#* && AND EVE WAS WEAK. (MARGARET WHITE)

[toxic-mothers-tourney]

Round 1: Match 8

Other Mother/The Beldam (Coraline) vs. Margaret White (Carrie)

Other Mother/The Beldam

CW: child death - she lures children away from their homes and consumes them. that's pretty bad imo - She manipulates kids into staying with her and then eats (?) them - man I just think she's cool. the emotional manipulation so she can eat the kids or something - She's such a lovely mum <33 basically the best possible mum you could imagine <333 no, don't worry about the buttons <33 you'll look great with your eyes removed <3333 you'll fit right in <33333

Margaret White

CW: religious trauma - listen to the song “And Eve Was Weak” from Carrie the musical to get a really good sense really quickly of her manipulation of Carrie and obsession of convincing Carrie she’s a sinner

- Psychologically tortured her daughter through religious trauma, then literally stabbed her in the back when Carrie finally snapped. - she abuses her daughter, carrie, by locking her in a closet whenever she thinks that carrie has sinned—one of the "sins" includes experiencing puberty. she later plans to kill carrie. - she tells her that developing breasts and starting her period was due to sexually impure thoughts or actions

more notes: jesus christ.

[cr1msonpeak-a]

◟ ▍ ‎₁ . —— @everdawn [ emma swan ] said: i thought you were dead.

in every way that mattered, he'd died decades prior. as far as his mind was concerned, the reaper's cold kiss greeted him the day snow white's life was spared, and his own fell into nothingness. for the first time in over twenty-eight years, light slowly flooded through his eclipsed tomb; bit by bit, untamed relief rose in his lost heart, heavy caution mingled with immense salvation. he missed the grand spectacle of it all, the tear stained recollections and collective thirst for the evil queen's head— the huntsman would've carried the banner was he not buried deep within his own flesh and blood. it required patience, garnering control of his limbs, alongside missing memories and a vacant chest. weak and feeble until his familiar red-eyed guide found him; assistance offered from the only family he ever knew, ultimately granting brief reprieve. where, as it so happened, he began recalling fragments of what occurred just before his body hit the floor, when the world faded away following a cathartic jolt of feeling.

mary margaret's — snow white's — loft was the sole place he thought to go once retreating further from that wretched vault, to seek the one person his subconscious yearned for most. by the hour graham arrived at his intended destination, night settled across the streets, but there was only so much calm; the landscape remained busy and somewhat chaotic from the day's proceedings. he was immediately met with an open embrace by the princess herself, then hurriedly ushered inside as if monster's roamed the hallway. after a quick run-down of the curse, the state of the town, a soothing cup of tea brewed by prince james himself, and excitable questions per henry's request— the space grew empty. the other three departing to grab food for the eve. in a now tranquil environment, it was emma's admission to spark their soft-spoken reunion. a low breath drew outwards, voice little more than a whisper, quieter than his feigned grave. ❝ i was. ❞ i was dead, until you broke the curse. i was dead, until you made me feel something.

in a direct parallel of her previous actions ( which felt like an eternity ago ), graham gently retrieved her hand, tenderly placing it upon his chest. although, there's no echo beneath fingertips, the return of magic forcing truths to be seen. he paused for a moment, waiting for her to understand the void lurking in him. ❝ i think part of me still is. ❞ eyes slipped closed, grip unknowingly tightening around the saviour's own. when he opened them, his gaze returned to the woman beside him, brows furrowed, confusion wreaking havoc against his features. ❝ emma, what happened? when— how long has it been since that night? ❞ since you convinced me i was alive.

[bpdjennamaroney]

sometimes it’s necessary to separate an artist from their abhorrent beliefs (margaret white serving cunt in ‘eve was weak’)

[lettuce-gremlin]

Shout out to the person at last night's performance that was like "God damn!" At the end of "And Eve was Weak". Like yeah, Margaret White is so evil but boy can she sing

[bloodtized]

* tags !

[staticscreenwriting]

The loneliest time of the year || Part one

Part 1 of 4

Summary: With a broken heart and the fear of having failed as a father, Frankie returns to his parents house for Christmas. What is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year feels quite lonely. Though when an old friend shows up unexpectedly with her young son in tow, Frankie’s Christmas seems to gain a little more happiness. Can they help each other fight the ghosts of their pasts and overcome their fears ? A/N: This is part of my 12 days of Christmas / Advent special. Every sunday leading up to Christmas you will get another part. That’s 4 parts in total. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. 

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

Christmas time is the most depressing time of the year. Seriously, you can look that up. There’s a bunch of statistics about it and essays using long fancy words.

It’s a time that makes you so acutely aware of how lonely you actually are. And then you’re left to reflect on all the reasons why and that’s just fucking depressing. 

Frankie maneuvers his car along the streets of his hometown, a light dusting of snow covers the ground and the trees to his left and right have long sharp icicles hanging from their branches like the sharp teeth of an imaginary monster that lives under your bed. 

He passes by the old movie theatre, the 7/11, the diner where he got his first kiss, the red brick building that was once a printing house but has been turned into a Starbucks for some reason, and the public library that he used to volunteer at when he was in high school. There are ghosts in all the windows looking back at him. Ghosts of the boy he used to be and the memories he thought long forgotten.

This wasn’t the plan. He’s not supposed to be here. Or maybe he is. Maybe this is exactly what he deserves. To come crawling back home to mom and dad because the future he had tried so hard to build for himself came crumbling down on him in a matter of moments. And all of it is entirely his own fucking fault. If only he wasn’t such a damn mess.

“I'll have a blue Christmas without you

I'll be so blue just thinking about you.”

“Ah fuck off, Elvis!”

He turns off the radio and is left with just the quiet and his thoughts until the little blue house at the end of a cul-de-sac comes into view. This house has seen many versions of Frankie. Highs and lows. He wonders if he even knows the person he is anymore. 

Across the street sits a park and then another little house, this is one red and the shutters are white and the paint is chipping. It used to sit empty for a while but there’s a car in the driveway and light coming from inside. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he isn’t the only one that changed, maybe the town did a little bit of changing too. 

His mom is a hugger, always has been. Still is. At least that hasn’t changed. She has him wrapped in a warm big hug as soon as he gets out of the car. She smells the same way she did when he was a little boy. Like lavender and fresh cotton and warmth. His mom, Frankie thinks, has the ability to talk faster than anyone else he knows. Even faster than Pope when he’s drunk. She bombards him with information about various distant relatives and has him caught up on the last several years of their lives before his dad even manages to get to the door. 

His dad looks older than the last time Frankie has seen him, but not in a fragile way. Age doesn’t make his dad look sickly or weak, it just makes him look wise. He’s got lines etched into the skin around his lips, from all the laughter and the smiles. Every adventure, every memory, it’s all there in his face and Frankie admires that so much. With every day passing he himself just looks sadder and more worn out. 

“Darling, let him come inside. It’s freezing out here.”

Ever since he was little, Frankie knew that what his parents have was special. There was so much love in the way they talked with each other. It exuded from every word. From every look. They were a package deal. One could simply not be without the other. It’s something he knew most of his family members were envious of. Hell, he himself was envious of it. 

“Hey Pops, good to see you.”

His dad wraps him in a hug as he steps into the warm house. His dad isn’t a hugger, he’s more stoic and calm but that doesn’t make him any less loving. There was never a day in his life, that Frankie ever doubted his father’s love for him. It’s just that he’s not the most physically affectionate guy, and that’s fine. When he does give out hugs, they are the best.

“Did the Murphy’s house get sold then?” Frankie questions, motioning over his shoulder towards the little red house. The couple who lived there, Margaret and Edwin, were lovely. They were the kind of old people that others just adore. Always a smile on their faces, always greeting you with the most infectious of good moods. They were already old when Frankie was a kid, but they were the kind of people you’d expect to live forever. Though death doesn’t care for any of that and eventually it came for them too. The house went to their only son, a man that always intrigued Frankie. Michael was a photographer and always on the road looking for a new adventure. He was his parents' age but there was a youth about him that made him look much younger. He always seemed like more of a friend or older brother to his daughter than a father. 

His daughter. (Y/N) and Frankie weren’t friends. Not really. For that, they didn’t spend nearly enough time with each other. But whenever she would come around and spend the summers at her grandparents' place, Frankie and her would gravitate towards each other. There was an undeniable attraction, a magnetic pull. She always had the most exciting stories and for a teenage boy, there was nothing more exciting than a pretty girl with adventure in her veins.

He hasn’t seen her for a long time though, eventually, she went off to college and he joined the military. She came around less and less and then when first Edwin and then Margaret died, the house stayed quiet and lonely. Last time he saw (Y/N) was when he randomly ran into her at a bar but even that must’ve been at least 10, maybe 12 years ago.

“Oh no. Their son, Michael, do you remember him?”

“Sure.”

“He had a bad accident. Can’t work no more, needs a lot of help. You know what he was like, always on the road never really having a place he called home. Other than this house. So him and his daughter are back here. Do you remember her?“

“ (Y/N), yeah.”

“She’s moved back too. Gave up her entire life to help her father. Poor thing now works at the diner waiting tables for a living all the while taking care of Michael and her young son.”

“She has a kid?”

A sting of pain runs through his heart. Big brown eyes stare up at him in his mind, eyes that look so much like his. Eyes he couldn’t wait to see sparkling from joy on Christmas morning. Eyes he ain’t allowed to look into anytime soon.

“Yes, a little boy. Leo, he’s 7 years old. So well behaved and smart. Such a lovely little boy.”

A warm mug of coffee is thrust into Frankie’s hand as his father guides him to sit down on the big couch in the living room that’s been there ever since he was a kid. 

“We invited them to come around for Christmas Eve dinner which reminds me that I still need to get a present for the boy.”

“Darling, it’s December 5th we still got time.”

Despite his heart laying in shambles by his feet, being around his parents sends a warmth through Frankie. It’s so familiar and comforting to be here. Maybe this isn’t all bad. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. 

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me: One sweet reunion.

Frankie sits on his old bed in his old room. There are fewer posters there and the wall that used to be painted a dark blue is now a soft peach color. The old dark wood furniture has been replaced by white cupboards and two beds, both white too. An adult-sized bed for him and a toddler bed for Rosie. Little butterfly decals decorate the walls and soft pink curtains hang before the window. This is more Rosie’s room that’s his now, only she isn’t here to see it. 

A knock on the door shakes him from his daydream. Voices echo through the halls and up the stairs. Voices he doesn’t recognize but by the tone in his mother’s words, he can tell they’re friendly faces.

“So we thought maybe we could borrow your car.”

Frankie sees her before she sees him. Had he not knows she was in town, maybe he wouldn’t have recognized her. (Y/N) looks older. Not old. Just more mature. She must be in her 30s now. Grown into her body. A mother.

“Of course dear, Frankie can help you get the tree if you want. We still need one ourselves anyway. Two birds one stone.”

“Frankie is home?” 

(Y/N)’s voice shines with a glimmer of hope. 

“I am.”

A smile spreads on her face, and that one he recognizes so well. It’s equal parts mischievous and warm. Familiar and comforting. Sassy and soft. 

“Oh man, it’s so good to see you. It’s been some time, huh ?”

“Sure has,” he replies and the two of them share a quick hug. She’s cold from the air outside and smells like winter and snow. Her hair is hidden beneath a beanie and her fingers are kept warm by some fluffy blue mittens. She’s adorable. So fucking adorable.

