what your dad said.” Nat shut her bedroom door behind her.                “Well played!” Stella called from the other side.                “Right?” Nat shouted back, briefly forgetting to control her volume in case Alicia was trying to stay mostly asleep. She shrugged at, she thought, no one.                Nat got into her pajamas and lay down, curled up to one side of her bed, leaving most of her queen-size mattress open. Her mother had scolded her for “wasting” money on a large bed when she slept like she was trying to fit in a carry-on suitcase. Her boyfriends usually liked that about her, though. Nat’s sleeping small gave them room to stretch out. And it gave the thing that watched her a spot to lie, its back pressed against the wall, also curled up small, their silhouettes almost identical in the dark room.

#

               “Are we going to die?” Stella asked, eyeing the paper tabs Nat had lain out on their living room table.                “Well, eventually, yeah,” Nat said. It was one of her favorite stupid jokes.                Stella sighed loudly, directly into Nat’s face. “I mean, could this stuff kill us?”                “Doubtful. But I guess it could, like, make you trip balls randomly a ton of years from now. That’s also pretty unlikely, though.”                Stella shifted nervously in the big, peach-colored chair she’d had for five years and three apartments. “And you’re sure you made it right? Followed all the instructions?”                “Well, I’m kicking the shit out of chemistry grad school, so, yeah, I’m pretty sure.” She pushed her hair out of her face with her hand and fixed her gaze on Stella. “You don’t have to do this, though. If you’re not cool with it, it’s fine. No pressure.”                Stella shrugged. “Naw.” She snatched up one of the tabs. “Let’s get weird.” She placed the tab gently on her tongue. “’Ow wha’?” she said thickly, trying not to touch her tongue to the inside of her mouth.                “Keep it under your tongue, out of the way,” Nat said, slipping her own paper tab in under her tongue. “An’ we leh ih ‘oo i's ‘ing.”                They put on some Netflix sitcom and waited.                The first episode was just wrapping up when Stella’s eyes went wide. “What the hell?” she shouted, her voice cracking, her eyes glued to a far corner of the room.                “Hm?” Nat looked at Stella, then where she was looking, and saw nothing out of the ordinary.                Stella curled up in her chair, taking her feet off the ground, leaning back into the soft fabric. “Nat,” she said, her voice quavering. Then she jerked out of the chair and grabbed her half-full mug of tea, throwing it at the corner, where it smashed against the wall. “Nat!” she howled.                “What? What is it?”                “Shit!” Stella grabbed one end of the low wooden table and flipped it up, launching it across the room.                The table, a light, flimsy thing, pitched forward, then, Nat saw, slowed down considerably, slicing clean down the center and parting, still traveling so, so slowly, before tumbling gracefully through the air, toward the picture window, their movements perfectly in time with the show’s closing credits’ soundtrack. Nat followed the table halves’ movements for a long moment before Stella’s choked cries caused Nat to whip her head around.                Stella’s back was pressed to the bottom half of the chair as she sat on the ground, one hand gripping the chair behind her, the other swatting frantically at the air in front of her face. Her mouth was wide open, and she was gagging.                Nat didn’t understand. She stared at Stella. She heard the noises from Stella getting quieter. Suddenly, it clicked. Stella was choking, and Nat had to help her, had to move, but she couldn’t.                Nat’s mind filled with a swelling chorus of curses, drowning out thought. “No,” she said out loud, because there was no room for other words in her head, and this one was important. “No, no!” She needed control, she realized. Nat closed her eyes tight, mentally clawing through the wall of obscenities and confusion. She opened her eyes, and Stella’s once-flailing arm was now at her side, not moving. None of Stella was moving, she realized.                Nat felt cold, colder than she’d ever felt before.                And that’s when she saw it.                Tall, thin, seemingly made of black and gray bone, but not skeletal. A large, powerful hand clasped Stella’s jaw. A filament withdrew from her still-open mouth, long and thin and dripping. The thing’s head was tilted down, its round, shiny black eyes still fixed on Stella, waiting to see if she had survived.                