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justforbooks · 25 days ago

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Arthur Asher Miller (October 17, 1915 – February 10, 2005) was an American playwright, essayist and screenwriter in the 20th-century American theater. Among his most popular plays are All My Sons (1947), Death of a Salesman (1949), The Crucible (1953), and A View from the Bridge (1955). He wrote several screenplays, including The Misfits (1961). The drama Death of a Salesman is considered one of the best American plays of the 20th century.

Miller was often in the public eye, particularly during the late 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s. During this time, he received a Pulitzer Prize for Drama, testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee, and married Marilyn Monroe. In 1980, he received the St. Louis Literary Award from the Saint Louis University Library Associates. He received the Praemium Imperiale prize in 2001, the Prince of Asturias Award in 2002, and the Jerusalem Prize in 2003, and the Dorothy and Lillian Gish Prize in 1999.

Miller's writing career spanned over seven decades, and at the time of his death, he was considered one of the 20th century's greatest dramatists. After his death, many respected actors, directors, and producers paid tribute to him, some calling him the last great practitioner of the American stage, and Broadway theatres darkened their lights in a show of respect. Miller's alma mater, the University of Michigan, opened the Arthur Miller Theatre in March 2007. Per his express wish, it is the only theater in the world that bears his name.

Miller's letters, notes, drafts and other papers are housed at the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas at Austin. Miller is also a member of the American Theater Hall of Fame. He was inducted in 1979. In 1993, he received the Four Freedoms Award for Freedom of Speech. In 2017, his daughter, Rebecca Miller, a writer and filmmaker, completed a documentary about her father's life, Arthur Miller: Writer. Minor planet 3769 Arthurmiller is named after him. In the 2022 Netflix film Blonde, Miller was portrayed by Adrien Brody.

Miller donated thirteen boxes of his earliest manuscripts to the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin in 1961 and 1962. This collection included the original handwritten notebooks and early typed drafts for Death of a Salesman, The Crucible, All My Sons, and other works. In January, 2018, the Ransom Center announced the acquisition of the remainder of the Miller archive, totaling over 200 boxes. The full archive opened in November, 2019.

Christopher Bigsby wrote Arthur Miller: The Definitive Biography based on boxes of papers Miller made available to him before his death in 2005. The book was published in November 2008, and is reported to reveal unpublished works in which Miller "bitterly attack[ed] the injustices of American racism long before it was taken up by the civil rights movement". In his book Trinity of Passion, author Alan M. Wald conjectures that Miller was "a member of a writer's unit of the Communist Party around 1946", using the pseudonym Matt Wayne, and editing a drama column in the magazine The New Masses.

In 1999, the writer Christopher Hitchens attacked Miller for comparing the Monica Lewinsky investigation to the Salem witch hunt. Miller had asserted a parallel between the examination of physical evidence on Lewinsky's dress and the examinations of women's bodies for signs of the "Devil's Marks" in Salem. Hitchens scathingly disputed the parallel. In his memoir, Hitch-22, Hitchens bitterly noted that Miller, despite his prominence as a left-wing intellectual, had failed to support author Salman Rushdie during the Iranian fatwa involving The Satanic Verses.

Works

Stage plays

No Villain (1936)

They Too Arise (1937, based on No Villain)

Honors at Dawn (1938, based on They Too Arise)

The Grass Still Grows (1938, based on They Too Arise)

The Great Disobedience (1938)

Listen My Children (1939, with Norman Rosten)

The Golden Years (1940)

The Half-Bridge (1943)

The Man Who Had All the Luck (1944)

All My Sons (1947)

Death of a Salesman (1949)

An Enemy of the People (1950, adaptation of Henrik Ibsen's play An Enemy of the People)

The Crucible (1953)

A View from the Bridge (1955)

A Memory of Two Mondays (1955)

After the Fall (1964)

Incident at Vichy (1964)

The Price (1968)

The Reason Why (1970)

Fame (one-act, 1970; revised for television 1978)

The Creation of the World and Other Business (1972)

Up from Paradise (1974)

The Archbishop's Ceiling (1977)

The American Clock (1980)

Playing for Time (television play, 1980)

Elegy for a Lady (short play, 1982, first part of Two Way Mirror)

Some Kind of Love Story (short play, 1982, second part of Two Way Mirror)

I Think About You a Great Deal (1986)

Playing for Time (stage version, 1985)

I Can't Remember Anything (1987, collected in Danger: Memory!)