“So, you want help getting your Christmas tree?” Frankie asks as she pulls away, missing the softness she brought.

“Well actually I was just asking to use your dad’s car but since you’re here, would you mind helping out ?”

“ Course not! We need a tree anyway and I’ll have you know, I’m great at finding the best Christmas trees.”

“That so?”

“Sure is.”

Another big smile spreads on (Y/N)’s lips. “Okay cool. Let me know when you’re ready. Leo and I are free all day.”

“That’s right, you have a kid now.”

There’s an infinite sense of pride that washes over her face. He knows the feeling, sees it in his own mother when she talks about him. Feels it in his heart when he thinks of Rosie.

“Frankie has a baby too, little girl.”

His mother means well. Doesn’t matter though, the mention of her still sends a pant of pain through him. Right to his heart and then it spreads slowly but surely to the rest of his body. Like an ice pick melting slowly.

“You do? Oh, I can’t wait to meet her.”

His heart breaks. Shatters. Crumbles. 

“She’s uh — she’s with her mom for Christmas.” And pretty much any other day too.

“Huh, well I guess you’ll just have to tell me all about her then. “ 

He appreciates this. Her not asking but just taking the situation for what it is. Questions ask for answers he can’t give, doesn’t want to give.

“I can do that.”

“Okay great. Let me bother you no longer, just come knock on our door when you’re ready. You know where I live.”

With a wave and a smile, she makes her exit and steps back into the cold. Snow now falling in big white flakes from the skies, like big bubbles of soap. Like star fragments.

“She’s such a nice young woman, I wish life was a bit more gentle on her. “ his mom spoke up from beside Frankie. 

“Yeah. Yeah, me too mom. Me too.”

When he steps out of the house a few hours later, the ground is already covered in a thick coat of fluffy snow. His boots leave deep prints in the pristine white blanket. 

Across the street, he can hear a melody of laughter flowing through the air before two figures jump out from behind the house, wrapped in warm clothes, throwing snowballs at each other.

“Mom you’re cheating!” The young boy, Leo calls out, laughter ringing along with his words.

“No way! Nu-uh.”

“Yu-uh! “

The exchange puts a smile on Frankie’s face. It reminds him of his own childhood. When the world didn’t feel like it was working against him. When it was kind. When things were easy. When he was happy.

Realizing neither of the two has spotted him yet, Frankie squats down and gathers some snow in his glove covered hands. In a swift motion, he pulls his arm back and throws the snow in (Y/N)’s direction hitting her right in between her shoulders. 

“Hey!”

There’s a second where anger and confusion reign over her face and then she realizes it’s Frankie who threw the snowball and it melts into warmth and mischief.

“I’ll get you back for that, dude. “

“That a threat?”

“Nah, it’s a promise.”

The boy regards them with careful curiosity. 

“Leo, come here. This is my friend Frankie.”

To be quite honest, Frankie hadn’t really considered himself a friend of (Y/N) but to hear her introduce him as such felt real nice. He had friends, good friends, brothers even. Pope and the Millers knew him like the knee themselves but this was different. This was home.

“Frankie, this is my son Leo.”

The boy is all (Y/N). Same smile, same eyes. Like a copy and paste.

“Hey, Leo, nice to meet you.”

The boy gives him a shy wave. “Hi.”

“You guys ready to get some Christmas trees?” Frankie asked, looking from (Y/N) to Leo and back to her. The excitement on their faces makes him feel a little giddy. 

Back when he was a kid, buying a tree was one of his favorite things to do during Christmas season. His dad always used to wake him up real early so they could be one of the first people at the Christmas tree sale. They’d stay for hours looking for the perfect tree. Now perfect didn’t mean it had to be actually immaculate. Perfect meant perfect for them. Sometimes they’d decide to find the fastest one or the one with the biggest hole. One time they found one with a bird's nest still inside. 

Those were the good times and Frankie, knowing now how harsh life can be, will never take them for granted.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Two perfectly imperfect Christmas trees.

“Too big.”

“Too small.”

“I can literally count the branches on one hand.”

(Y/N), Frankie realizes as they look at what feels like the 12 millionth tree, is very particular when it comes to her Christmas trees. 

“Mom, can we just pick one? They’re all good!” Leo chimes up as his mother dismisses yet another tree for being too skinny.

“I just want it to be perfect. When I was a little girl my dad and I were always traveling and when we’d come to my grandparents for Christmas they’d have this big beautiful tree every year. I want my dad to have that again.”

There’s more there, he can tell. By the way, her voice shakes slightly and the determination and chaos raging in her eyes. Frankie has yet to find out what exactly happened to her dad, what kind of accident he got in. But it’s not really a conversation starter now, is it?

Leo’s eyes meet Frankie's, a clear message traveling between them. A silent understanding. 

“Look (Y/N) how about we let you roam this place in peace until you’ve found the perfect tree and Leo and I go see if we can find one for my parents? “

Leo nods his head in enthusiastic approval. A smile playing on his lips that is so strikingly similar to the one Frankie has seen so many times on the boy's mother.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, two of us are gonna find a perfectly imperfect tree for my folks and you go find the tree of your dreams. Just call if you need us, okay?”

She takes a breath, lets out a sigh. “Okay sounds good. Leo?”

“Sounds good to me too, mom.”

“Okay. Well, you boys have fun then.”

As she rounds the corner in search of the tree straight from a Christmas fairytale, Frankie turns to Leo who regards him with a guarded kindness.

“Thank you. “

“ For what? “ Frankie asks and raises his eyebrow in confusion.

“ For not making fun of my mommy. She’s so worried about grandpa, sometimes she goes a bit crazy.” 

“ Nah she’s not crazy. She just wants to make everyone happy. Why would I make fun of her? Did someone make fun of her? “ 

It sends a flash of anger through him, the idea that someone might ridicule her for caring too much. If anything it’s what makes her so endearing. The world could do with more people like her. People who care. Deeply. 

“ She talked to my daddy on the phone yesterday. I think he made fun of her. She cried. “ 

“ That’s — that’s not nice.” 

Leo shrugs his shoulders in a way that seems casual but weary. As if he’s so used to it. Geez, the kid is 7. This isn’t something he should be used to.

“ Dad is not a nice person. Mama always says he’s busy and that he wants to see me but I don’t think that’s right. I think mama just doesn’t want me to be sad. I think daddy doesn’t really want to see me. Don’t think he loves me. But that’s okay mama loves me so much that’s enough. “

Leo’s words sent small cracks to Frankie’s heart and it’s quite hard not to let it crumble entirely. He’s never known what it feels like to be unloved by those that are meant to love you most. His parents adored him, still do. Even when he doesn’t deserve it. He can’t even begin to understand how much that must hurt. How devastating it must be, especially to a 7-year-old. 

And yet Leo looks so — at peace. Like it bothers him sure, but it’s no big deal really.

Because he is loved either way. By (Y/N).

“ You’re a cool kid, you know that? “ Frankie asks and pats the young boy’s back in a friendly manner.

“ Mom says so. “ 

“ Well, she’s completely right. You really are. Now, you wanna help me find a tree? “ 

Leo nods enthusiastically.

“ Okay cool, but I’ll have to tell you how it works. “ 

“ We don’t just look for one we like?”

“ Oh no, you see the Morales family has a very specific tradition. Each year my dad and I go looking for a special tree. “ 

“ A special one? “ 

“ Mmmh. We always think of something special and then try to find a tree that fits that special thing. One time we tried to find the tallest tree on the lot or the widest or the skinniest. “

“ So what are we looking for this year? “

“ How abouuut … we look for one that has two tops? “ 

A giggle falls from Leo’s lips. “ That’s silly, that’s not a thing. “ 

“ Sure it is. You wanna go look for it? “ 

“ Yeah.”

There are big trees and small ones. Ones in shades of greens and some that look almost blue. There are fat ones with lots of branches and skinny ones that look like they’ve seen better days. None of them have two peaks though — until … 

“ Frankie, look !” 

His small, glove-covered hand is outstretched, pointing towards a tree before him. It’s a big tree, wide too. It’s blueish green color shines through the white haze of the winter's day. 

And true to Leo’s words, the stem of the tree goes halfway up before it diverges into two different branches. Two tops.

“ That one’s perfect! “

“ He’s special! “ 

“ He is special. Good job, kid. “ 

The two share a high 5 as a laugh sounds from behind them.

“ I see you boys are getting along well. “ (Y/N) says as she approaches the two of them, placing a kiss on her son’s head as she reaches him.

“ We found a special tree, mom.”

“ Did you? Well so did I, it’s perfect. “ 

Her eyes wander towards Frankie’s and for a second it’s only the two of them there, veiled in shared understanding, a silent thank you. 

“ I’m glad you found your tree, (Y/N). “ 

“ I’m glad you two had fun. Now hooow about we get those trees home and set up? “ 

“ Can we have hot cocoa at home, momma? “ 

“ Duh. Of course. You can’t decorate a Christmas tree without a good hot cup of cocoa.” 

The softness in her voice, the pure adoration she holds for this boy, it makes Frankie think back to Leo’s words about his father and about (Y/N). About how she loves him enough for the both of them. And he can see it, clear as day. Her love for Leo. 

Those two, he thinks, don’t need anyone. Especially not someone who doesn’t treat them with the love and respect they deserve. Those two are their own warmth, their own little universe. And it’s enough. It’s plenty. Everyone who’s allowed to be a part of their little world should be grateful because it’s a good world. It’s gentle and kind. 

“ Alright you two, let’s get those trees home. “ Frankie pipes up and for a moment he is part of their little universe too. And it’s wonderful. He doesn’t wanna let go of this feeling. How anyone ever could is entirely beyond him.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Three mugs of cocoa.

Bobby Helms’ voice echoes through the room accompanied by the soothing crack of a vinyl record. It’s an old one, one (Y/N) has found in a box of her grandparent’s stuff. Jingle Bell rock fills the air with a sense of excitement and wonder only a good old Christmas song can bring.

There are 3 cups of cocoa on the table, one of them in a Star Wars mug. It all feels warm and cozy. Homey. And for the first time since he’s back, Frankie doesn’t feel out of place. He doesn’t feel like a stranger watching through the window into someone else's life. Someone familiar. Someone he once knew. Someone he once was.

Right now he feels like he’s right where he’s meant to be. With friends who chose him. A family that lets him into their lives and willingly shares a piece of their kindness and warmth and magic with him. Not because they are bound to him by blood, by shared trauma. Just because they like him, as he is.

(Y/N) and Frankie sit on the old leather couch that’s been there in this same living room for so many years. One that has seen different versions of (Y/N). Some of him too.

In the corner of the room, across from the big window leading out into a snowy dreamland, stands a perfect Christmas tree. (Y/N)’s perfect tree. It’s decked out in lights and ornaments and tinsel. Leo hops around the tree, adding yet more ornaments here and more tinsel there, a big smile on his face the entire time.

And as she watches her son relish in the pure unfiltered joy only a child really knows, (Y/N) smiles too. Because sometimes this is what it means to be happy, seeing your loved ones smiling. 

“ Thank you, Frankie. “ she says, eyes still locked on her son. 

“ For what? “ 

It’s the second time that day that he is being thanked and for what? For being there? Really he hasn’t done much. This is what friends do, isn’t it? What they should do. Help each other out. Be there for one another. 

