#( excerpt ) in the wild life garden

[splendsay]

COD FF // Callsign: Sunshine // Ch. 37: Light and Dark

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Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 37: Light and Dark

Rating: 18+ !!MDNI!! Chapters: 37/? WC: 96,103 Pairing(s): TF141 x F!Reader (You) Chapter Warnings: Explicit language, canon-typical violence Chapter Excerpt:

You look like a fairy. A fairy princess, dancing about her garden kingdom -- carefree and wistful and altogether full of magic. 

You did something to your eyes. Darkened them. And your hair, you magnified it somehow.  Mussed it up in that perfectly imperfect way of yours. You look...alive. Alluring. Wild and unruly. Sultry, even. He never would've thought it possible -- for you to be any more beautiful.

But here you are. A rainbow come to life. A flower in bloom. Ruffling your skirts and throwing your head back, laughing as Soap twirls you by the hand in circle after circle. 

Ghost isn't a dancer. Neither is Soap, but he has the spirit -- the shamelessness that Ghost lacks. 

You, though. You are magnetic. Joy incarnate. A tornado that breathes life instead of taking it away. 

He shouldn't be surprised. Not anymore. But you always manage. You always surprise him. 

You'd dutifully begged him to join you on the dance floor when the reception had begun, Farah and Alex leading the way with a loud, flashy number. But he'd politely declined, horrified at the thought of you or anyone else seeing him move in such a way. No, he's more than happy to watch you from the sidelines. Taking in every detail. Committing every spin, every shimmy, every grin to memory. You keep checking in, though. After every song, you check in. 

Pink in the face, eyes gleaming, you stumble over to him. 

"You're sure you don't want to dance?"

"I'm sure, baby."

You pout each time, pushing your lower lip out. And each time, he kisses it away.

"Go on."

Rudy's been playing the gamut -- all the wedding classics. Ghost would be lying if he said this wasn't the liveliest party he's been to in years. Including quite a few pre-Rift years. And it's all thanks to you. This welcome respite. 

It's been a hellish week and a half -- an endless back and forth of logistics and maps and group assignments. Not to mention, the hours upon hours apart from you, despite sleeping under the same roof. 

But he's managed to keep an eye on you, watching you pull together something impossible and wonderful and momentous. He knew you'd outdo yourself. Expected nothing less. But he never would've been able to anticipate this. 

You've transformed a scraggly overgrown eyesore into something truly bewitching -- with a little help from Soap and Gaz and the others, sure. But you -- you have a way of doing this -- livening things. A crackling fire in the heart of winter. A single, bright star on a cloudy night. Ink on a blank sheet of paper. 

The whole atmosphere is very Farah -- and Alex too. Vivid swirls of violet and emerald and cream. A subtle, beguiling garden fantasy. You've captured their romance well with what limited resources available to you. But it's also got your name written all over it. Lovingly and tenderly. Seamlessly intertwined. 

He's more than a little glad the candles he set out before the ceremony seemed to please you. To add to what you created. He'd found hundreds of them stored in the kitchens one day while talking to Gaz about hunting plans, and had decided then to plan a little surprise of his own. 

He'd been waiting for you to come down the stairs tonight, nearly bouncing on his toes, eager to see your reaction. Watching your eyes light up as you took them all in -- it'd been painstaking work, laying each one out by hand, melting them enough to adhere to the surface of whatever he'd set them on, and then coming back around and lighting them. He'd burned through half a box of matches. 

But it'd been worth it to see those eyes. That smile. Worth every second. Every singed fingertip. 

"It's good to see her laughin'," Cap says softly from Ghost's left, glass of whisky in-hand. 

Ghost glances down at him, heart sinking a little. The Captain looks worn. Exhausted. Everyone does to a certain degree -- but Cap more than anyone else. He's worried about Laswell. Worried about managing the estate without her resources. Worried about you and the supposed cure. Worried about all of it. He's told Ghost as much over many a bottle in the past week.

Ghost swallows the lump in his throat, a grim feeling of discomfort settling in his bones. At his Captain's stress. The sudden proximity -- and the unspoken question now hanging in the air. He's been waiting for it, but he still doesn't quite feel ready. 

"Aye," he agrees. "It is."

Cap just wordlessly swallows a gulp of amber. The question looms heavy. Unwieldy. Precarious. 

He hasn't made an effort to hide it -- his feelings for you. Or the progression of your relationship. But he hasn't outright said anything about it. Hasn't openly admitted it or discussed it with anyone, except for those few shared moments with Soap -- and even then, it'd still felt like a secret. 

When he does admit it aloud, it'll make it real. And if it's real to the others -- suddenly it feels like... like it's at risk. To say nothing of the fact that it's...well...it's forbidden. If you're a member of the task force, a relationship with you is forbidden. Ghost has a few complicated feelings about that. A desire to protect you. An unwillingness to let you come to harm or to hurt. But an acceptance that you won't stand for a life on the sidelines. If it means he can't have you, though...he's not sure he's that selfless. 

"I don't intend to pry, Ghost," Cap starts, keeping his voice low. "Or impose any rules on ya. I think we're well beyond the point of any of that mattering. But....be careful -- for both your sakes."

Surprise trickles through him. This isn't the lecture he was expecting. 

..................................................................... Links to: Spotify Playlist Full Fic

[laurelwen]

The Nightingale and the Rose, Simon Costin

While devouring the Sleeping Beauties exhibit at the Met in May, I was stunned by this piece (wish I could have gotten a better photo, but conditions were tricky.) Of course, it make me think of Nigel, so I thought I'd share with all of you. But I imagine most of you have not read the fairy tale by Oscar Wilde that inspired the piece. They had an audio recording of someone reading an excerpt from this story in this room as well, which just added to the heartbreaking vibe of it all. If you read through, I think you'll see why it all made me think of our boys and how deeply poignant and tragic the art is when you know the context of the story. The bolded text was my emphasis - you'll see why.

"The Nightingale and the Rose" by Oscar Wilde

'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'

     From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

     'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'

     'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'

     'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'

     'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'

     'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

     'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

     'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

     'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

     'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.

     'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

     But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

     Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

     In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'

     'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?'

     'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'

     'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'

     'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'

     'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'

     So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

     The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

     'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'

     The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

     But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

     'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'

     So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

     When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

     'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

     And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

     She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

     But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

     And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

     And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

     And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

     But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

     Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

     'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

     And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

     'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.

     Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

     The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

     'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'

     But the girl frowned.

     'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'

     'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

     'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

     'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

     So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

************************************************************************

So perfectly Nigel coded: For he sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

[Like Minds Aesthetic Masterpost]

[thrillofhope]

Oh my god. I will never be calm about this. I feel like I've been staring at it for hours. Thank you @scriberated for this most beautiful gift!