Clara (1987, collected in Danger: Memory!)

The Ride Down Mt. Morgan (1991)

The Last Yankee (1993)

Broken Glass (1994)

Mr. Peters' Connections (1998)

Resurrection Blues (2002)

Finishing the Picture (2004)

Radio plays

The Pussycat and the Expert Plumber Who Was a Man (1940)

Joel Chandler Harris (1941)

The Battle of the Ovens (1942)

Thunder from the Mountains (1942)

I Was Married in Bataan (1942)

That They May Win (1943)

Listen for the Sound of Wings (1943)

Bernardine (1944)

I Love You (1944)

Grandpa and the Statue (1944)

The Philippines Never Surrendered (1944)

The Guardsman (1944, based on Ferenc Molnár's play)

The Story of Gus (1947)

Screenplays

The Hook (1947)

All My Sons (1948)

Let's Make Love (1960)

The Misfits (1961)

Death of a Salesman (1985)

Everybody Wins (1990)

The Crucible (1996)

Assorted fiction

Focus (novel, 1945)

"The Misfits" (short story, published in Esquire, October 1957)

I Don't Need You Anymore (short stories, 1967)

"Homely Girl: A Life" (short story, 1992, published in UK as "Plain Girl: A Life" 1995)

Presence: Stories (2007) (short stories include "The Bare Manuscript", "Beavers", "The Performance", and "Bulldog")

Non-fiction

Situation Normal (1944) is based on his experiences researching the war correspondence of Ernie Pyle.

In Russia (1969), the first of three books created with his photographer wife Inge Morath, offers Miller's impressions of Russia and Russian society.

In the Country (1977), with photographs by Morath and text by Miller, provides insight into how Miller spent his time in Roxbury, Connecticut, and profiles of his various neighbors.

Chinese Encounters (1979) is a travel journal with photographs by Morath. It depicts the Chinese society in the state of flux which followed the end of the Cultural Revolution. Miller discusses the hardships of many writers, professors, and artists during Mao Zedong's regime.

Salesman in Beijing (1984) details Miller's experiences with the 1983 Beijing People's Theatre production of Death of a Salesman. He describes directing a Chinese cast in an American play.

Timebends: A Life, Methuen London (1987). Miller's autobiography.

On Politics and the Art of Acting, Viking 2001 an 85-page essay about the thespian skills in American politics, comparing FDR, JFK, Reagan, Clinton.

Collections

Abbotson, Susan C. W. (ed.), Arthur Miller: Collected Essays, Penguin 2016

Kushner, Tony, ed. Arthur Miller, Collected Plays 1944–1961 (Library of America, 2006).

Martin, Robert A. (ed.), "The theater essays of Arthur Miller", foreword by Arthur Miller. NY: Viking Press, 1978

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Arthur Miller #famous birthdays

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scbrvght · 6 months ago

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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ( starter call ) - I've been just seriously feeling supernatural au so ♡ for a starter for one of my muses with a supernatural verse listed below ! I used to have this whole au sn!verse option so we can use that or take things in another direction. will shoot you a message to clarify muses and things ! ♡

I've always had this lil sn!verse set in like a dark academia university for sn kind of thing... think wednesday or the witch school sabrina went to in caos vibes. I used to advertise this verse a lot more years ago & I miss it n' feel super musey for it.

if you're interested in supernatural things outside this setting I'm totally okay with that too !!