“ For playing along with my crazy antics. I know it’s just a tree but I just want this Christmas to be — to be good. For me and for Leo and for my dad. We haven’t had the best year and I just want to make this perfect for us. Or as perfect as possible. Thanks for not letting me see how annoying I was back at the tree sale. “

Frankie shakes his head dismissively. “ You weren’t being annoying. I get it, don’t worry. Leo, he uh — he said something similar to me earlier. Said his dad made fun of you? Made you cry. “ 

(Y/N) lets out a scoff, curls her lips in an unamused smirk. “ Derek’s a — “ her eyes trail towards her son who pays the two adults no mind “ — he’s such a dick. Always has been. But he was suave and he had a motorcycle and I just kind of fell for his bad-boy charms. He’s unreliable though and a goddamn child. When I told him about Leo he bailed on us. Sometimes he tries to be a dad, whenever he gets one of his moods and feels like he needs to turn his life around. Those don’t last very long though. He sends birthday gifts and Christmas presents and he calls every once in a while but — well his interest in Leo isn’t all that big. “ 

“ What an asshole. Why’d he make you cry? “ 

“ Ugh, it wasn’t really any particular thing, just an amalgamation of so many. He was making me feel stupid because of the tree thing. He was being dismissive of my feelings. He didn’t want to talk to Leo. It was just his entire mood that day that once again made me realize why I ended things with him in the first place. And it isn’t fair. It really isn’t. That I have to work twice as hard to be a good parent because I have to fill both roles and he gets off scot-free. Not even a guilty conscience. How am I ever gonna be able to play both roles and play them well? How can I do that? I feel like I am failing already. “ 

“ Are you kidding me? “ Frankie says and softly nudges her shoulder with his “ You’re a great mother. You’re fun, you’re loving. What else could Leo want? (Y/N) you are doing an incredible job, trust me. Little mistakes you make that might seem big to you, they really don’t matter to Leo. Not now and especially not in the long run. He’s gonna remember the good times. The snowball fights and the hot cocoa and the tree decorating. Those are the little moments that will become memories. “ 

“ You think so ? “ 

“ I know so. It’s what I remember about my childhood. And it’s uh — it’s what Leo told me. He said that his dad might not be around but that it doesn’t matter because you love him twice as much. Said that’s plenty enough. The boy loves you. You’re a wonderful mom. “

He forbids his mind from going to that dark corner where he’s banished all his own fears. Those that whisper to him in quiet moments. About how his shortcomings, his mistakes, his faults, how all of that will stain his relationship with Rosie. His ability to be a good father. 

Lord knows he wishes his daughter was here now. Maybe not in this exact moment, a toddler really ain’t much help when setting up a tree. But here. In his arms. With him. During Christmas time. He fears that she never will be. That the times he gets to see her will become few and far between. That he will one day only be a distant memory to her because he ain’t ever given the chance to make any good ones with her.

His heart aches from how much he misses his little girl at that moment. But he has to remind himself not to wallow in it. Because once he goes there, lets himself fall into this big black hole of grief and of missing and of fear, there’s no coming back.

So he looks back at the people around him, at their soft smiles and the Christmas lights reflected in their eyes. Shining with happiness. Shining with joy.

And as the snow falls softly outside, he tries to focus on the warmth in this room. The warmth from the fire and from the hearts so soft and so filled with love. 

Because he’d rather get lost in a beautiful dream than the sad reality of his fears. 

[off-in-the-moors]

TRC rewrite: Main characters

Why? Because The Raven Cycle is a mess. From the setting, through characters and to the plot, everything is a mess on a foundations of good ideas. It feels like Margaret took three to four different drafts, stitched them together and switched around events, e.g. things that should be in book 1 are in book 3, etc.

So, here is my attempted to rewrite the Gangsey.

Blue

curly, damaged, black hair kept short; brown eyes and light brown skin

short and stocky, with a big eyes; untamed, arched eyebrows; and round nose

1/4 black, 3/4 white (Maura is 1/2 black, and Artemus is welsh)

her father, Artemus, was a history professor, focusing on British Isle (especially Wales)

when she was 14, her father's ghost appeared on Saint Mark's Eve, he suddenly died few months, leaving Blue devastated

was very close with her dad, didn't forgive her mother for not trying to save Artemus

straightens and clips down her hair to make it resemble hers dad's

owns a pink switch blade, which was once red, she stole from her father's stuff, uses it mostly to cut plants

knows a lot about plants, helps cultivated and collect them for the family business

interested in and actively looks for paranormal (magic, cryptids, you name it), interest seeded by her parents

went to public school, but after middle school was pulled out for homeschooling

works two part-time jobs, as a waitress at Nino's and a dog-walker, to have her own money

a psychic but her power makes it impossible to work as one

makes and remakes her own clothes, isn't good at it but she loves it

loves knitting sweaters for her friends and family

wears colorful, often clashing outfits with a lots of accessories

loves color blue, always has something blue in her outfit, even if only as an accent color

vegetarian

knows Adam from middle school, keeps warm relations with him (introduced her to his friends)

spends her Sundays with her family (e.g. hitch-hiking with her mother, helping with Calla, making sweater and clothes with Persephone, painting nails with Orla)

know few phrases in Estonian, thanks to Persephone

opinioned, independent and bold

environmentalist

Gansey

tousled, always preciously styled, brown hair; dark brown eyes, light skin

average but quite square built (looks stiff), straight nose, shadows and bags under eyes, often has pieces of mint leaves stuck it teeth

the shortest guy of the Gangsey

born with a silver spoon in his mouth

at ten, almost died from wasp stinks but survived thanks to "Glendower", obsessed with finding him ever since

insomniac, his grands and health suffers from it

was in the rowing team, until he slept through training and hit team-mate with a oar

has the power to commend people, but it's weak

loves mint-flavor things, borders on obsession

owns five different types of mint plants (Ronan named them)

makes mistakes in his research and normal day to day actions from lack of sleep, needs help of others

his mom buys him clothes

doesn't understand the value of money, mostly throws it around and leads people with no need to return it

needs glasses but often losses them (even worse with contacts), in the beginning of the story he's on his seventh pair

doesn't have friends outside the "Gangsey"

awkward about feelings and crushes, can't deal with them

has slit ADHD, needs to do something with his hands

perfectionist, fixes mistakes of others, brushes problems off

good at social interactions but horrible at maintaining relationships

after his grands suffered too much and his search for Glendower effected his school life, his parents cut him off from finances as a punishment

with Adam's help, found a job as a cashier at a grocery store, actually loves it

needs time to remember people's names

Ronan

curly, dark brown (almost black) hair, always shaven; blue eyes, pale skin (burns easily)

tall (tallest of the Gangsey) and quite muscular, angular face, narrow eyes, multiple scars on arms and few on face (oddly proud of them)

he's a copy of his own father, Niall Lynch (looks like a younger version of him)

shaved his head and got tattoos, after he discovered he's a copy, to resemble Niall as little as possible

dresses in what his father would never wear

has only one real tattoo, a Celtic cross on the back of his neck base, the rest of his back is dreamt up

the dream tattoo always changes, reflecting Ronan's mental/emotional state, but always has motifs of wings/feathers and branches twisting into Celtic knots

tried to stop dreaming up stuff multiple times, but it caused him headache and nausea, eventually ending in physical harm, went the dream "gets out"

confused about who or what he is

self-destructive, has no regards for his own safety

has a very strain relationship with Declan, envies his "realness"

vegan, loves animals and hates people who harm them

loves speed and racing, oddly proud of his speeding-tickets

believes for a long time, only Kavinsky understands him, but their "friendship" is complicated

doesn't allow anyone to touch Chainsaw (dream creatures are very personal to a dreamer)

tries to figure out what HE likes, and find his OWN path (even if it means craving it out)

touched starved

loves nature, can spend hours outside just sitting and thinking

acts and speaks before thinking, got himself in trouble for that many times (gets physical quiet often)

helps in the family "dream trade" business, doesn't want any of his creations near him, Chainsaw is the only exception

feels drawn to Cabeswaters, but he preferably would just burn it

knows Irish, speaks it when frustrated

before Niall's death, trained tennis and played on bagpipes (uilleann pipes), but stopped after his father's murder hates boxing

Adam

short, self-cut, light red-ish brown hair; grey eyes, tan skin with a lot of moles and freckles

skinny, deep-set eyes and a downturned lips

has only a backpack of his own stuff and a bike

deals with Gansey's antics only for a chance to escape his father and his living situation

lives with Gansey, Ronan and Noah in Monmouth

prioritises his education over his friendship with "Gangsey"

very frugal, keeps a "change jar"

mostly wears his wash-out Coca-Cola t-shirt, he bought with his first pay

the most sceptical about magic, still very cautious of it

hates loud sounds and physical contact

hates taking money from people and having money spend on him, but he knows he needs it

has three part-time jobs, including his favourite at the garage

loves cars, dreams about buying his own one day

afraid of heights and flying, childhood trauma

opportunist

highly values his independence

never refuses food

sacrificed his "hands and eyes" to Cabeswater, not only to wake the Ley Lines but also to escape his former life for good, seeing it as the only way (partly tricked by the forest)

deaf on the left ear but hears Cabeswater whispering to him through it

actively "fights" with Cabeswater for control (his way or the high way)

owns a old Nokia phone, only bought it to stay in contact with Gansey knows how to sew and dress a wound

Noah

messy, pale blond hair; light blue eyes, pale skin with a dark spot on the left side of his face

faded and lean; small, lively eye; bright, wide smile

kept him pretty much the same, but also add

sarcastic with a dry (and sometimes dark) sense of humor

"I'm the oldest one, so you should listen to me sometimes."

his Aglionby uniform always looks crinkled and dirty

doesn't remember most of his "living life"

gets his memories back from seeing/visiting people/places he knew

his emotional state effects his corporal form, e.g. strong negative emoticons make him less visible

music helps him stay visible

still loves Blink-182 (Ronan pirated him all their albums, including those he missed)

misses skateboarding, swimming, spending time with his old friends and family, and filling the weather

doesn't remember his death, only the pain

likes to wander around Henrietta

likes anything glitter, reminds him of his sisters

gave Adam permission to take his old Mustang, "If you can bring it to live, Parrish."

his disappearance is still a talked subject in Aglionby

sometimes mumbles or swears something no one understand, took Gangsey time to figured out it was polish

+ Bonus

Chainsaw

Ronan's first dream creature (or at the time Ronan believes so)

quite small for a raven

senses Ronan's emotions, always tries to comfort him by burying into his neck or "grooming" him

can speak single works but they sound very corrupted, e.g. "kerah" is a corrupted version of "cara" (irish for "friend")

at the beginning called Ronan Greywaren, but with time it change to "creātor" (creator), "somniator" (dreamer) and finally "cara" (friend), reflecting Ronan's own view of himself

likes to collect and bring Ronan small things, e.g. pen caps, leaves or pieces of newspapers

gets close only to people Ronan likes and/or trusts

If you have any questions or opinions to share, please send me an ask.

Thank you, for your attention :)

[dwellordream]

“...In the efforts of girls to be good and repress self, diaries seem to have had a moderating effect. Certainly keeping a diary which recorded successes and failures along the road to virtue was an additional incentive to be good. A success could be recorded and celebrated. At the same time, an always-listening, never-judging diary was something of a tonic. Girls who talked enough about their efforts to be good availed themselves of a simplified version of the ‘‘talking cure’’ which would soon be used by Sigmund Freud and Josef Breuer with middle-class Viennese girls. (The disproportionate number of adolescent or late-adolescent females in Freud and Breuer’s early work, and indeed the role of hysteria in their formulation of psychoanalysis, corroborates the special salience of language therapy for Victorian girls.)