So I had a silly thought a few months ago: "What if Gil-galad and Celebrían were in love?" It would be doomed, and tragic, and right up my alley. (Naturally from there I devolved into chaos and now I have a new favorite rarepair.)

Into Darkness Fell His Star was my exploration of that question and my love letter to Gil-galad (the best High King of the Noldor).

Here is an excerpt that leads into the scene so stunningly illustrated:

“I want to dance with you beneath the stars,” he says, and then the words come rushing forth. “I want to see you smile as you once did. I want to shelter you from every manner of darkness, every shadow. I want—” He is a selfish bastard for saying these things out loud, for offering something that he cannot give. His life is not his own, his fate is not his own, and yet… “I wanted to lay you down and make love to you until despair and shadow were but faint, passing memories and there was nothing before us save for the very vision of our hope: a home in this world so bright and beautiful.” 

Tears shimmer in her eyes unshed and he hates so much that he could be the cause of a single one of them. But better that she weep now for a time than all the long days of her life when he is not there to comfort her.

“But you cannot,” she says softly. 

“I cannot.”

The words lie heavily between them and he finds himself wishing she would respond in anger because her sorrow is almost too much for him to bear. But she does not spare him her sorrow; she holds his gaze as though begging him to remember this moment. And he will. He will remember it always when he thinks about what might have been in a world without darkness. 

Finally, she takes a step back, toward the stone wall of the garden maze. But she does not turn away from him. She holds out her hand to him. “If this is to be the end, will you not dance with me beneath the stars, my king?”

And because he is so very weak, he takes her hand.

Needless to say, I am obsessed with this is will be forever. It is wild to see something that existed only in your brain come to life.

Art by @ssuzu. Seriously incredible.

[crowbarsolo]

The Special Guests

Title: The Special Guests

Fandom: One Piece

Rating: T

Content warnings: canon-typical violence, mild horror imagery, insects

Characters: Nico Robin, Cavendish

Ship: Cavendish/Robin

Prompt used : Take My Hand

Summary: Robin and Cavendish attend a mysterious nighttime celebration hosted on an uninhabited island, though their date is disturbed when Hakuba senses something off about the other guests.

Excerpt:

The oars slid in and out of the river without a sound. Near the shoreline, tangled clusters of roots bobbed above the water, weeds fanned around them like drowned women’s hair.  Aside from the drowsy hum of the dragonflies, the island was silent, unnaturally so; a silence of enchanted forests and thorn gardens and ancient castles in which princesses slept.

“I do hate to be a bother, but are you sure we’re meant to be here?” Cavendish asked. Experience had taught him that where princesses slept, witches were never far.

Robin smiled and parted her hands, revealing a pair of horned stag beetles. “I’m not,” she said, “but they are.”

The beetles’ horns both pointed North, deeper inland. At the sight, of the insects, the Other that slept within Cavendish stirred. He saw his own hands reaching out to pluck the insects from Robin’s hands, snapping off their heads and drinking their ichor, even as the rest of him recoiled at the prospect. Let me out, Hakuba said. A wild beast pacing, shaking the bars of its cage.

“I’m sorry,” Robin said, misreading his shudder and covering the beetles again. “Thank you for indulging me. I know it’s probably not what you had in mind when you asked me out.”

Indeed, when Cavendish had sent her a messenger dove bearing a brief declaration of his love on five parchment rolls of tightly-packed iambic pentameter, he’d been thinking of something rather along the lines of a ballroom. The opera. Perhaps a picnic in the park, if she wanted to give in to the adventurous urge that had once driven her to sail with the Pirate King. “Not at all,” he demurred. “I love to contemplate nature, on the rare occasion it’s placed in front of me.” A mosquito came to rest on his neck. He released one of his oars to swat it. Pacified by this small offering of blood, Hakuba quieted.

“I’m afraid there won’t be much contemplation happening tonight if all goes according to plan,” Robin said, watching the sinister thickets of willows with a smile. She wore a black evening dress and stiletto heels that seemed ill indicated for a hike in the wilderness, though Cavendish could respect her refusal to compromise her own sense of drama for practical reasons.

“A plan! I like the sound of that,” he said encouragingly. “I’d like it even more if I had any idea of what it entails.”

Robin did not answer right away. “I’ve spent all my life looking for dead cultures,” she said. “Decaying monuments, old rites and religions, ancient scripts that can no longer be read by the living. Tonight, I am looking for something I never thought I’d see.”

“And what’s that?”

“The dead coming back to life.” She raised a hand to point at a dark recess in the greenery. “Here’s our stop.”

Read the rest here.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from The Revelator:

Last November conservationists carefully carried 70 young, critically endangered Mojave Desert tortoises to the reptiles’ natural habitat on Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California. The tortoises had been hatched and reared in captivity, and the team — a collaboration between U.S. Air Force officials at the base, San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance, and The Living Desert Zoo and Gardens in Palm Springs — were hopeful that the animals would survive the rigors of life in the wild, where ravens would try to peck through their shells and coyotes could attack them.

It would take a while to learn how they fared: Soon after their release, the reptiles would hide in underground burrows and go into brumation, a state of inactivity, for the winter.

But six months later, this past April, news of their fate came out: The tortoises had emerged from their burrows healthier and stronger than ever, a notable milestone in the ongoing tortoise conservation story.

The news quickly made headlines around the country. Local outlets covered the outcome, as did the Associated Press, which transmitted it internationally. Even celebrity-focused People magazine profiled the project. The media blitz demonstrated that even though conservation projects can be expensive and time- and energy-intensive, concerted efforts to help species come back from near extinction, and even thrive, can work.

Dozens of conservation success stories come out every year, from bald eagle population surges to black-footed ferret births, zebra shark releases to red wolf habitat protections. Yet few get as much publicity as the tortoises did in the spring.

So why did the story of the tortoises resonate so widely when so many other conservation stories fail to reach the public? The answer may reflect not only the state of human views on our effect on the environment, and our opinions of animals, but also the state of the news industry and what we cover.

Research published in 2022 by Carlos Corvalan, an advisor on risk assessment and global environmental change at the World Health Organization, suggested that people often feel overwhelmed by today’s biodiversity and climate change crises, which can lead to feelings of helplessness and result in people taking less action, not more.

Bad news about habitat destruction, the effects of greenhouse gas emissions in our atmosphere, and struggling species abound. The public, it seems, is hungry for positive stories.

“In this time, in all times, conservation can be a huge downer,” says James Danoff-Burg, director of conservation at The Living Desert Zoo and Gardens. The tortoise story, however, was about how the reptiles did well in their new environment after months in brumation. “This,” he says, “is a success.”

Another reason that the tortoise story got so much traction may be because they’re cute and unthreatening. Unlike endangered predators, tortoises won’t hurt anyone or take down prey with their fangs. Studies on stories about hyenas and sharks, for example, show that conservation focused on those species is less popular among certain age groups who think of them as scary.