st. cuorem's university

hidden deep in a misty forest in oregon, st. cruorem’s university serves as a sanctuary of arcane knowledge and supernatural prowess. outwardly, it masquerades as an elite private school for the wealthy, but beneath this facade lies a realm steeped in dark academia and ancient secrets. its sprawling campus, a blend of gothic architecture and enchanted landscapes, boasts ivy-clad stone buildings, towering spires, and grand archways adorned with intricate carvings of mythical beings. the grounds, perpetually shrouded in twilight, hum with magical energy and the scent of pine. inside, dimly lit corridors resonate with the whispers of centuries-old incantations and the soft rustling of ancient tomes. flickering candlelight casts elongated shadows on walls adorned with portraits of past luminaries, their eyes seemingly alive with hidden knowledge. the library, an expansive labyrinth of texts, houses volumes from alchemical treatises to forbidden grimoires. the student body is a diverse assembly of supernatural beings, from vampires and witches to werewolves and more enigmatic creatures, each honing their unique abilities. rigorous training occurs in hidden chambers and expansive, enchanted arenas where students practice spellcasting, combat, and mastery of their inherent powers. st. cruorem’s is not just a school; it’s a who's who of the supernatural world. the social hierarchy here is fierce and competitive, with the elite vying for prominence in a world where power is everything. ancient lineages of vampire royalty, demon nobles, and other powerful entities create an environment of intense rivalry and elitism. secret societies and ancient orders vie for influence, their clandestine gatherings adding to the campus's air of mystery. for those who see beyond its facade, st. cruorem’s is a proving ground where alliances are forged, rivalries ignited, and the future leaders of the supernatural world are shaped.

participating muses

alice winsor ( fc: emily alyn lind ) - vampire royal

estella pierce ( fc: sabrina carpenter ) - succubus

cooper vincent ( fc: rudy pankow ) - succubus

xavier bloom ( fc: benjamin wadsworth ) - demon bastard son

nova lin ( fc: chase sui wonders ) - hellhound

serena anders ( fc: madelyn cline ) - witch

isabelle brooks ( fc: josephine langford ) - siren

monroe tate ( fc: madison bailey ) - werewolf

finley acosta ( fc: evan mock ) - vampire royal

ezra jones ( fc: felix mallard ) - werewolf

logan calloway ( fc: katie douglas ) - reaper

reid calloway ( fc: drew starkey ) - reaper

camron calloway ( fc: jeremy allen white ) - reaper

tinsleigh howe ( fc: kristine froseth ) - witch

elias howe ( fc: barry keoghan ) - warlock

arlo zimmerman ( fc: sean kaufman ) - werewolf

colby alira ( fc: thomas weatherall ) - vampire

lunara polat ( fc: derya pinar ak ) - cupid

max ortiz ( fc: gabriel guevara ) - warlock

elodie moreno ( fc: nicole wallace ) - witch

kalen asher ( fc: jonathan daviss ) - warlock

river st. james ( fc: nicholas galitzine ) - vampire

dane amato ( fc: simone baldasseroni ) - demon prince

#❪ᵒᵒᶜ❫ 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈�� 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒 ⁞ shut up pazi.#starter call #sn!au #!!!!!!!#i am once again ... asking for sn bbs

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outpost51 · 1 year ago

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— WIP Intro: The Arsonist Chronicles (18+)

It was a smut oneshot. That’s it. That’s all it was supposed to be. Now look at it. I took a perfectly good short story and gave it:

🔥 complex goddesses and monarchs with god complexes

🔥 political tension between paranormal communities

🔥 dragons

🔥 werewolf rae dunn mom and her girlfriend, the president of the hoa

🔥 ✨ smut ✨ but like, with that good banter

🔥 whatever the hell tom smith is

🔥 a war brewing on either side of the veil, centuries in the making

🔥 anxiety

Oops!

More info, taglist, and planned books below the cut!

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

**all titles subject to change as the series progresses

Book I || The Unlikely Adventures of Bitchface and Go F*ck Yourself

A werewolf mom. An undead sister. And a really horny (literally) paramour.

After unwittingly plunging herself into the world of the supernatural, Dillon Monroe just wants to live as normal of a life as she can. However, when she learns her sister's resurrection has an expiration date, she has to once more throw herself headfirst into the deep end and unlock her latent abilities to save her. Her solution? Summoning a demon out of an old book provided by her friend’s sketchy cousin. Surely nothing can go wrong with that... right?