…Within their diaries, girls assiduously recorded their efforts to be better— echoing, internalizing, and ultimately softening parental imperatives. Just as diaries moderated parental dictates, they mediated parental identifications. As the critic and analyst Katherine Dalsimer suggests, diaries proved to be revisited ‘‘transitional objects’’ useful in the processes of adolescent separation. No other metaphor quite captures the depth of attachment which girls sometimes demonstrated to their ‘‘darling’’ diaries than that analogy to the anthropomorphic blanket or teddy bear of early childhood. 

Within vessels chartered and christened by parents, Victorian girls embarked on imaginative journeys which did not threaten to take them too far from home. Though often received from parents as gifts, diaries nonetheless granted more freedom than parents did. In diaries, girls could take on new attachments without abandoning old reliances. Thus when Margaret Tileston went away to boarding school and developed a crush on an older girl, she recorded it in her diary—as well as the news that she had just written a twelve-page letter to her mother, ‘‘the longest letter I ever wrote.’’ 

And when Helen Hart fell in love with her cousin, she confessed to her diary the prolonged anguish. Such confessions to diaries replaced those to parents—but with parents’ informal acquiescence. The diary was thus a tool for legitimating the ongoing reorientation of girls from parents to peers. Often the diary’s role in this transition was not symbolic at all, but quite concrete. Like rolling hoops, diary keeping was a late-Victorian recreation which girls sometimes shared with friends. Mary Boit and her cousins hid secrets in each other’s diaries, sometimes simply for the fun of the surprise alone. 

In fact, the playful fabrication of different personae in diaries was an engrossing amusement within Victorian friendships. Girls described writing diaries together in their rooms, on New Year’s Eve, at boarding school, and even in the park. Shared diary keeping, of course, carried more possibilities than rolling hoops for emotional experimentation, and diaries often became actors in the friendships themselves. Girls frequently wrote about each other, producing provocative documents that became the stuff of suspicion and intimacy. Writing diaries became a way of confessing, protecting, or creating secrets too private for speech. 

…For the same reasons that parents might encourage their daughters to write to them—as a way of communicating without the embarrassment of face-to-face expression—girls might use their diaries among themselves. Writing channeled unseemly emotions. That seemed sometimes to be the point of girls’ diaries. Self-governance was expected in feeling no less than conduct, and the diary could prove both a convenient receptacle for—and an incitement to—emotional spillover. In addition to moderating harsh norms and mediating new allegiances, a girl’s diary could inspire and then compartmentalize confusing emotions.

 Almost all diaries contained at least one moment of a confessional nature—sometimes crossed out, sometimes written down the spine in minute handwriting, sometimes just left dangerously on the page. For some the diary’s primary purpose seemed to be to provide a safe ground for documenting, exploring, and disciplining nascent sexuality. Victorians strictly limited open expressions of sexuality, but as Michel Foucault persuasively argues, diaries dramatically encouraged discourse about sexuality. 

Precocious sexuality was both most censured and most discussed—an adult secret imperfectly kept from adolescents themselves. Harriet Burton’s diary, written between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, is a document ‘‘saturated’’ with desire. Initially, when she embarked on her diary at the age of thirteen in 1887, she was reticent: ‘‘I find it rather hard to confide all my ‘inmost soul’ to a journal for my ‘inmost soul’ is— very inmost!’’ But before long, she had discovered the purpose for which she came to rely on her diary—what she would later call her ‘‘de-praving—deep raving.’’ 

Although she felt that her passion could not be ‘‘natural’’ for anyone her age and imagined ‘‘how anyone would laugh, how greatly amused they would be at the mere idea of a ‘mere-child’ of fourteen—loving,’’ she found her feelings ‘‘sweet’’ and despaired at the difficulty of doing them justice— of keeping them from seeming ‘‘small and weak.’’ Such self-descriptions as this passage after her arrival for a summer visit in Oneonta, New York, are as of one crazed: 

‘‘I am in a very hilarious frame of mind today, and can hardly curb my prancing spirits enough to ‘wright’ as this scrawl bears witness. My silvery voice has been heard at all hours of the day rolling forth in diabolical waves of laughter, and striking terror into the souls of the inhabitants of the house. My mind is so filled with plans which wont come true that I’m nearly crazy. My emotions for other people . . . become so conflicting that they brake from the narrow bounds of my inner man and find vent in a mad race around the house.’’ 

Despite her descriptions elsewhere of complete freedom for outdoor escapades of all kinds, Harriet Burton described herself here as a confined hysteric, very much within the mode of the ‘‘madwoman in the attic’’ of gothic romances. Her confinement was clearly metaphoric, a fictive imprisonment of impulse within fragile shell. As in much of women’s gothic literature, Burton saw herself as really two people—a passionate inner self and an outer mask, ‘‘a placid calm expression of contentment on my face.’’ And she lamented ‘‘how dreadful has [providence] been in giving no times of solitude times which the soul may assert itself and the face throw off the mask, and break out and away from conformity and be itself.’’ 

In this context, Burton equated her authentic self and her sexuality. For Harriet Burton, the only place where her passion could be confessed—with all its inadequacies—was in her diary. ‘‘It seems so ridiculous and sentimental to think of writing in a journal, and I would not for anything have anyone know that I keep one,’’ she wrote. ‘‘But I will confess it to myself it is a sort of comfort to sit and write, although it is only talking to myself, and it is often putting down in black and white the things I most despise myself for.’’ 

…After a many-paged reverie of unfocused fantasy, Harriet Burton checked herself with her own ‘‘will and good sense’’: ‘‘The wisest thing that I can do is to go and duck my head into cold water, eat something then go downtown where I can see plenty of faces, real ones, then come home study my latin—real latin, then go to bed, a real bed,—to real sleep, get up in the morning eat a real breakfast, go to school make some real recitations, by that time I may be in the realms of reality and common sense!’’”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Writing and Self-Culture: The Contest Over the Meaning of Literacy.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

[artzychic27]

François-Dupont Performs Carrie- Rehearsal

In

Luka could not keep a straight face during the interrogation scene

The actors actually related a lot to this song

Marinette and Adrien blushed when they saw Kagami in the red gym outfit

Most of the female actors weren’t so great in the volleyball scene, so the director is gonna have the girls volleyball team fill in for them

The girl’s immediately apologized after they had to insult Nathaniel

Carrie

For the iconic shower scene, Marinette added velcro and straps to the towels so they wouldn’t fall off

To make it look like blood was running down Nathaniel’s leg, they just used some food coloring

The male actors blushed and looked away when they saw the girls throwing tampons and pads

Alix: They’re just period stuff! Grow up!

Nathaniel kept tripping over his skirt, so Marinette hemmed it. (Cuz he short)

Open Your Heart

For the scene where the boys are walking home from school, Alix gave Kim skateboarding lessons

Kim was a little hesitant to lift up Nathaniel’s skirt

For the part where Billy falls off his skateboard, a thin, hardly noticeable rope was tied to it, and one of the stagehands would pull on it

The school choir sang behind the curtain to mimic the radio

Eve Was Weak

Nathaniel couldn’t help but laugh at Alya’s dramatics

She accidentally hit Nathaniel with the Bible

Alya: Oh my God! I am so sorry!

Nathaniel: Now I really am bleeding!

The World According to Chris

Marinette, as Sue, learns that Corey is a trans male

The liquor was just cranberry juice

Aurore got really into this song

Evening Prayers

The make to Biblical figurines float, Max added small, barely noticeable propellers

Dreamer in Disguise

Marc and Nathaniel may or may not have been exchanging glances with each other the whole time

Adrien threw a paper ball at Nino while he was acting as Mr. Stephens, leading to a paper ball fight

Marc was looking at Nathaniel the whole time while singing

Once You See

Having slight anger issues, yelling comes natural to Nathaniel

Unsuspecting Hearts

Aurore immediatly apologized to Nathaniel after she yelled at him during the apology scene

Aurore unleashed her inner Chloe when she threatened Kagami

This is Corey’s coming out scene

Instead of the girl’s room, Kagami took Nathaniel into the boy’s room

Do Me A Favor

Nathaniel immediately said yes after Marc asked him to prom

Nino: Not in the script dude-

Alix: SHUT IT!

I Remember How Those Boys Could Dance

Max used a remote control to make the windows shut

The students began to feel bad for Margaret after realizing she was assaulted

Two or three of the students had panic attacks. Margaret’s part was very descriptive

A Night We’ll Never Forget

Kim doesn’t like being called stupid, so Aurore just said “damn shit”

Mylène nearly fainted at the sight of the “blood”

The blood is just some water mixed with red food dye, curtesy of Marinette’s parents

For the scene where Corey makes his outfit, Marinette offered one of her old sewing machines

You Shine

Since Tommy is gay in this rendition, he and Sue were supposed to go to Prom as friends

Why Not Me?

Some of the lyrics were changed to fit a male character

‘I’m gonna walk in three-inch heels’ to ‘I’ll walk with my head up high’

Stay Here Instead

This song somehow reminded Adrien of his dad

Adrien: Man, I gotta sit down.

When There’s No One

Nino: She sounds so pretty when she’s planning to kill someone…

Adrien: … Dude.

Prom Arrival

Juleka also played the photographer

The Prom Committee helped decorate the set. They mean business

The prom outfits were either bought, brought from home, or made by Marinette

Unsuspecting Hearts (Reprise)

Kagami’s character is a lesbian (Cuz I said so)

Everyone’s in agreement- Kagami’s and Nathaniel’s voices sounded amazing together

Alix: This contest insults women and excludes enbies!

Marc: Preach!

Dreamer in Disguise (Reprise)

Marc has no idea how to slow dance, so Nathaniel took the lead and made it look like Marc was guiding him

Nathaniel and Marc immediatly kissed after finishing the song

Kim: There’s not kissing in this scene-

Alix: It’s call “improv”!

Kim: But they-

Alix: SILENCE, HETERO!

Prom Climax

Aurore accidentally spilled the “blood” a few times, so they had to put a lid on the bucket until the big scene

Alma Mater

Alix: This contest insults women!

Nino/Kagami: Ally Vale and Corey White!

Alix: YEAH BITCHES! I WON!

Marinette and Marc were both kicked out of prom after Marinette as Sue went to get help

It took a few tries to get the “blood” to splatter right on Nathaniel

And in case the “blood” didn’t splatter right, the lights are gonna turn off for a few seconds, then come back on but this time Nathaniel has on a red tuxedo jacket

The Destruction

Chloé taught Nathaniel how to do dramatic hand movements for the “Psycho telekinesis scene”

Max rigged the doors to close using a remote control

So simulate a fire, the tech crew used red stage lights and had crackling fire play in the background

Aurore and Kim had barely noticeable harnesses strapped to them to make it look like telekinesis was being used on them

Carrie (Reprise)

It took Alya a while to memorize the prayer Margaret recited

When they hugged, some of Nathaniel’s hair got in Alya’s mouth

Alya: Ugh! He does not taste like a tomato! You were wrong, Alix!

Alya sings lullabies to Ella and Etta when they’re sad, so this just came natural to her

She accidentally dropped the knife on the floor

Alya: Aw, shit.

Nathaniel: *Scandal gasp* Murderer!