Although tortoises may not qualify as charismatic megafauna — typically thought of as popular, attractive, and well-known animals — they have endearing features and are charmingly awkward.

[wandaluvstacos]

SEASON OF BLOSSOMS

THE FOUR CHAPTER IS UP! (THE FIRST 5 CHAPTERS WILL BE FREE)

Genre: Fantasy Romance Rating: 18+ Elevator Pitch: Bridgerton, but gay and with tieflings. Check out this story’s art under the tag Season of Blossoms

Includes: Mxm, mxf, and nbxm romance, sibling rivalries, romantic drama, fun sexy hijinks all around. This one’s lighter than most of the stuff I write, lol. There is a scene that takes place after an attempted suicide, but I think that’s the only thing that needs to be warned for.

In the nation of Tithly, it is custom that those of marriageable age travel to the city of Philsia for the yearly Season of Blossoms– four summer months of parties meant to provide youth the opportunity to find their spouse. This year will be the first year that all three of the Tsylgahra siblings attend: Mithleem, Anli, and Lisanth.

Three years after his wife’s tragic death, Mithleem has finally decided that he’s ready to start his search for someone new. As one of the top people in his class at the Academy and a successful doctor during his time in the army, he’s a household name and a hot commodity at parties, including one thrown by Tithly’s most renowned painter. There Mithleem is called to the bedside of the painter’s equally famous spouse, Ysaika Talorilau, and it may take someone of Mithleem’s skill to save their life.

Anli’s been to Philsia three times for the Season, but she hasn’t had much luck. This time she meets a young man above her station who shows interest, and despite her misgivings, she’s willing to give him a shot, even if the family’s new steward, Thyla Daschanhildi is quite insistent that Anli deserves better. Anli’s not sure about that, but she knows that Thyla’s only ever been supportive and loyal, sometimes to such a degree that Anli wonders if there’s more to it.

As the youngest Tsylgahra and wild child of the family, Lisanth is interested in racing horses, starting squabbles in the local tavern, and worrying his parents on the nights he doesn’t come home. However, he knows he can’t put off Philsia forever, and at the insistence of his mother, Lisanth grudgingly makes the journey with his siblings to the City in the Sky. There he meets a stranger who wields charm with just a hint of danger. Only later does Lisanth come to realize that the stranger is in fact a prince– Prince Jafkar A’nesh to be exact.

Excerpt:

       In the painting, Ysaika was completely surrounded by flowers of every variety, color, and shape, and in their detail laid Thimwich’s genius. Anli could name most of the blossoms, but the list would be lengthy and Anli would be missing the point in creating it. Anli was not trained in the reading of art, but she knew Thimwich made no mistakes. The flowers were overwhelming in their quantity and diversity, and it seemed that Ysaika was not so much in a garden as she was in an ostentatious collection created solely for this painting. This was Thimwich’s love letter to his spouse, an attempt to match Ysaika’s beauty and show is devotion with every stroke of the brush. How many nights had he spent detailing ever petal? He likely painted them after he painted Ysaika, and so each night spent painting a flower was another night he would spend in the looming and angelic presence of his beloved.

            Anli didn’t know how long she stood there staring at it, but eventually she felt Mithleem touch her shoulder.

            “Are you tearing up?” Mithleem murmured in the silence of the giant room.

            “No.” Anli sniffed and wiped at her face. “Maybe.”

            Mithleem squeezed her arm. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

            “Can you imagine someone painting you like that?” Anli whispered, afraid of intruding upon the quiet. “I believe the pamphlet advertisement said it took him a year.”

            “It’s something.”

            “He must really love them, don’t you think? It’s so apparent in how he paints them.”

            “I’d probably paint more clothes on my spouse.”

            Anli turned to Mithleem with pursed lips. “You don’t get art, do you?”

            “I get it. Maybe if I looked that good naked, I’d want to be painted nude, too.”

[isfjmel-phleg]

With regard to the Secret Garden do you realize that it is not a novel, but a childs [sic] story though it is gravely beginning life as an important illustrated serial in a magazine for adults. … It is an innocent thriller of a story to which grown ups listen spell bound to my keen delight. Ella Hepworth Dixon said it was a sort of childrens [sic] Jane Eyre. I love it myself. There is a long deserted garden in it whose locked door is hidden by ivy and whose key has been buried for ten years. It contains also a sort of Faun who charms wild creatures and tame ones and there is a moorland cottage woman who is a sort of Madonna with twelve children—a warm bosomed, sane, wise, simple Mother thing. You only see her for a moment at the end of the book but she is the chief figure in it really. ‘Mother’ baking and washing in her cottage on the Yorkshire Moor makes all things happen merely because she is. There is a house on the edge of the moor (delightful thought) and a hundred rooms nearly all locked up—and a tiresome cry rather like the wind heard far off down mysterious corridors. And in the hidden garden—which I adore—many strange and lovely quite natural human things happen. Oh, I know quite well that it is one of my best finds.

--Frances Hodgson Burnett, October 9, 1910 letter to her English publisher, William Heinemann, quoted in an excerpt from Frances Hodgson Burnett: The Unexpected Life of the Author of The Secret Garden by Gretchen Holbrook Gerzina in the Norton Critical Edition of The Secret Garden

[merulae]

do you have any recommendations about kindness? i love your posts!

Thank you so much (and sorry for the late response)! I think of kindness both towards others and toward ourselves, each of which is intertwined with love. Excerpts from essays, poems, and songs are below. As for books, I really love Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These — a short but powerful novella on kindness and courage.

Children in the Garden: On Life at a 3,100-Mile Race, a beautiful essay by Devin Kelly

One beauty of endurance running is that it forces everyone involved — the runners, those helping them — to create a world within a world. “It’s crazy,” Arpan told me one day at the race, “but when you’re running the race, it becomes your home.” If you are running in this world within a world, the claustrophobic confines of the world-at-large — which is, paradoxically, bigger but less open — fall away, and you worry about the needs that are most present to you in that moment: food, breath, energy, each stubborn footfall. If you are helping, your world becomes simply the person or people you are helping. You focus the energy of your compassion on a few single beings, and you ask them questions you might never ask someone else in the world outside. What do you need? Are you hungry? Do you want to walk? Do you need to sit down? Perhaps you realize — as I have, writing this — that these questions could be asked of anyone in the world. Anyone right now. Maybe there is someone next to you while you are reading this. What do they need? Have you asked them? I haven’t asked anyone such a question today. I should have, I know. I should right now.

from "Small Kindnesses" by Danusha Laméris

We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here, have my seat," "Go ahead—you first," "I like your hat."

from "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

"Vienna" by Billy Joel

Slow down, you crazy child And take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile It's alright, you can afford to lose a day or two, ooh When will you realize Vienna waits for you?