Nat looked down at her hands, which had done nothing to save her friend. Her brain, no longer full of curses but of possibilities, explanations. The last few minutes – had it been minutes? – played back, and the world before her eyes grew fuzzy. Stella had been staring at the corner, had tried to do something. Had tried to stop the thing that was killing – had killed? – Stella. What had she been doing right before the attack? She’d been looking at the corner. Nat’s fingers clutched tightly at the fabric of the chair beneath her, frustrated. What is that thing? What happened? Why? She bit her lip, hard, closing her eyes, trying to focus all of her mental resources. Stella had been looking at the corner. Looking at the corner. Looking. At … that thing? What was it? Was it real? Was she tripping? It had to be real. Stella was dead. She’d been looking at it, and it had killed her, stolen her breath. She’d tried to attack it first. Nat bit the inside of her cheek. No. Stella had thrown her mug, and it had smashed in the corner, so it had no longer been in the corner. Why wasn’t it on her, on Nat, now? The mug smashed in the corner. It had been in the corner. But it wasn’t when Stella threw the mug. Where was it now that it was done with Stella? Was it coming for her? It had run for Stella before she threw the mug. It must have charged because of something before. What was before? Nat put her arms over her head, hugging her skull tight, trying to protect herself and trying to get herself to think. What had been happening before? Her brain usually worked better than this. Before the mug. Before the crash. Before the gagging and gurgling and the end of both. Before the table. Stella had been looking. At the corner. At the thing. It was looking, that was what set it off. That was it!                And that’s when Nat started hyperventilating. The curses were back, pushing thoughts out. Bile was rising in her throat, and she just couldn’t get breath in. Was it choking her now, too? She breathed faster, deeper. Something in her brain, something louder than the curses, which were growing in volume and variety, screamed, Stop!                Nat pulled in one large, deep breath, then held it high in her chest. She exhaled slowly. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth, which tasted of stomach acid and Easy Mac. She kept breathing, slowly, establishing a nice, regular pace, focusing on that. She forgot her arms were over her head, and they fell naturally to her sides. She forgot her eyes were closed so tight, and eventually her muscles loosened, still not opening the lids. She kept breathing. Soon, she knew what she had to do.                Nat opened her eyes, slowly. She stared straight ahead and just saw her living room, not her roommate’s corpse and not her roommate’s killer. Good. She stood, carefully unfolding her legs, which felt strange, either from her having sat on them for too long or from the drug, she couldn’t be sure. She wobbled slightly to her bedroom, and she knew she couldn’t drive. That was OK. She’d figured she couldn’t. Nat picked up her bag, keeping her gaze level, and put it on her back. She turned, slowly, back to her door. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a gray-black shape on her dresser, and she turned her head sharply the other way. She breathed, in through her nose, out through her mouth. She walked out of her bedroom and out of her apartment and down the stairs and out of her building, and she didn’t see the thing once, though she thought it had to be staying close.                Nat got on her bike and began pedaling toward Della. The way riding a bike made her vision sway slightly side to side with each turn of the pedals became nearly overwhelming for her, and she couldn’t believe she’d never noticed how strange it was before. Focusing on breathing slowly was harder now as she exerted herself, anxious to get to the grad lab. Cars’ side-view mirrors seemed to jut out feet farther than they ever had before, some of them actively reaching out to pull her off her bike and to the asphalt. She thought she heard jogging footsteps behind her, but she didn’t dare to look. She saw there were other things, just like the one following her – things peering out of the branches of trees, things clasped to the undercarriages of cars, things wrapped around lampposts, their round, black eyes fixed on their targets. She stared straight ahead as she pedaled, hoping none of them noticed her awareness of them.                It was later than she’d expected, and the sun was almost gone, setting at her back. The way the light played along the bottom of the clouds, though, smelled off, like bad eggs. She felt her stomach souring again and pedaled harder. The sound of footsteps sped up.                By the time she reached De La Ville Hall, Nat was standing, stomping on the pedals to propel herself forward, forcing people off the sidewalks. When she could see the hall’s front door, she leaped off the bike, letting it fall to the ground and skid on its side on the concrete walkway.                She sprinted for the door, swiped her badge, and waited for what felt like minutes for the red light next to the card reader to turn green. When it did, she yanked the door open, skirted around it, and pulled it shut directly behind her. Without looking back through the mostly glass door, she ran down the dark hall to the grad lab. She took her keys out of her pocket and saw that all of them were long, black, thin filaments waving at wicked speeds, slicing at the air around them. Nat’s jaw clenched, and she stared intently at the filaments.                “You’re not real,” she hissed at them. When they continued to be filaments, she slammed them against the heavy door, and they made metal-on-metal scraping sounds. She threw them at the door, over and over, hearing the scraping and seeing the filaments that had killed Stella. “You’re keys. You’re keys!” She stopped and looked at them. They were keys. She stared at them blankly, trying to remember which one worked the grad lab door. Her attention narrowed, only taking in the keys and the lock. Five tries later, she was in. She slipped inside, noticing the black-gray appendage sliding into the opening behind her and turning her head quickly away from the door before she could see the rest. She could feel the panic rising in her chest again, and she shook her head, denying its power over her. She dug her nails into her palms, letting the pain help bring her back down.                She was in control.                She went to the fridge and grabbed a Coke in a glass bottle, poured it down the drain, rinsed it out. She began mixing, no longer needing the cookbook, and the strain of working from memory kept her from thinking about anything else. When she was done, she scooped up the Erlenmeyer flask and the Coke bottle, stoppering the former and capping the latter, and she sprinted out of the grad lab and out the back door of Della, to the parking lot the small university’s entire faculty shared.                Nat kept sprinting until she was a good distance from the building, directly in front of the grassy median that divided the faculty lot from the student lot. That’s when she turned back. She stopped in the long shadow of the median’s sole tree, and she looked behind her. The thing had been running, too, a few dozen feet back. When she looked at it, it stopped.                “I see you!” she shouted, almost laughing now. The thing’s back straightened. “I saw what you did.” She unstoppered the Erlenmeyer flask and slid the Coke bottle inside. “And I bet you’ve seen a lot of what I’ve done.” She smiled as she restoppered the flask. “Or maybe this will come as a surprise.” Her voice echoed across the asphalt, bouncing off the distant brick of the science building.                The thing charged her, its gait fluid, its strides long. The distance between them closed fast.                “Come on,” Nat grunted. “Get closer, you shit.”                It was almost on her now, maybe ten feet away. Too close to miss.                Nat threw the flask, with the bottle inside, and dove onto the grassy median, rolling as she hit the ground and landing hard on the asphalt on the other side. She heard the explosion and pressed her body flat against the ground, hoping the curb, median and tree would prove enough to protect her from the percussive force. She felt an intense heat wash over her back and then disappear. She heard a crackling, like a bonfire at its peak.                She lifted her head, but she couldn’t see anything, so she propped herself up on her elbows and peered over the median.                The thing, rolling on the ground, was engulfed in bright, yellow-orange flames, flailing, screeching. Its extended filaments curled and crumbled in the intense heat, already becoming ash. One of its legs had been blown clean off in the explosion and was blackening a few feet away.                The flames danced, reflected in Nat’s huge pupils as she stood, staring.

Cameron DeOrdio lives in Astoria, Queens. He writes comic books and short prose stories, along with copy for business-to-business technology clients. His work has appeared in The Rampallian and V23 Magazine, among others. His comics credits include Archie Comics' Josie and the Pussycats. He received an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, where he studied comic scripting alongside fiction writing.

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"It doesn't matter what people think I am.                                           I know who I am and that's really all that matters."

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A workshop for intermediate/ advanced learners of Italian to learn how to free your imagination when using words and telling stories. It will be based on the famous ‘Grammatica della Fantasia’ (The Grammar of Fantasy) by writer and educator Gianni Rodari. We will have fun playing with words, their structure, their meaning and their sound. We will invent stories and retell old stories in a new way. We will write poems and limericks. These games will definitely improve your confidence: learning comes easier when you’re having fun!

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Course Dates 2017 – 2018

Saturday 10pm to 2pm Davide Ariasso

1 session on 9 June £26 / £18 LIT445

New course dates will be available in our next Course Guide 2017 -18 from Summer 2017

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Grammatica della Fantasia A workshop for intermediate/ advanced learners of Italian to learn how to free your imagination when using words and telling stories.

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