Epilogue

It took all of Marc’s willpower not to kiss Nathaniel during the death scene

Nathaniel: *Whispers* Do it.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

everything great about Burlington Carrie

i’m slowly watching every version of Carrie the musical on YouTube and rating them, so we’re kicking this off with Burlington Carrie!

The musical starts with fire alarms, police sirens, fire roaring, and people screaming, which is such a cool way to open the performance! Then they end and are replaced with a heartbeat that gets faster and faster, and agh! I love it!

Right off the bat, gotta say this show gets a point for having an actual set. As much as I love BK and Seattle, the lack of background and set pieces really throws off the immersiveness.

This show also doesn’t have the “everyone wears red” thing going on like BK and Seattle did, which I enjoy because in the book Carrie wasn’t allowed to wear red. 

Also, the ages in this cast are a little strange. Mostly all the students look like college kids, but the Chris looks like she’s in her thirties and Carrie looks like she’s fifteen, maybe sixteen. A little odd, but hey. If Chris is supposed to be an adult bullying a child, then I could get on board with that!

For the opening choreo in In, Sue kinda gets blocked and thrown around and then circled, which is something I’ve never seen before! It’s really cool looking! I love the way she stops being scared and starts singing with the others in a blink of an eye.

THEY LET MISS GARDENER SAY “you can choke on it for all I care” HELL YEAH

Miss G throws a basketball at one of the girls 

Really enjoying how they actually play a sport during the gym par of In. I love the choreo where the dances look like they’re playing, don’t get me wrong, but something about seeing these girls throw around a basketball feels a lot more immersive.

Cynthia Reynolds, the girl who plays Carrie, really goes hard with the whole “shy girl” mannerisms and I love it. She is so cute.

Carrie’s loud “WHAT” when Sue says she got her period

Also holy shit, Cynthia is actually naked. Like, I’ve always been under the assumption that the actresses wear a strapless bra and at least shorts or underwear under the towel, but no she has nothing around her chest. 

Good for her for doing that! If that were me and there was a wardrobe malfunction and the towel fell off, I would just die. Like, cancel the rest of the show, I can’t recover from that.

Chris’s face when Sue said Miss G isn’t a lesbian

(She is)

Cynthia’s vibrato in the opening note of Carrie is AMAZING

I love angry Carrie is! Both the character and the song!

Carrie falls to her knees and whimpers because of cramps in the middle of Carrie (song)

Look at this cutie!!

I love how unflattering Carrie’s clothes are. Like, it’s a wrinkly white shirt, a tan jacket with one (1) button buttoned, and fucking khakis that look way too tight for her legs. I love it.

Every time I watch a new version of Carrie, I always get nervous that the girl who plays Carrie won’t be able to hold the notes, since Carrie is an extremely difficult role, but Cynthia does a really good job! She has such a pretty voice, too!

Billy feels up and slaps Carrie’s thigh during the scene with all the boys

Carrie already looks like she’s about to burst into tears at the start of And Eve Was Weak

Where as in Seattle Carrie was on her knees for most of the song and in BK she was shoved around, here Carrie gets grabbed by the hair a lot and cowers. She also gets her arm twisted.

Carrie’s screams as she’s being pulled into the closet are heartbreaking!!!!

Billy snorts crack at the start of the party scene

The guys pick up Chris in The World According The Chris which was pretty damn cool

During the beginning of the show, they had chairs for the period scene, but for the scene where they’re actually in a classroom they make the kids sit on the floor lol

Carrie hugging her backpack in class, poor baby is so anxious

When Mr. Stephens was talking about who had the best poem and says that person should stand and read, Sue starts to get up and then immediately turns around and goes 😬 when Tommy’s name is said

But she’s supportive we stan

“Yeah, Tommy boy! That’s my baby!!!” -Billy

After Dreamer In Disguise, Sue immediately takes the poem from Tommy and starts reading it lol

The way Carrie says “it was beautiful” was so cute!!!

Billy mocks what Carrie said about Tommy’s poem in the most gay voice omg

The way Carrie speaks in this show is really in character for her. It’s kinda choppy and stammered. She. Talks. Like. This. There’s pauses and she stutters a lot and it fits so well!

Carrie SCREAMS at Sue WOW

Miss Gardener absolutely just tears into the girls during gym. She’s just insulting them left and right!

Have I mentioned that I love this Miss Gardener? Because she’s REALLY GOOD. Major props to Mackenzie Smith!!

The way Frieda says “sorry, Carrie” is a lot funnier than it probably should have been

Also Helen’s “Sorry????”

This Carrie is so fragile. Chris says she eats shit and she bursts into tears.

Carrie’s expression in the opening part of Unsuspecting Hearts.... She’s so sad

Also the bags under her eyes are HUGE does she ever SLEEP

Miss Gardener tries to dance with Carrie!!!! It’s so cute!!!!!

The way Miss Gardener spreads her arms and then Carrie looks down at her own and slowly copies her is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen

They t-posin

Even closer

Carrie immediately hugs Miss Gardener, it’s so cute!!

Carrie’s big grin and the way she says “thank you” after she gets invited to prom has my heart melting

The anger from Cynthia and Jillian (Margaret) in I Remember How Those Boys Could Dance is so powerful!!!!!

Instead of closing the windows, Carrie pins Margaret up against the wall with her telekinesis, which is a really interesting take on that part of the song that I’ve never seen before!

We love Carrie eating pie while watching her mom cry against a wall

So during A Night We’ll Never Forget, they have it set up where Norma, Frieda, Helen, Stokes, Freddie, and George are in class and singing about their plans for prom and Miss Gardener is reacting to what they’re saying. Another interesting take on the prom and very entertaining!

Look at this baby! Look at her with her hair down!

Isn’t she just the cutest little thing?

After Margaret calls Carrie a fool in Stay Here Instead she instantly flinches away like she’s scared

“I NEVER SHOULD HAVE LET YOU LIVE!!!” “Then why did you, Mama?” WOAHHH NEW LINES

Carrie grabs Tommy’s hand with both of hers

The way Carrie says “no shit” oh my god

Miss Gardener in her dress has me Big Gay

“After prom a few of us are going--” “OKAY”

Frieda clapping when Helen says prom king and queen insults women

MR. STEPHENS DANCING DURING PROM CLIMAX

Miss Gardener’s reaction to that

ALSO CARRIE GETS DOWN IN PROM CLIMAX HELL YEAH!!!!!

Her reacting to herself dancing and then giggling over it

She dances with Frieda!!

After Carrie and Tommy get announced prom king and queen, Carrie goes around hugging everyone and it’s SO CUTE

She launches herself into Mr. Stephens and he stumbles back slightly

And now we get to what is probably the best The Destruction scene I have ever seen before

FIRST OF ALL, the blood mainly goes all the way down Cynthia’s back, so she has to smear it on her dress and face, but I LOVE how dark red it is! 

Next, during “our father who art in heaven” she breaks down into sobs and it’s so heartbreaking!!!

On the first “oh my god” she slams her hand back against the wall and smears the blood. The look of terror on her face as she looks at her hands is incredible!!!!

During the Note Of Death, Cynthia has to shift her pitch to hit the note, but she ends it with a scream, which sounds so good!!! I still think Keaton sang the song better, but Cynthia had so much emotion!!

When the massacre begins, everyone starts to scream and run around in a panic instead of Carrie controlling them all and make them wiggle around like in BK and Seattle. Instead, she kills them one by one as they frenzy around and try to escape. They all cry and scream at the ones who died to get up. There’s also a “fire” going and it’s just so good!!!!

As Carrie slowly walks out of the prom, Chris screams at her. And then everyone starts to cry and moan and call for help as the lights fade to black and holy shit it’s so chilling.

Cynthia cries out her lines over the prom instead of whispering them. It’s so heartbreaking to see and hear her sob and wail! And she continues to do so even as Jillian sings the reprise of Carrie.

My god the SCREAMS after Margaret dies! The EMOTION! I actually started crying because it’s just so sad!

Sue pulls Carrie into her arms even as she wails and shrieks and cries with her, which hurts even more!!!!

AND OH MY GOD THIS PART

When Sue sings alone during the end of Epilogue and all the kids part and there is Carrie, bloodied, staring blankly forward, and Sue just sings to her in tears

AND THEN CARRIE TURNS AND JUST LOOKS AT HER AND AAAGH 

GO WATCH THIS PRODUCTION THE ENDING WILL KILL YOU IF CYNTHIA!CARRIE’S ADORABLENESS DOESN’T

[frischkasekuchen]

Carrie Au(Death of Margaret White)

Part 1

Part 2

Credits:

Verse provided by the Good News Bible

Hetalia- Hidekaz Himaruya

Dreamtalia, its characters that were used and Nevo- Kyokyo866

Vanya(Mentioned)- thriftlita

Carrie- Stephen King

Warning:

Religious abuse/themes/trauma

Child abuse

Blood

Beheading/Decapitation

Knives

Minor swearing

Self-Loathing

Starring:

World(Nicholas) and Reve as Carrie White

Nevo’ nik(Nathan) as Margaret White

The girl hurried back at once to the king and demanded, “I want you to give me here and now the head of John the Baptist on a plate!”  

This made the king very sad, but he could not refuse her because of the vows he had made in front of all his guests. So he sent off a guard at once with the orders to bring John’s head. The guard left, went to the prison, and cut off John’s head; then he brought it on a plate and gave it to the girl, who gave it to her mother. When John’s disciples heard about this, they came and got his body, and buried it.

(Mark 6, 25:29)

Reve and Nicholas finally arrived in his quaint neighborhood, the only place free of the stink of smoke. The two trekked down the sidewalk together in silence once more. The blood covering them had begun to go cold, making them shiver.

From what Nicholas could see his father was still awake. Flickering light was pouring out of the house, and everything got warmer the closer they got.

When they entered the house, it was almost covered head to toe in lit candles. Nicholas had Reve hoist his skirt up as not to light it afire. 

Nicholas led Reve into the bathroom and began to run some hot water. He then turned to Reve, who was quietly sniffling while clenching balls of the dress’ bloodied fabric. Nicholas patted Reve’s shoulder to get his attention. Reve’s head perked up, it was hard to see, but he was crying.

“Hey, could you sit down for me?” Nicholas asked.

Reve obediently slumped to the floor, twiddling his thumbs. Nicholas joined him on the floor and an arm around him. He began to sing:

 My soul longs after you

As the deer panteth for the water

You alone are my hearts desire

And I long to worship thee, 

Reve gradually began to sing along, albeit softly.

You alone are my strength

My shield,

For you alone does my spirit-

Nicholas stopped singing abruptly as Reve sang along.

Reve asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I should be asking you that!” Nicholas replied.

“Whaddya mean?”

“You’ve been quiet since- you know! I know this might be a stupid question; but are you okay?” Nicholas asked hesitantly.

Reve twitched, “I’ve turned us into monsters! I killed Ludwig and-and you killed a lotta people! If I hadn’t brought you up onstage- maybe I could’ve saved lives.” 

Nicholas cringed and stared at the reflective wall, he wasn’t wrong. He looked at his reflection, dyed in blood to the point it looked like red skin, like a demon.

“I can’t go back home! The police will come after us- we’re gonna go to prison!” Reve nails began to grow out once more as his breathing quickened. 

Nicholas had to remedy this situation and swiftly, lest his father make a fuss. Nicholas cradled  Reve’s head in his hands and pushed him to his chest, letting him listen to the sound of his heartbeat. Nicholas gently ran his fingers through Reve’s bloody and tangled hair. 