From a postcard, c.1910

“I shall pass through this world but once, any good thing therefore I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now, let me not defer it, or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.” 

from "5.00 Mass" by Franz Wright

We love one another. We don't really know anyone well, but we love one another.

[bowieography]

Moonage Daydream will be released on triple vinyl on 31st March 2023.

Disc 1

Side A

“Time… one of the most complex expressions…”

Ian Fish U.K. Heir (Moonage Daydream Mix 1)

Hallo Spaceboy (Moonage Daydream Remix Edit)

Medley: Wild Eyed Boy From Freecloud / All The Young Dudes / Oh! You Pretty Things (Live)

Life On Mars? (2016 Mix Moonage Daydream Edit)

Moonage Daydream (Live)

Side B

The Jean Genie / Love Me Do / The Jean Genie (Live) (featuring Jeff Beck)

The Light (Excerpt)*

Warszawa (Live Moonage Daydream Edit)

Quicksand (Early Version 2021 Mix)

Medley: Future Legend / Diamonds Dogs intro / Cracked Actor

Disc 2

Side A

Rock ‘n’ Roll With Me (Live in Buffalo 8th November 1974)

Aladdin Sane (Moonage Daydream Edit)

Subterraneans

Space Oddity (Moonage Daydream Mix)

V-2 Schneider

Side B

Sound And Vision (Moonage Daydream Mix)

A New Career In A New Town (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Word On A Wing (Moonage Daydream Excerpt)

“Heroes” (Live Moonage Daydream Edit)

D.J. (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Ashes To Ashes (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Move On (Moonage Daydream acappella Mix Edit)

Moss Garden (Moonage Daydream Edit)

Disc 3

Side A

Cygnet Committee/Lazarus (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Memory Of A Free Festival (Harmonium Edit)

Modern Love (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Let’s Dance (Live Moonage Daydream Edit)

The Mysteries (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide (Live Moonage Daydream Edit)

Ian Fish U.K. Heir (Moonage Daydream Mix 2)

Side B

Word On A Wing (Moonage Daydream Mix)

Hallo Spaceboy (live Moonage Daydream Mix)

I Have Not Been To Oxford Town (Moonage Daydream acappella Mix Edit)

“Heroes”: IV. Sons Of The Silent Age (Excerpt) *

★ (Moonage Daydream Mix Edit)

Ian Fish U.K. Heir (Moonage Daydream Mix Excerpt)

Memory Of A Free Festival (Moonage Daydream Mix Edit)

Starman

“You’re aware of a deeper existence…”

Changes

“Let me tell you one thing…”

“Well, you know what this has been an incredible pleasure…”

Pre-order it here

[e-the-village-cryptid]

Bix Caleen Playlist!

A playlist in chronological order from the opening of season 1 through the end of an imagined season 2. Reasoning/events for each song and lyrics excerpts under the cut.

1. "Bix Caleen" by Nicholas Britell— let us start off with some Bix Vibes

2. "I Go To Work" by Delta Rae— opening of season 1, Bix is mostly just focused on making a living and creating a stable life for herself

I go to work Every day to be worthy The ground on which I stand I go to work Can't nobody can hurt me This hammer in my hand

3. "Chasing Twisters" by Delta Rae— Cassian shows up again, asking for favors. I imagine this song as a sort of duet between Bix and Cassian, with some lines from one or the other's perspective.

Cassian: And I went home Chasing twisters in the canyon My cathedral is the badlands Dust and devils on my conscience Come back to me, darling Bix: (hearkening a bit forward to that moment in ep 12) Don't you know I dream about you Don't you know I dream about you

4. "Drift" by The 5:55— In the aftermath of the Corpos coming to Ferrix, Bix tries to piece her life back together.

Oh I gotta hold my post Before I slip into the violent road and throws me in To the wild I hope I find the light again 5. "Is There Anyone Out There" by Delta Rae— Bix attempts to signal Luthen one last time, despite knowing it's a lost cause. She is left lost and alone with the radios permanently silenced.

Is there anyone out there? You know me I am the son Of a lost country Of a new world And we were born to run And we never looked back

and All my heroes they were strange We all just want to be the same But who will lead us when they are gone? Who will save us when the wrong ones have won?

6. "Sleep" by My Chemical Romance— In the aftermath of the interrogation, Bix is tormented both awake and in her dreams by the effects of Gorst's device as well as the guilt of Paak dying for her actions.

A drink for the horror that I'm in For the good guys and the bad guys For the monsters that I've been

and

And sleep Just sleep The hardest part's The awful things that I've seen

7. "Let Go" by Ark Patrol— After her rescue, Bix struggles with PTSD, dissociation, and generally feeling that her mind still isn't free from the Empire's clutches. (This one's more for the instrumental part of the song than the lyrics— the song feels like a drifting, dissociated mind.)

Stuck inside your clutch It's chilling to the touch Never liked it much And now you won't let go

8. "Lessen the Damage" by Ark Patrol— As Bix recovers, she becomes overwhelmed with anger and a desire for revenge against Dedra, Gorst, and the entire Empire.

I'm trying very very hard not to quote the whole song here because the whole thing is perfect but here are some excerpts:

When you crossed me Didn't know what you had done A chain reaction happened And it's too late to run

You look at me, I look at you And you know what I'm gonna do

and

Leave her, don't touch her Let me be the one to destruct her

9. "Little Pistol" by Mother Mother— Despite her newfound rage and purpose, Bix can't shake the terror from the aftereffects of the torture. Her fear gradually transforms into a near-suicidal desire to take on the Empire with no regard for the consequences for herself. (Also, the guitar line on this song sounds remarkably like Bix's theme!!)

Up on my side, where it is felt I pack a little pistol on my pistol belt I think it might be fear Of the world and the way it makes you feel afraid

[...] And now I want brimstone in my garden I want roses set on fire And I, well, I want what's best for me And I, well, I think I know just what that means

[...]

And I, well I found what's best for me And now I see no tragedy And I, well, I've found a burning rose And now I won't be packing little pistols No, no, no more

10. "Never Find My Place" by Poppy— Five years after Season 1, with the Rebellion truly erupting across the galaxy, Bix returns to Ferrix with a group of Rebels to recapture her planet from Empire control or die trying. This whole song is genuinely perfect but once again I will attempt restraint with the excerpt:

It's been five years tonight Therе isn't time for reminiscing Needle in my sidе I force my fears to disappear

The evil I have faced Is about to be erased You broke into my life uninvited

Pick up the gun and run Take what's mine and get my space 'Cause I know that I will be fine If I never find my place

Thank you if you got this far!!!

[uminohotaru]

Journey to the Land of the Gods

Banana Fish spoilers warning!