Reve’s breathing seemed to slow down gradually by the sound of Nicholas’ heartbeat. Even now, at eighteen years old, something as simple as a heartbeat soothed him. Reve being childlike and carefree was something Nicholas always liked about him. Yes, the boy was well aware of vulgar subjects but was surprisingly innocent. 

When they first met, Nicholas swore he was an angel. The unwarranted kindness, porcelain skin and white hair- Nicholas thought Luciano had finally killed him that day. From that point on both the boy and his father called Reve a heaven-spawn.

“Nicky?”

“Yes?”

“The bath’s overflowing.”

“Fuck-”

--------

Nicholas sent Reve upstairs to get a nightgown after they’d cleaned up. Unlike Reve, Nicholas always had a change of clothes in the bathroom. Nicholas let out a sigh of relief as Reve seemed to be finally calming down. All he had to do now was replenish himself. 

When Reve dressed himself, he gave himself a good look in the mirror. Clean, but still a murderer.

‘I’m not a monster.’

‘You didn’t have to kill him- y’know. He asked you out, offered you dinner, gave you a kiss- and this is how you repay him?’

‘I’m not a monster.’

‘You have no self-control.’

‘I’m not a monster.’

‘He had a family, people who’ll miss him and you killed him.’

Reve began crying again, holding himself up on the dresser and watched as his tears fell onto the dresser. 

‘You absolute turd, Luciano was right and you know it.’

Reve gasped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see it was Nicholas’ father.

“Why are you crying dear boy? Had your heart broken?” Nathan asked, rubbing Reve’s shoulder.

‘No you didn’t. You fucking killed him you shit stain-’

Reve nodded wordlessly.

Without even offering, Nathan embraced Reve. “Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.”

Reve didn’t like Nathan, not one bit, but he needed someone- anyone to hold him. Reve hugged him back and muffled his sobs into his chest. 

He sat down Reve on the bed and said, “I have to go downstairs for something all right? Then you can tell me what happened.”

Nathan left Reve alone in Nicholas’ bedroom, he knew what he had to do.

--------

Nicholas was helping himself to some strips of bacon in the kitchen. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs. 

Nicholas peeked outside the doorway to see Nathan, with an arm up his sleeve.

Nicholas shot him daggers, “What do you want?”

“My sweet boy, my own flesh and blood. I should’ve killed you earlier.” Nathan purred, approaching Nicholas.

Nicholas backed away in both paranoia and confusion, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I was weak, and let the raven loose on the world. I let you loose on the world.” Nathan pulled out a dry and crumpled wash cloth from under his sleeve.

“I thought my teachings would fix you. But you let the blood in that demon’s eyes lure you away from the light with its scent, you dog.” he growled.

“We’ve been over this! Vanya isn’t a demon, he’s an angel if anything!” Nicholas barked back. 

“YOU’RE THE DEMON, YOU’RE THE DOG!”

Nathan cackled, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a knife.

‘Mama’s butcher knife-’ Nicholas thought to himself, before pinning Nathan to a wall from afar.

“Let me go Nicholas, this is the only way He can save you!” he cooed.

Nicholas dropped Nathan as he lost focus in fear, his knees unfortunately gave in as well. The exhaustion had finally caught up to him. No matter the situation, even with these powers, his father always struck fear into him- he always had control.

“REVE- REVE HELP!” Nicholas screamed as Nathan was getting much closer to him by the second.

Nathan soon had Nicholas backed up against the stove, trapping him in a corner. Luckily the cavalry had arrived, and knocked Nathan over. Nathan dropped the cleaver in the scuffle.

“BOY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Nathan said he squirmed under Reve’s weight.

Reve pulled Nathan up to his feet, only to grab him by his hair and slam him against a nearby cupboard. 

They both pulled and clawed at each other’s hair, slamming each other into walls. Reve took the initiative not to kill Nathan, just to lock him away. Reve let out a inhuman screech once more when Nathan nearly tore his hair from his scalp. Nathan had to cover his ears, forcing himself to let go of Reve. 

Reve grabbed a nearby broom and tripped Nathan over causing him to fall on his stomach. As Nathan tried to stand up, Reve picked him up by his ankles and began dragging him. 

“LET ME GO!” he screeched hoarsely.

Reve surveyed the house for a place to isolate Nathan, and a certain room caught his eye.

‘The prayer closet!’ Reve thought to himself as he struggled with Nathan’s legs trying to kick him. Reve reluctantly released one of Nathan’s ankles to open the door. As Reve opened it, Nathan tackled Reve and accidentally closed the door behind them.

Nicholas picked up the cleaver before going to investigate. He held out the knife, so if Nathan jumped out at him he’d be injured. 

Nicholas stood in front of the confessional’s door as he heard something fall and thud against the door. The boy cautiously opened the door and felt something warm at his feet. 

He peered to see it was a head, Nathan’s bleeding head. 

Nicholas looked back up to see his father’s headless carcass, slouched on top of Reve’s body.

Reve was sobbing, wheezing:

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  

(Author’s Note: The thing Nevo is talking about-the blood eye thing? I decided keeping Vanya’s eyes red and having Nevo deem him a demon to further demonstrate Margaret’s worldview. While keeping Reve’s white hair and have World and Nevo assume he’s an angel. A lot of Nevo’s dialogue is based on Margaret’s strange and twisted version of Christianity/the Bible; with calling men dogs lured in by the scent of blood(period), saying Eve was weak and let the raven(sin) loose on the world. But in this case, Adam(Nevo) was weak and let the raven(World) loose on the world(The Prom). Also the reason why I made both Nevo and World the White household is due to their God-complexes. The use of growling and barking is based on Margaret's belief that men are dogs.)

[toxic-mothers-tourney]

Round 2: Match 4

Pelleamena Novenarius (The Locked Tomb) vs. Margaret White (Carrie)

Pelleamena Novenarius

- CW: child death, suicide - Killed 200 children (the entire child population of the planetoid she ruled) in order to give birth to a supernecromancer, emotionally abused the resulting supernecromancer daughter including making sure she knew she existed because of the deaths of 200 children, when said daughter committed a horrible blasphemy mostly by accident at 10 she and her husband killed herself and tried to get her daughter to kill herself with them - read more here

Margaret White

CW: religious trauma - Psychologically tortured her daughter through religious trauma, then literally stabbed her in the back when Carrie finally snapped. - she abuses her daughter, carrie, by locking her in a closet whenever she thinks that carrie has sinned—one of the “sins” includes experiencing puberty. she later plans to kill carrie. - she tells her that developing breasts and starting her period was due to sexually impure thoughts or actions - listen to the song “And Eve Was Weak” from Carrie the musical to get a really good sense really quickly of her manipulation of Carrie and obsession of convincing Carrie she’s a sinner

mod notes: oh this is a rough one

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 5/10

Shifty Powers x Reader

“Mother, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come? Margaret said I had to convince—” you call, taking the stairs two at a time, if only to hear the green chiffon of your skirt fluttering at your ankles. Yet, when your Mary-Janes plunk onto the thin carpet at the bottom, girlish delight is forgotten in favor of your eyes bulging, air stoppering in your throat, and stuttering out: “M-Mother, is that—? Is that the—?”

She perches on her armchair in the sitting room—the tapestry upholstery faded; it’s been in the cottage since Mother’s gran lived here as a little girl—her beaming smile shifting from the tea kettle in her hands to you. It’s the tea kettle; the robin-blue heavy ceramic one that’s been shown in the cookware shop’s place of pride since July. “Look, dear, I decided to spring for it,” she says, her voice floating with lightness, as if reveling in an indulgence long overdue. “Isn’t it the loveliest thing? And, you did mention you wanted something practical for your birthday in a few weeks, so I thought this could be for Christmas and your birthday.”

Yet, the justification doesn’t reach your ears; you’re deaf to the chattering praise of the kettle as Mother holds it to the weak electric light of the overhead chandelier, inviting you to admire it from all angles. Your imagination conjures the scene of Mother creeping to the stronghold box secreted in the workshop, illustrating how she took out your carefully stacked pound notes—freshly and hard-earned from the nurses’ orders—halving it and scurrying off to the cookware shop. Is this your fault for not confiding in her how desperately the money’s needed? She surely knows some it, but you’re so careful to hide the letters from the bank, the reminders on the loans and interest, and she had been so thinly pale and grayly sick in the years since London; you couldn’t risk a relapse. Where would you be, who would you have, if something happened to her?

The thought sobers you, allows you to plaster a smile on, and you offer: “It’s really quite lovely, Mother. It’s just the right dash of color our little house needs.” Admittedly, the old cottage with its threadbare carpets and worn upholstery would take much more ‘dashing’ than a blue tea kettle could offer, but your seeming-approval cheers Mother noticeably. “Are you coming to the Christmas Eve party? Margaret asked me that I positively badger you about it.”

Her smile shrinks marginally. “Oh, I don’t know, darling. Why don’t you go ahead, and I may catch you up in an hour or so?” Carefully, you keep a frown from pulling at your lips at Mother’s blatant lie. She hurries on: “Don’t forget your Christmas packages; I put the tin of cakes on top.” She gestures to a modest pile of boxes on the ottoman, an old tin stuffed with almond-butter cakes, dusted with real powdered sugar, crowning it. That white sugar, an absolute necessity in your family’s sacred holiday almond cake recipe, had cost you dearly. Smilingly, you allow her to load your arms up with packages, sacks, and tins, and shoo you out the door and into the early chill of nightfall. She sends you trudging through the flurries of snow and toward the bright bauble of Margaret’s house.

You try not to brood as you walk, your surly thoughts keeping the nip of the air at bay, but your thoughts revolve continuously back to the neat stack of bank letters folded into your jewelry box and how you’d politely word a begging request to extend the payment deadline—again.

…

Margaret shepherds you into the party with wide-flung arms, a bright grin that stretches her immaculately painted cherry-red lips, and any of her stress or harried anxiety from two days prior—during decorating—has entirely evaporated. She coos over your Christmas dress (the same one as last year, and the year before that, though she’s kind enough not to notice) as she carves a path through the seemingly uninterrupted mass of humanity cluttering her home. American sergeants laugh at the vicar’s jokes—he’s putting in a brief appearance before scampering off to other party invitations—Mrs. Pinchent, your dowdy widow-neighbor, giggles and flirts with a taciturn American colonel; Evie Lowell holds captive a slew of local and soldier boys alike; Mr. Jamison, the busybody bartender at one of Aldbourne’s two feuding pubs, hoots uproariously with a cluster of American captains. Couples attempt to dance in a narrow patch of carpet provided, youngsters dart between legs, and the elderly have claimed chairs to keep an amused eye on it all.

Whatever darkness heavying your mood, you leave behind, outside in the cold of the garden.

“We’re not doing any kind of formal gift-exchange,” Margaret informs. “The idea is you put your packages under the tree, and then you’re supposed to check every once and a while if someone has left something for you. It stretches out the fun and anticipation of the gift-giving!”

“Oh,” you mutter, glancing down at your packages, eyes catching on the card attached to the one at the very top: in your neatest cursive, you wrote, ‘To my dear friend, Shifty.’ Disappointment trickles into your chest; you’d never admit it, but you wanted to watch him open it. You’re not sure why it’s important to you all of a sudden.