I'm late to the party but yeah, I just finished Banana Fish if you know what I mean. And maybe my heart would rather switch to smth else now and heal but my brain won't stop thinking about that story. So I feel the need to rant into the void, at least. I have no idea whether there are Banana Fish fans among my subscribers but if you haven’t seen it, I really REALLY recommend you watch this masterpiece, and that you better scroll this post without glancing under the cut since I'm going to analyze the end. Or rather, why could that story have had no other ending. 

And it all has probably been said and discussed a thousand times but hey, I’ve told ya I’m late to the party, and I haven’t read any thorough analyses except those in the youtube comments below random videos, so now I need my own chance to rant. 

During my short journey through the BF content (finally I can google it all I want without being afraid of the spoilers yay!) I came across different opinions on the ending. Mostly pain, of course, but then it’s either acceptance or denial. My first reaction was violent denial. But funny thing, as much as I wanted to immediately forget the Garden of Light and drown myself in fix-it AUs (the latter, I still do read), I realized quite soon that I can’t. That no matter how painful it is, the original ending is the thing that MAKES SENSE. No, Ash dying like that wasn’t something that had been decided on for the sake of shock, as some of the most bitter opinions I came across accused. Neither it devaluates the whole struggle and his final decision to leave to Japan with Eiji and have a normal life. No, there was something a lot deeper there, I realized once I’d cried my eyes out. As heartbroken as I was, I just couldn’t bring myself to hate it and reject it, and I tend to do that with the endings I do not like, as it happened with some other stories that I rejected with my whole heart and even devoted a good amount of my time to write the fix-its for. But strangely enough, it was not the case with Banana Fish. Its finale just makes sense. In fact, it makes so much sense that I’d go as far as to say that this whole story is the story of a journey to death which stemmed from the image of the leopard’s inscrutable journey to the summit of Kilimanjaro, the House of Gods. I can almost see the author being captivated with that image, and as someone who’s been writing from the young age I know that often (not always but still) you start the story from its finale. You take some resulting picture that for some reason appeared in your head and mesmerised you, and begin to unravel it, like an investigator: what could have happened? who are those people? why did they end up like this? Of course, it is only my assumptions but if I allow myself to guess, I’ll say the entire character of Ash, him being the wild cat, has originated exactly from that short excerpt of Hemingway. 

Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai "Ngaje Ngai," the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.

The concept is here. It was never a question whether Ash dies, it was the question of how and why he dies. Just like the riddle he’s been pondering on—what was the leopard doing near the summit? What did it seek there? Was it climbing or trying to descend? And that in either case, it must have realized it won’t return. The direct parallel to that leopard, in the end Ash finds the answers to all those questions for himself, on his own journey to the Land of the Gods.

The Japanese characters for the name Izumo literally mean “out of the clouds,” evoking images of a place where the seen and the unseen worlds blur together.

Long before there was a Kyoto or Nara, this region was the center of what was known as Shinkoku, the Country of the Gods.

This is no coincidence. Japan in Banana Fish, and for Ash especially, is the image of the world untouched by the evil where you don’t need a gun, rather than a real country with the same amount of evil and dirt as any other. The fact that Eiji describes it as the country where there are 80 thousand gods, and that he is from Izumo, the Land of the Gods, of all places, makes the spiritual connotation all the more evident. The white peak of Kilimanjaro soaring over the wild jungle, an impossible image of two different worlds in one--there could not have been a better symbolism. Ash, the character who in one of the early episodes says, “I’ve never repented, not even once”, cannot even imagine himself in such a world, just like the sinner can’t seriously think about paradise, or a leopard about climbing a snow-clad peak, so of course his immediate reaction is “Are you nuts? me in Japan? what I’d be even doing there?” But the invitation is there. And deep inside, he realizes that yes, he wants that. To be with Eiji, the angel, in his Land of the Gods. Yet his hands are stained with blood. He's been ruined and tainted in most horrible ways. Is it even possible? But what Eiji sees is his beautiful, fragile, wounded soul, and he says—yes, of course you can, and I will take you there, let’s begin with learning the language. This is when it starts—Ash’s journey from the jungle and toward the summit, toward the Land of the Gods. Or well, that’s when it becomes more or less a conscious decision. And maybe that is also when he realizes it will probably cost him his life. 

He tries to stop and turn back, more than once. Tries to convince himself that he will never belong there, that his fate is to be just another scum on these streets, in the world he has learned how to survive in, his jungle. Just as, more than once, he understands that no, he would rather die on his way to that summit, having decided to take this journey—but die with love, rather than remain in the jungle, even as the king, but empty inside. He has seen the white summit of Kilimanjaro above the wild forest, and that’s it—he can’t tear his eyes off it. 

He learns to repent. He learns to pray. And he even takes the ultimate step—asking God to take him in place of Eiji. Just like Aslan from Narnia, a representation of Christ, he learns such a deep love that he willingly choses to sacrifice himself for another; and it’s not to say he couldn’t sacrifice himself for his friends earlier—he could, risking his life constantly to save others, not exactly cherishing it too much to begin with. But his bargain, for the lack of a better word, with God in ep.23 was something different. It was a conscious offering, a prayer to the God whom he wouldn’t even consider asking for anything earlier, the scarred soul that he is—take me instead of him. Not in the mess of the fight, say, covering Eiji with his body from a bullet, but through a prayer, in the quiet hours on his knees before that window basked in the rays of light. The difference between an act and a prayer in that sense is the difference between one moment and eternity. I'm offering myself in his place, give him the divine protection, change his fate, please God--I'm willing to pay the price. It is different.

Eiji who had a 50% chance of surviving, I believe, survived exactly because of that, at least we can say that it was implied. Ash’s spiritual journey, from being the one who “never once repented”, through finding the spirit to hope and to say I want that, please take me to the Land of the Gods, and to finally offering himself in place of the one he loves—that journey is simply amazing. 

That's why his life could not be taken simply in the mess of the fight. Narratively it would have diminished that huge journey. So he defeats the strongest enemies and survives. Like Cain says, Ash will only die if he brings it on himself. The leopard dies near the summit, but you are not a leopard, you can choose—says Eiji. And we truly can say that Ash chooses to die—from a non-lethal wound (which is more clear in the manga.) Even then, God leaves him the chance to reconsider, to return to the jungle and lick his wounds. In a way, he is safe while he stays in the jungle. But once he tries to reach Eiji, to reach the Land of the Gods, after that prayer, it is no longer so as if fate says, you've exchanged your life for his, that's it. So Ash chooses to pay and to die, and he dies on his own terms to an extent—in the peace of that library, the only place in the “jungle” that has always been his refuge, a part of another world, and he dies smiling—which implies it is not the Grim Reaper who comes for him unlike back then in the hospital, bringing dead calmness devoid of any pain as well as of joy. No, what Ash sees in that moment is some beautiful and happy scenery, so we can say that yes, he sees the Land of the Gods, his paradise where their souls are together, the exact scene from the ED2. He dies, but he ends up reaching it.

So why does Ash, not the logic of the narrative, choose death? For one, this is his part of the bargain with God: and when he is attacked exactly at the moment when he finally runs to reunite with Eiji, he realizes that. Eiji has been able to live on because Ash offered himself instead. And he should have died exactly because he covered Ash with his body, exactly because there is a price for him staying in the jungle, as well as for Ash breaking from the jungle, and from the beginning, Eiji took multiple risks and he took that last bullet meant for Ash, too, because basically his very residence in Ash’s world was the act of his love and desire to save Ash. So of course, he does. But Eiji does more than just saving his life, he saves his soul��since in the end he provides the chance for Ash to say nope, I will not have that, I will ask God to save you and take me instead. Just like Aslan the lion's sacrifice that results in his rebirth. The pinnacle of his spiritual journey, his ticket to the plane going to the Land of the Gods. No, we couldn’t have had Japan as the real 3D country in this story. We simply couldn't.

...One of the distinguishing features of Izumo Taisha Grand Shrine: the shimenawa, or immense straw rope hanging from side to side in the front. The Kaguraden building shimenawa is the largest of its kind in Japan, measuring eight meters in diameter at its largest hanging parts.

It is a reflection of the main god enshrined here, Okuninushi-no-Okami, the god of human relationships. The Japanese word for this is enmusubi, which we can translate literally as “bound fate.” 

[surroundedbypearls]

‘CLOSET PUN’ - Excerpt #9

Hazel: The Changeling Draft 1

[Excerpt below the cut!]

“I’d haunt the hell out of my own grave,” Hazel mused as they walked. She’d make a beautiful ghost. All around her, the others’ auras glinted in shades of yellow, green, a sickly grey. Their curiosity made them joyous. But beneath it was the fear of what they were walking into.

At least being out in the trees was making her feel better. She hated to think she was growing used to feeling just a little bit unwell. Was this what humans felt like all the time? Were they always just a little bit sick?

“Vampires don’t leave spirits behind,” May said, cutting through the lively chatter. Then she gave a wild grin. “Don’t look so glum. At least we don’t drag it out.”

Eventually, they came to the stone walls Toby had described. She could see how someone walking by might totally miss it. In other circumstances, she might find it enchanting. She ran her hand alone the tangles of ivy, so thick there were times her hands vanished beneath the vines.

“It’s like something out of a storybook,” she said, feeling the ivy pulse with life beneath her palm. So much life in a place for the dead.

“When do you think that lock was placed?” Jet asked as he circled back around to the door. His aura shimmered as he examined it, turning from a twinge of fear to only focus. “Does anyone know how to pick a lock? We shouldn’t break it.”

“Why not?”

“Because then whoever put it there will know someone stopped for a visit,” Junie said, walking to look at the lock.

“Unless they’re a werewolf,” Toby said, eyeing the lock with suspicion as though it might come loose and bite him. “Then they’d smell us.”

“Well, let’s not think about that now.” May folded her arms, looking up at the wall. “It’s not too high. Come on.” She bent her knee and cupped her hands into a little step. “We’ll vault you guys over.”

“I’ll cross over first, in case anyone-” Toby cast a sheepish glance at May. “-uh, vaults themselves too far.”

She rolled her eyes, but said nothing as he took a running leap and scaled over the wall.

Hazel took a deep breath and decided to go first. She put one foot up on May’s hands, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Ready?”

Without waiting for an answer, May thrust her upwards and she went flying, grasping for the ivy and pulling herself up over the wall.

“Catch me, Toby,” she called, rolling herself over the wall without stopping. He did.

“You’re heavy.”

“You’ve got above average strength. Quit lying to me.”

He put her down with a grin. Only seconds later, Richie popped up onto the wall, swinging one leg over and carefully hopping down to land beside them. Junie came next, Toby reaching to help her scale down the wall, while Jet leapt over the wall with ease. May was last, silent as a cat.

“Let’s not take too long,” she said, eyes scanning the garden. “Anything suspicious out here?”

“I hadn’t noticed anything.”

Hazel looked around the garden, at the long, tangling grasses, the weeds tangling through the cracks in the old stone path, climbing up the legs of the statues. She passed her energy into the garden, to flow through the plants, to sense the ground for some disturbance, anything that might be worth looking at. They whispered back to her, showing her what they saw.

“There’s nothing out here but weeds,” she said.

She tuned towards the mausoleum, a kind of cold dread creeping up on her. She would be fine while the others were here, she was sure of that. She couldn’t imagine how terrified Toby had been when he walked up to it alone. And because he still eyed it with wide eyes, his aura pulsing and quivering in silver and indigo, she went to touch his shoulder before they dared approach it.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, keeping her voice low. Sure, he wasn't exactly keeping his phobia of the dead a secret. But he didn’t want it advertised, either. “Stay close.”

More on Closet Pun here! Leave an ask or a comment to be added to the taglist.

[linaket]

Weekly Writing Update (3/13/2023)

It has certainly been... over a week since I did one of these. But in my defense, I posted monthly goals between my missed updates, and things have been heckin' frantic in my life these last few weeks. They are beginning to settle a bit now, though I am still in severe need of a rest day (haven't technically had a day where I was able to just recharge in... three?-ish weeks.)

But... down to the business...

10/15 chapters complete

word count: 23k

Excerpt:

“That was taken from a chieftain in Attarabi,” Salinae said, his lips close enough to Vahn’s neck that he could feel the words forming on them. “His tribe was one of the last to surrender, but he surrendered nonetheless.”

Vahn didn’t need a lesson in warfare. He’d fought in Atarrabi himself, with Kanna, on the front. He didn’t want to remember the betrayal in the myriad jewel-eyes when they recognized the spark in his, didn’t want to think about how long it had been since then that he’d seen eyes like his that belonged to the living. What Vahn needed was touch, teeth, the hard press of another until the fire in his bones slaked itself and Vahn didn’t have to think of war anymore.

🎵 Music: All Ours by Talos

Our temples are coming in godless Hide when it's wild in the snow I'll leave when the gardens are darkest I'll heed in the warnings of war

Thoughts:

I've been concerned about my pacing in TS. There's this nagging thing in my head that the story isn't balancing out right. Even though I know that I won't be able to tell this until it's finished with drafting, I can't help but chew on that concern and turn it over and over, stressing about if it is then how can I fix it and how much time will it take to fix it since I'm hoping to have TS at least ebook ready by August.

I think that stress still comes from the demand of serial writing. Shadow's Prey Act 3 will finish posting in early April, and I got nothing after that. I'm just... not used to not releasing things, I've been going steady on SP for I think over three years now? Though TS isn't formatted for serial and wasn't intended to be, and neither will the next thing I'm writing be, but it's... like this strange ache in my teeth that I can't scratch or shake.