After Margaret helps deposit your packages under the tree, merrily ripping into hers and exclaiming over the cape you knitted for her—a lovely, pure white lamb’s wool that you matched to her white muff—she whisks the almond-butter cakes away to put on the serving table. You watch her dissolve into the crowd, fidgeting with your velveteen sleeves as your eyes flick over the profiles and backs of the party-attendants nearest you. You don’t particularly want to mingle with Mrs. Pinchent or Mr. Jamison, but they seem to be your only options at the—

“Look!” exclaims George Luz—you instantly recognize that brash American accent of his, constantly pitched as if auditioning to announce for the Royal Ascot—and you find a delicately carved wooden squirrel under your nose. “He did carve me a squirrel!”

“Huh,” is all you can remark, gently plucking the figurine from George’s hands, inspecting its deep, chestnut color, honeyed and rich. The little squirrel even clutches a nut, its head cocked in inquiry at the viewer and fluffed tail held in trepidation. You manage: “It’s lovely, George.”

Accepting the squirrel back, George glances over it, too, trying mightily not to seem too pleased. “It’s alright; Shift’s talented, that’s for sure. The kid’s got, I don’t know, depth or something.”

As innocuously as possible, you ask, “Did Shifty give it to you just now?”

“Nah,” George replies, pocketing the squirrel. “He gave out all his gifts back at the barracks; said he didn’t want to deal with carrying anything here.” The drop of disappointment through your chest from before builds into a free-fall. “I swear, he’s got some imagination, too; he gave Skip an otter but the funny things, I kind of see why Skip’s an otter, you know?”

Before you can think of a response, before you can sort the slowly dawning horror creeping over you that you gave Shifty a gift, and he most assuredly didn’t give you one, Skip appears at your elbow. He shouts to be heard over the party’s rabble: “You’re here! Good, I’ve had to use every stalling tactic I can think of to get the guys to hold off on charades! Come on, you’re on our team; our secret weapon.”

Your eyebrows jump. He remembered; he was being genuine about the team, you think, befuddled.

Skip’s hand wraps around your elbow and he’s towing you—George Luz trails, snorting over the paper crown balanced precariously on Skip’s head, most likely from the Christmas poppers Margaret adores so. You’re helpless to being dragged away from the tree, and any hope you have of swiping up your gift to Shifty before he can see it; before he can open it and face the unmistakable truth that you’re horribly enamored with him. Before your friendship turns brittle and crumbles because of your own self-sabotaging.

First the kiss, now this. It’s like you don’t want to be happy.

(This, in tandem with the damnable kettle, you decide, might be warrant enough to label this the Worst Christmas Yet.)

…

You had your doubts, given that Skip seems someone inclined to comedic dramatics, but he hadn’t been hyperbolic when he proclaimed he, Penkala, and Malarkey were truly pitiable at charades. “What on Earth are you doing?” Malarkey bursts, exasperated, as Penkala skips around the cleared charades floor, flapping his arms and occasionally squawking. All the charades were—allegedly—Christmas themed, though you pulled a Clark Gable card your last round, and you’re fairly sure Clark Gable has nothing to do with the reason for the season.

“Chicken?” Skip guesses, Penkala shaking his head and squawking again, as if this time, it’d trigger the correct answer.

“A deranged goose?” you offer, Malarkey and Skip snorting, but Penkala waves his hands emphatically, pointing at you. “Oh, a goose?” you guess, when Penkala twiddles his fingers, meaning its part of the phrase. “Um, Christmas goose? Roasted goose? Goose and—”

“Time!” Margaret trumpets, popping to her feet and nearly upsetting the holly and garland crown she wears. Allen Vest had made a whole show of crowning her after the first round of charades ended in her team winning, declaring ‘peace unto the queen of Christmas.’ “How many points did they get, George?”

George had made scorekeeper when it became obvious he couldn’t keep his great trap shut, guessing for teams other than his own and giving out freebie points. “Uh, seven! Wow, Penkala, way to go! You didn’t embarrass yourself!”

Penkala takes a bow as all teams—four teams of four, all composed of Easy Company men, the company all your American friends (because you do suppose they’re your friends) belong to—clap and cheer, Malarkey and Skip whooping. As Penkala flops onto the couch next to you, Skip leans over to whisper in your ear: “Looks like you’re not the star player anymore.” He winks, curling grin mirroring yours, and you shake your head back. Without you, the team would have negative points, if any: you earned eleven points when it was your turn, and had guessed nearly all of the words when the boys were acting.

“Good,” you shoot back. “I was getting tired of carrying this team.”

Skip’s eyebrows quirk and he tilts his chin back to roar his laughter to the ceiling.

Basking in the glow of your joke, you swing your eyes away and around the room, your smile growing stale and then shriveling. In the crowd amassed as spectators to the game, you pick him out easily—looking older, more tired somehow, in his dress browns, despite the cheerful blue and white scarf wrapped, once, twice, four times around his neck, the scarf you knitted him—the sensible gray cap, your other gift, peeking from his trouser pocket. Yet, after the initial yank in your stomach, a yank that makes you feel you’ve been thrown into open space, you forget the gifts for his expression. An expression you don’t comprehend, can’t ascribe any logical reason to, because he’s envious? There’s melancholy written in his frown, confusion in the pinch of his brows as if baffled by his own reaction, but yet, despite himself, he looks envious.

His eyes find yours, across the lounge of jostling elbows and knocking knees, and your chest aches, your lips part, words building in your throat until you’re rendered completely mute. What is it about Shifty, about how he’s looking at you now, that fills you until you’re sure you’ll burst? that drains you until you’ll pop out of existence? that makes you burn and chilled, made significant and trivial—feeling every new contradiction on each inhale and exhale?

“C’mon, girlie, get on up there,” Skip says, close to your ear, nudging your shoulder, urging you from the coach—Shifty had made you forget where you were, what you were doing, and you blink at Skip to chase away the haze in your head—and to the cleared performance patch of the lounge’s carpet. “We’re five points away from winning! You’ve got to go bag this one for us!”

Malarkey, having taken Margaret’s invitation to ‘help yourself!’ to an extreme when it came to the ale keg, leans around Penkaka to plant a good-luck kiss on your cheek. “We’re counting on you, sweetheart; you can do it!”

When you collect yourself, when you dare to steal another glance into the crowd, Shifty has moved, is moving through the archway and out of the lounge, You crane to keep him in your sights. But, there are too many bodies, too many voices clogging the air and rooting you on. He melts into the party as Margaret calls: “Two minutes starts now—go!”

…

Bing Crosby’s new Christmas record, and the drunken rhapsodizing accompanying it, floats out of the kitchen when you slip into the back garden. Easing the door shut behind you and clutching your wool coat tightly to your body, your eyes sweep across the snow, winking and reflecting the lights on in the house. Your breath clouds and you plop down on the stoop next to Shifty—it took you nearly twenty minutes to locate him after the charades game devolved into George and Malarkey leading everyone in carols, another five minutes to track down your coat.

He blinks at you, the redness in his nose and cheeks—luminescent in the light reflected off the snow, a wash of the lamp’s yellow and the winking green and red of the fairy lights—softening him, easing that earlier maturity and tiredness you noticed in the lounge. “Oh, hey,” he offers, adjusting his scarf self-consciously and angling to square his shoulders toward you. “I like your, huh, crown.”

“Oh, thank you,” gusts from your lips as you touch your fingertips the holly and garland crown you wear, bestowed upon you by Margaret after your team won the final round of charades. “I was proclaimed the queen of peace, or something like that.”

Shifty nods, eyes skating over your cheekbones, along your nose, to your lips, and back to the crown. The intensity, the thoughts darkening his expression, remind you of looking into a fishing hole, falsely shallow, secreting hidden pockets inside its murky depth; it makes you fidget with contradictions again, makes your chest expand until it aches and your shoulders hunch, as if collapsing on yourself. You reach to pull the crown off, but he leans forward, hands on yours, stopping you. “No, please; keep it on. It…it suits you.”

Biting your lip and lowering your eyes as your fingers drop to twist in your lap—it suddenly seems far too much to look at him—you manage: “Oh, well, okay.” Pause, and you fuss at the bare fur still on your threadbare coat’s cuffs, trying to marshal your senses and recall why you wanted to come out here, what you had formulated saying. “Um, I was going to, um, make sure you’re all right. I noticed you slipped out and I wanted to make sure …”

You allow your words to trail off.

Shifty hums after a moment, leaning closer to you. You’re not sure if its conscious or not. “That’s kind of you to be worried; you’re a good friend,” he offers, his accent coaxing the words from him. “I…” he pauses and you can feel him choosing his next words: “It’s great seeing everyone so happy and enjoying themselves, but I keep thinking about my family playing charades and other games at home right now. It’s made me sad, I suppose. But…but, it’s more than that…I can’t help but think …”

You’re not sure when you thread his fingers with yours, but you offer a gentle squeeze when he stutters to a stop. You tilt your face so you can monitor his expression through your eyelashes and still hide just how desperately you want him to know you’re there for him; how much you desperately wish you could articulate how you care.

He tries again: “I can’t help thinking about what’s to come. The…the war. Who will get hurt, or, or not come back … who’s celebrating their last Christmas right now.” At your backs, a wave of laughter floats from inside, muffled by the brick walls and door, but you feel its weight slamming into your ears, pressing on your shoulders. You know Shifty does, too: you track how he winces. “I know I ought to enjoy the happiness while I can, but what if…what if it’s my—?”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Darrell Powers,” falls from your mouth before you’re aware you spoke, gripping his hands urgently and entirely forgetting your carefully designed cover. You hold his eyes, hoping he sees the ferocity of your firm resolve, hoping he understands how greatly you feel and believe every syllable you say. “Don’t you dare talk or think like that. You’re going to come back, you have to—” because I’d be lost without your eyes in my life; your eyes looking at me like that, you think, but bite back. You can’t say it; you won’t. You can’t watch his face pale and widen in horror. Not again.

Yet his worry remains unchanged and you frown, placing a gentle hand on his cheek, trying again: “Shifty, I know you’re staring down the unknown and you’re scared, but it’s okay to be scared. I’d be worried if you weren’t scared honestly.” That earns you a faintly-cracked grin. “But this is one Christmas of many, many more to come, and whenever you want me to tell you that, let me know. I’ll keep saying it until I’m blue in the face, okay?”

His grin turns wobbly, his eyes glassy as you speak, and his nod is uncertain.

Huffing, you tease, “I’m going to need something more than a nod, Shift.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he manages thickly. He sniffles, takes a choppy breath, and tries to smile. And, God, you want to kiss him; you want to fold yourself into him and be safe from the war, fate, and all that’s to come; you want to cry and laugh and feel multitudes with him. You want, you want, you want—but when has it ever mattered what I wanted?

Instead, you content yourself to wrapping your arm tightly around him, letting him tuck you under his chin, letting his scent of bonfires, boot polish, and summer rain wash over you, letting his arms brace firmly across your back. This is the most you can have from him, you know; this is the most you’d ever ask from him, because what does it matter what you want if you can at least be there for him. Hold him and whisper a thousand assurances, allowing yourself to pretend for a fleeting instant that he really is yours.

tag list: @gottapenny, @wexhappyxfew, @maiden-of-gondor, @mayhem24-7forever, @medievalfangirl

[inflashback]

all of them for either sid or carrie?

part one: Carrie

📃 what is the plot of your hyperfixation? and is it a movie, game, show, etc?

it’s a movie, a musical, and a book; it’s about a girl with pyschic powers killing her abusers.