In better news: the scenes I'm currently working on are moving quicker than my usual slow crawl, thanks I think to my zero-draft. I've hit the spot of writing that I'm most comfortable in, which is that time when all the set up starts converging and rolling to the finale. This means I get to be a lot less careful with my repeated motifs because they are supposed to be noticed now, blaring in the readers' mind and recalling earlier instances instead of just subtly hanging out.

Still hoping to try and get this finished before April 1st. I really think that just a few solid writing sessions should get me through enough to get there, it's just finding time to get those sessions in...

[previous update.]

Taglist: @lynnedwardswrites [ask to be added!]

[spacecasewriter13]

When the Lights Go On Again by @spacecasewriter13

Story Summary: It is May of 1946, over a year after his fall from the Hydra train and losing his left arm, and James "Bucky" Barnes is struggling to adjust. Working as an analyst at the New York City SSR branch, Bucky tries to put the war and all of its sorted memories behind him. However, try as he might he is plagued by thoughts of Magdalene "Maggie" Ramirez, a Women's Army Corps (WAC) Corporal he met in London and hasn't spoken to since before his fall in January of 1945. Little does he know that Maggie, in her struggle to put the war behind her, has moved to the city and looking for a job with the New York Bell Telephone Company as a switchboard operator. Now, by sheer dumb luck, they are reunited as they both fight come to terms with what they were to one another during the war, and work to figure out how to move forward in a world that was unprepared to deal with the consequences of war in the unsteady peace.

Chapter 22: Take My Hand

Chapter Summary: Bucky has Maggie over for dinner and he makes a few realizations about them both.

Excerpt:

“When the lights go on again, all over the world, and the ships come sailing in all over the world…and rain or snow is all that may fall from the skies above….” Bucky hummed under his breath, his pointer and middle finger scratching at his palm.

And he scratched and scratched and scratched until he scratched a little raw patch, hot and angry but it was the only thing that kept him firmly planted in the present—rooted in the moment. And he was rooted. His mind spinning in circles. Around and around and around it went. His mother was in the hospital, and so he was here, worrying about all the possibilities and the things he couldn’t control.

Looking up he glanced around. He was in a quiet spot just outside the hospital ward doors. Not quite a garden, but a little grassy area with a bench. It was sticky and warm, the humidity in the air was ticking upward, rain clouds brewing overhead, making the very air crackle with energy.

He was bouncing one of his legs. It was one of the reasons Becca had kicked him out. Visitation hours weren’t over for a little bit yet, but Becca had come on shift, swept through the ward on her way to her rotation, and after seeing him in this state had immediately ordered him to go home.

So here he was, sitting out on a hard concrete bench, trying to convince himself to go home. He hadn’t been sitting out here long, just long enough to convince himself that if he left he was going to miss something important. That if he left, he was going to regret it.

Bucky wanted to be here if—should the—when.

No. No he was just tired. His mind was running wild with fear and exhaustion. He had every right to be tired. He’d been here in twelve-hour shifts over the past 72 hours. His mother had been admitted with a high fever and difficulty breathing. Now, they were having a hard time keeping her fever down, and her lungs and the rest of her were already so weak the doctor’s prognosis wasn’t looking good. The next 48 hours were going to be telling, and there was nothing for them to do but wait and pray.

Bucky was good at waiting. He could wait. He knew patience, knew and had learned how to be still even when danger and death loomed close. But that had been when his life was on the line. Now he couldn’t bear the idea of standing still, of waiting, or praying at a time like this. And going home it would only be worse with the empty house, where he would spend the night pacing the hall, waiting for the phone call that he needed to come quick.

But he did need to go home. Needed to grab some groceries and make dinner so that Becca had something to eat, too, when she came off shift. Needed to try to get some rest so that he could think clearly when it came down to making important decisions—vital decisions.

Right now it all felt insurmountable: the bare cupboards, piles of dishes, the laundry, and the hundreds of other household tasks that had been all but abandoned while he and Becca had tried to look after their mother at home. And since the situation had escalated enough to require hospitalization, he hadn’t been doing much other than eating some, napping where he could, and doing his best to ensure Becca did the same.

The fatigue was catching up with him, and his body was complaining loudly. His eyes throbbed, his shoulder ached, and his phantom limb pain shot through his stump and into his shoulder and back.

Bucky didn’t want to leave, not when his mother was so weak, and her life hung in the balance. He certainly couldn’t stay—and in truth he didn’t really want to stay either.

He hated hospitals, the smell, the sound, the very feel of the place. The memories of his long-term stay at Walter Reed made his skin crawl, and he could feel the air of despair that hung over the whole place, sinking its claws into him. But he’d been away for almost three years, and although his mother had never had a medical emergency like this while he was overseas (to his knowledge), he couldn’t and wouldn’t shirk his responsibility to her and his family now.

If pressed, Bucky would admit there were a thousand other places he’d rather be. But in truth there was really only one other place he’d wish to be if he wasn’t at his mother’s bedside.

Flexing his hand, Bucky shoved it into his pocket and pulled out a ratty bit of card stock. Unfolding it carefully, he held it in hand and admired the painting on the front. “Taunton Green Looking North, Taunton, Mass.” The caption read, describing the view of a street corner. Bucky flipped it over and smiled at the message on the back in her steady shorthand.

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[mediaevalmusereads]

Dayspring. By Anthony Oliveira. Strange Light, 2024.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Genre: literary fiction, lgbtqia+

Series: N/A

Summary: A singular, stunning debut that transcends and transfigures genre—at once a bold retelling of biblical tales and an unforgettable contemporary coming-of-age story, connected in collapsing time across millennia.

There are few love stories in the holy books. Love is what ruins. Love is what costs. Love is a flaming sword at our backs, a garden left to ruin and to wild.

In Dayspring , Anthony Oliveira brings to vibrant, glorious life the gospel according to the disciple Christ loved—his companion in the days before the crucifixion, the only instrument that remembers with fidelity his sound.

Sacred, profane, and rich with explicit desire and a poetic attention to form, Dayspring weaves electric and heart-wrenching stories of passion, grief, destruction, and survival into a narrative unmoored in space and time, one that re-examines and re-frames great and doomed figures from scripture and history, even as it casts its keen eye on the trials of modern life.

***Full review below.***

CONTENT WARNINGS: sexual content, blood, gore, brief references to suicide

TL;DR: Dayspring is a gorgeous lyrical book that reinterpets Biblical stories through a queer lens, focusing particularly on Christ and his most beloved disciple. More poetry than narrative, this book is memorable for its imagery and intertextuality, and it's sure to move readers with an interest in poetry and queer Christian spirituality.

I'm not quite sure how to structure this review because Dayspring isn't exactly a novel. It's more like a miscellany of poetry, vignettes, excerpts, and maxims, bound together by a loose narrative that is "told" primarily by (presumably) John, disciple of Jesus. In this, Dayspring is a queer reimagining and reinterpretation of the Bible, blending Old and New Testaments as well as ancient, medieval, Renaissance, and modern poetic imagery.

I really loved the intertextuality of this book. Oliveira is not only thoroughly knowledgeable about the Bible, but also shows his love for medieval mystics, Renaissance writers, and modern language. As someone who is also familiar with a lot of these texts, it was delightful to see how Oliveira referenced and reworked some fairly famous phrases, or else how he placed entire excerpts within his book to encourage a reading that may not be obvious.

I also enjoyed a lot of the imagery in this book. Because it's largely lyrical and poetic, there are some stunning passages that juxtapose sacred and profane, the bodily with the spiritual, and so on. All this cultivates a feeling of deep, personal love between the main speaker (John?) and Christ, and I loved that their relationship was rooted in physical sensation, spiritual rapture, and angst over Christ's divinity. I also think a lot of this book humanizes Christ in a way that makes him feel approachable, and I much prefer a down-to-earth Christ with the weight of expectation to the confident, godly Christ that always talks so solemnly.

All that being said, I do have a bias against modern poetry, which is the cause of my 4 star rating. It's not that Oliveira did anything wrong; I respect the work and experimentation that went into crafting this book. I just personally have a hard time with free verse, as I think the unstructured format tends to get away from authors a bit. But this is entirely subjective; if you enjoy modern poetry, you'll probably have a wonderful time with this book.

[ofherbalisms]

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹 !  The following is a closed starter to  𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑴𝑶𝑬𝑩𝑨  connection, of which is  (  𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 / 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃  ).  Any muse is free to respond to this starter, provided it is tagged as open, as doing so will secure the connection for your character. Please read the   full connection excerpt  before contacting me with interest. Please do not respond to this starter if it is tagged as closed or you do not intend to fill the connection.      Setting: A river approx. 30 min outside of the compound

    𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 𝑺𝑰𝑻𝑺 cool and high in a sea of meteors, alight some lightyears away. There is a chorus of crickets sharing stories amongst the overgrown vegetation. No longer are yards mowed into polite lawns; trees do not get ripped up from the ground by their roots, to preserve some idea of what the world should look like. No, the world is exactly as it is now. Save for the small speck of gardened plots their compound serves, the map is devoid of humanity's reign. In its place sits reminders of a life now passed: cars veered off roads with windows burst through by triumphing weeds; signs erected in fields pointing that way to the hospital, the McDonald's, the closest gas. The last decade of Reuven's life has felt like some strange, ever-unfolding fever dream. It reminds him of a book he read to his children, in the nursery so the baby could be read to sleep, about an island full of wild things and the child that lived amongst them. Only, in this grim reality, the wild things are feral and terrifying and unforgiving in their violence. And there are no children that live amongst them. Not really.

    Palpable is the duality of man forced into survivalism. He re-imagines his life before, himself before, as some pleasant and funny clipshow where fathers ran around disinfected rooms, playing airplane with toddlers, and the worst anxiety that could be borne was from property taxes and falling out of love. How simple and menial it all seemed now, beneath this waning gibbous. How heavily the man yearned to beg his children to stop fighting over the remote during a phone call. Or to try performing a miracle to get his baby to eat mushed peas. Or to bicker with his wife about who would be the one to do the dishes tonight, one last time.

    Now, it all really was just so complicated, wasn't it? This heaviness in his heart. Some days he wasn't sure how he could go on, and why he should. Some nights he stayed up staring at the smooth blankness of the ceiling from his springy bed, and dissipated into it. Other nights, he felt restless, body ready to fight against a threat that was not coming. At least, not right then. Some nights he would resort to pushups, or pullups, or jogging aimlessly around the compound. Others, he would purge the grief from his body through an unbecoming violence: he would venture out into the privacy of the forest to untether from his decency. Axe would beat into trees, bullets would hurl through unsuspecting infected and sometimes, accidentally, wildlife, though once his little rampage was finished he would feel guilty enough to go back and honor the latter's death through burial or meal-making. Other nights, he would sneak out of the compound for an opposite unbecoming: to go resign to himself; to who he truly was, deep down. To go rediscovering himself, amongst the forest. As he was set out to do now, sleuthing out of the compound from some underused section where a tree's branches had overhang past the wall. He could have just walked out the front gates, but he didn't want anyone worrying, or... searching, if he decided on a whim not to return. It was a steep drop, but nothing he hadn't successfully done before, and then a relatively quiet hike without much pest control to be done, until the trees opened up upon a river, untouched by the hands of the living or the dead. Its waters were unperturbed by the world around it, and it had become Reuven's secret sanctuary since he'd discovered it a few months prior. The previous missions to find solace here had all proved successful, but unbeknownst to the man, this time he'd gained a plus one. He'd been followed, and hadn't noticed.

    The moonlight cast a long greyed hue down the surface of the water, illuminating clusters of lilies and algae and mosses climbing up surrounding trees. Reuven stripped to his boxers and carbine, unwilling to part with it even during a swim. It rested across his back, and he stepped into the water, allowing its icy lull to slowly climb up the longitude of his stature, until the ground had disappeared beneath his feet and the bottom few inches of his dark beard had been soaked through. Some lifetime ago, he'd been taught of leeches and whirlpools and brain eating amoebas. Their danger was so far from him now; the idea that any one of them could be his demise now, after so many years of surviving the worst that life could serve, it was inconceivable. The night pressed in on the man in the most soothing of ways. A deep inhale brought in a lungful of cool, refreshing oxygen before he disappeared into the river's darkness. When Reuven re-emerged, he filled his lungs again, feeling the comfort of the water's familiarity; of his own trueness, within it, and how it had made him free again in this moment, just as it had done so many other times in his life.

    He was leaning back, eyelids dropping closed, to face the moon in spirituality; in truce; as if to tell it: I am you, and you are me, and I stop pretending otherwise. A few minutes passed in his meditation, as his form floated gently, carried along the calm sway of waves. The years' long ache of so many long days seemed to dissipate from his body and into the river. Reuven felt the peace of it all begin its nourishment, and he sighed almost as if in relief from the most vicious of pains, and then suddenly eyes snapped open and he drew his rifle's buttstock into the nook of his shoulder. Heart thudded with the shiver of surprise, as a voice had suddenly interrupted this agrestal scene.

    Drenched in his own authenticity, the man fumbled to ground himself back into the danger of the moment. He was exposed raw in vulnerability, physically but also mentally, and he suddenly felt as if he were a trapped animal, waiting for the incisors of a predator twice his size. "Hello?" he called out, uncharacteristically tentative, after he didn't hear an encore. Dark eyes cast into the unlit forest, wondering if it had all just been his imagination. He stayed there, treading water, gun still drawn and pointing at nothing in particular because he could see nothing. Then, his company spoke again.

    "Hello," they responded softly.