📌 how did you find your hyperfixation?

my baby brother loves it a Lot so I always knew about it... I ended up watching it because it was on netflix! Then I read it, then I listened to the musical and watched all the remakes.

✨ what draws you towards your hyperfixation? what is interesting about it?

I love that it’s REAL KIDS. None of them are exactly paragons of virtue— there’s no one 100% right, ever, except maybe tommy. They’ve got stupid petty problems and stupid petty things about them and it’s so goddamn good! Also for the movie I just really love dePalma’s work :)

🎥 do you have any favorite scenes from your hyperfixation?

my ultimate favorite scene from the movie is when tommy and Carrie have their dance; from the musical, it’s You Shine, when Tommy and sue talk; in the book it’s— “Do you like me?” “You’re beautiful.” And she was.

🎶 if your hyperfixation has songs/an ost, what is your favorite song from it?

uHHHHH AND EVE WAS WEAK.... TIED WITH I REMEMBER HOW THOSE BOYS COULD DANCE!!!

💕 tell us about one of your favorite characters and why you like them!

tommy!!!!!! I love tommy so much, because he’s genuinely SO kind and loving for no reason other than that’s who he is. he doesn’t have to have a good time with Carrie but he DOES and he makes sure she’s comfortable :). he’s such a wonderful boy!!! and obviously carrie herself, because she’s trying so hard to be good.

💔 tell us about one of your LEAST favorite characters and why you dislike them.

margaret white need I say more

🏳‍🌈 do you have any headcanons (lgbt, race, neuro, etc) that are important to you?

I HC CARRIE AS AUTISTIC!!!! that’s canon, I won’t listen to anything else, and it means a lot to me as a hc. on that note, I hc sue tommy and carrie as all bi, and that means a lot :).

🍀 do you have any kins or comfort characters from your hyperfixation?

ahahahahahahaha yeah. they’re all my ccs!! i identify with tommy and carrie but they aren’t kins so much as I just see myself in them :)

💎 are there any fun facts or trivia that you would like to share?

um!!! the blood was made of corn syrup and they only shot that twice!

💢 what do you NOT like about your hyperfixation? is there something you would want to change about it?

id absolutely love actresses that play carrie to be less conventionally attractive,,, I love all her actresses but the point is she’s not a paragon of beauty. Also, in the musical mrs White is kind of redeemed and NO.

part two: scream!!

📃 what is the plot of your hyperfixation? and is it a movie, game, show, etc?

a girl who went through a brutal murder of her mother starts receiving mysterious phone calls from an unknown caller.

📌 how did you find your hyperfixation?

it was my first horror movie because it was on netflix!

✨ what draws you towards your hyperfixation? what is interesting about it?

hoogh neve campbell’s portrayal of sid is what rlly brought me into it. she’s so talented. also it’s ALL about horror formulas and storytelling, which r both my big interests!!

🎥 do you have any favorite scenes from your hyperfixation?

from the first one, probably the “EVERYONES A SUSPECT!” or “TURN AROUND, JAMIE—“. i love randy. in the sequels I love the I think I love you scene, every time dewey and sid reunite, and when sid saves Jill.

🎶 if your hyperfixation has songs/an ost, what is your favorite song from it?

sidney’s lament goes SO hard

💕 tell us about one of your favorite characters and why you like them!

GOD... it’s hard to choose but. i love dewey... he’s so dorky and kind and he’s just!! trying to protect his bb siblings

💔 tell us about one of your LEAST favorite characters and why you dislike them.

I mean I hate billy????? but I also strongly dislike Charlie. all his motives are stupid and he’s a jerk

🏳‍🌈 do you have any headcanons (lgbt, race, neuro, etc) that are important to you?

SID IS NON-BINARY! I called them a girl up there but I usually use they them pronouns fr them and hc them as transmasc. randy is also transmasc and complicatedly neurodivergent. dewey is a trans man. Tatum is a lesbian.

🍀 do you have any kins or comfort characters from your hyperfixation?

ok let’s just be super cringe here I’m sid Prescott. Not past life or anything just... I’m them! That’s me!! That’s who I want to be! Also the entire first movie gang besides You Know are my ccs along with hallie derek jennifer kirby and Jill!!

💎 are there any fun facts or trivia that you would like to share?

AFTER THE FIRST MOVIE WAS DONE THE WHOLE CAST WENT AND BURNED THEIR COSTUMES BECAUSE OF HOW DISGUSTING THEY WERE

💢 what do you NOT like about your hyperfixation? is there something you would want to change about it?

not a fan of the “Sid is a killer angle”... they’re NOT a killer and never ever ever will be

thank you op sorry I rambled and i didn’t post this! I was on vacation

[theyearoftheking]

Book 1: Carrie

I wish I could write you a melody so plain

That would save you, dear lady, from going insane

That would ease you and cool you and cease the pain

Of your useless and pointless knowledge...

-Bob Dylan

I first read Carrie seven years ago as part of the Rory Gilmore reading challenge (sense a trend yet?). Despite reading a handful of books in the challenge, I quickly gave up because the prospect of reading Finnegan’s Wake was just too much. Even as an English major, I just can’t stomach Joyce. But I digress, and promise to stick with this challenge until the bitter end. Besides, I have a blog. I’m obviously big time now.

Carrie was first published in 1974 and the overriding theme for me was relevance. What’s old is new again, human beings never really learn lessons and bullying is a tale as old as time. Let’s do a deep-ish dive, shall we?

The book opens with a pretty embarrassing scene set inside high school hell: the girl’s locker room. Carrie is showering after gym class, and gets her period for the first time, blood streaming down her legs. She’s scared as hell,and has no idea what’s happening, because she was raised by an evangelical crazy woman. Her classmates lose their shit, begin throwing menstrual products at her, and yelling, “plug it up!” 

So cringy. 

But on the bright side, this didn’t happen during the age of social media. This would have made Snapchat, Insta, TikTok, or whatever social media thing the kids are into. But you could still see it happening in 2020. Hell is other people, particularly high school girls of a certain bitchy persuasion. 

After this humiliating moment, Carrie heads home to lick her wounds, and wonder why her mother, Margaret, never talked to her about menstruation. Her mother informs her, “And God made Eve from the rib of Adam...Get up, woman. Let us get in and pray. Let’s us pray to Jesus for our woman-weak, wicked, sinning souls...” 

At this moment, my blood ran cold. This statement should sound like the ramblings of a crazy person. But instead it reminded me of another matriarch...

Yeah. Michelle Duggar of 19 Kids and Counting, and Counting On fame. Michelle with her crazy eyes and crunchy perm, who believes women shouldn’t be cutting their hair, wearing pants, or bikinis, or any article of clothing that might entice men to think wicked thoughts; because apparently women do nothing but illicit sinful thoughts in men. It would be funny, if it wasn’t for the legions of fans and multiple babies she and her evangelical brood keep popping out on their living room couches with alarming frequency. We won’t even get into the whole, “covering up the fact her son molested several of her daughters and brushed it under the rug, because... Jesus”. 

Shudder. 

After Carrie’s locker room situation, the school administrators try to punish several of the girls responsible for the tampons/pads attack. One of the ringleaders, Chris Hargensen is a right little bitch, and sends daddy into the principal’s office to plead on her behalf so she won’t miss prom. He and the principal get chippy with each other, and Mr. Hargensen says, “I don’t intend... to sit here and listen to a tissue of half-truths or your standard schoolmaster lecture, Mr. Grayle. I know my daughter well enough...”

This whole interaction between Mr. Hargensen and Principal Grayle cracked me up. Millennials (of which I am not) get a bad wrap for not being held accountable for anything. They are stereotyped as special snowflakes who need participation trophies, and their parents make excuses for all their bad behaviors. 

Bro. 

Tale as old as time. Need I remind you this book was published in 1974? 

Ok, Boomer?

The story progresses with Sue Snell, one of the ringleaders of the Plug It Up debacle feeling guilty for her actions, and convincing her boyfriend, Tommy Ross to ask Carrie to prom. Tommy loves Sue, and agrees to do it. Carrie sews herself a crushed velvet prom dress, her mom repeatedly calls her a slut, and Carrie ends up looking beautiful. I imagine it much like Rachel Leigh Cook’s “startling” transformation in She’s All That. 

 Tommy and Carrie go to prom, and he realizes she’s actually kinda pretty, which makes her worthy of his respect. The crushed velvet dress gets all the compliments, and the night doesn’t start out as a total disaster. Well, bitchy Chris Hargensen isn’t having it. She convinces Billy Nolan, her greaser boyfriend, to pull off some kind of spectacular prank at prom to put Carrie in her place and remind her of her station. 

Billy and his crew of greasers go to a local farm, kill two pigs, and collect the blood. Later on at prom when Carrie and Tommy are announced king and queen, Chris pulls the cord rigged to the buckets of pig blood, and douses them both. Carrie loses her shit, and uses her telekinetic powers (did I forget to mention that’s a thing she has?) to blow up the school, kill her classmates and destroy the lovely town of Chamberlain, Maine. After prom, she walks home, where Michelle Duggar, Mama White is waiting with a knife, and stabs Carrie in the chest. Carrie uses her powers to slow Michelle Duggar Mama White’s heart down, until she’s dead. Then (with the knife still stuck in her chest), Carrie heads back into town to finish her reign of terror and kill Chris and Billy. Then she dies. 

And they all lived happily ever after. Well, Sue Snell kind of does, since she’s one of the only ones to make it out alive. No good deed goes unpunished, am I right? 

A few notable, funny moments... 

1. Early on in the novel, a reference is made to a letter Michelle Duggar Mama White wrote to a friend in Kenosha, Wisconsin. How did Steve decide on Kenosha? Such a strange city in Wisconsin to choose... Did he look at a map and randomly pick a city? Had he made a stop at the Mars Cheese Castle once and it left an impression? Did he throw a dart at a map of Wisconsin? Does he know Kenosha doesn’t have an especially high evangelical population? So many questions. As a Sconnie Cheesehead Homer, I’ll be keeping a Wisconsin Mentions tally throughout the challenge. 

2. At one point in the novel, a fictitious scientific article compares the genetic-recessive characteristics of telekinesis to hemophilia. Hemophilia is referred to as, “King’s Evil”, I couldn’t help with wonder if Steve threw this fact in here just to use the term, “King’s Evil”. Random observation 

I enjoyed re-reading Carrie, and still find it relevant and timely. And I think it speaks to King’s talent as a writer that he’s able to create a character like Carrie, who blows up a whole damn town and kills almost everyone, and you still feel sorry for her. She’s not quite a villain, but she’s not far off. 

In summation:

Total King Wisconsin Mentions: 1

Dark Tower References: 0

Book Grade: B+

Now, time for Salem’s Lot. It’s been on my to-be-read list for quite a while, and I’m looking forward to diving into it. Be patient, it’s 700 pages, compared to Carrie’s 290. 

I should mention, I’m reading all of these books in actual BOOK form, no e-books. I find when I use my Kindle, I get distracted by marathon games of Candy Crush, and lose focus. But with an actual book? No candy to be crushed, no FB messages to check, no cute dog pictures to upload. 

Speaking of dogs, Steve has Molly, The Thing of Evil. I have Biscuit Beast the Beagle. 

You can see her handiwork here on a bookmark a friend was nice enough to bring back from The Stanley.

 Beagles... to know them is to love them. 

Until next time- long days and pleasant nights, readers!

Rebecca

[bpdjennamaroney]

Margaret White: Eve was weak!

Carrie: No, Momma...Eve was woke.