Read on AO3 || Wattpad (coming soon) || Tumblr (coming soon)

WIP Page || Intro || Tags: the arsonist chronicles, unlikely adventures, arsonist chronicles ocs

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Book II || The Inevitable Crumble of Cookies and Fortresses

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Book III || The Differing Viscosity of Blood and Water

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Book IV || The Slippery Slope of Duty and Sacrifice

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Book V || The Intrinsic Value of Empathy and Existence

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Book VI || The False Equivalence of Want and Greed

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Taglist: @sparatus @thetrashbagswasteland @writernopal @tabswrites @starknstarwars @asher-orion-writes

Ask to +/- in the tags, replies, inbox, or HERE!

#wip intro #finally lmao #writeblrcafe #the arsonist chronicles #my fic #paranormal romance #but like much much more

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les-portes-du-sud · 3 months ago

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She's the epitome of an angel...

But oh, what hell she is.

🦋Asher Monroe🦋

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crueldvil · 4 months ago

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᭡ ⠀ ⠀ deacon asher monroe

crafted for the #horror.

mature themes | MDNI ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ eighteen + only.

#horror rp #horror roleplay #stranger things rp #stranger things roleplay #scream #scream rp #scream roleplay

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lovelylogans · 1 year ago

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the parent trap

CHAPTER THREE: en garde

The boys come to blows. (With practice épées, but in their minds, it’s equally as serious.)

⁂

Oh, yes. Remus is settling into camp just fine.

Specs and Tie-dye—he learns their real names are Teagan and Nick—were, to his absolute delight, absolutely terrible at cards and unflaggingly good sports about it.

Even when Remus managed to win Nick’s prized nail polish, contraband stolen from his sister, he’d simply shrugged and congratulated Remus on a good game. Remus had celebrated the occasion by painting his nails a sickening shade of green chrome.

(He, of course, generously let Nick paint his own nails, though he’d chosen a ridiculously bright highlighter yellow. It was kinda cool, really; all the bees in camp seemed fascinated by the color, which had Nick regretting his decision by lunch the next day.)

The first week passes in a blur of finally managing to memorize everyone’s names, though he almost never used them, getting his bed as close to a nest of dirty clothes and his blankets as possible, and finding the kitchen window with the loosest latch so he could sneak into it after hours and steal contraband.

The best part: his counselor, when Remus had swaggered back into the cabin with armfuls of popsicles, had simply shrugged and gone back to writing a letter to his girlfriend back home.

Summer camp, he writes in a letter home to Patton and Virgil, is going AWESOME.

⁂

Now here’s a sport that Roman can really thrive at.

None of this nonsensical American football—no. Fencing is where Roman will make his reputation. He’s rather pleased with himself, actually—fencing was cool. Maybe his success at it would, by proxy, make him cool.

“Halt!” Marvin cries as Roman’s landing a perfect hit at the dead-center of the chest, and Monroe falls on his back to the cheers of the rest of Maple.

Monroe takes off his helmet, grinning up at Roman. “Touché!”

Roman reaches down to help him up as Marvin Jr. cries out, “All right, excellent, kids! The winner and still undefeated champ from London, England—Mr. Roman James!”

Marvin Jr. takes his hand and raises it in the air, as if Roman’s some kind of prizefighter, and the rest of Maple cheers and claps for him, and Roman feels like he’s on top of the world. He turns to rush up to his cabin-mates, whose hands rain down on his back in approval.

He’s distantly aware of Marvin saying, “Do we have any challengers? Oh, come on, fellas…”

Roman takes a moment to drink from his water bottle.

“Awesome hit, Roman!” Asher says, patting him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Monroe says, “how’d you get so good at this stuff anyway?”

Roman shrugs, pretending at humility. “I did theater in school—the stage fighting’s stuck with me, I suppose.”

“Well, it’s wicked,” Asher says, then, “that’s right, isn’t it, wicked?”

“Yeah,” Roman says, grinning, “wicked” and they high-five.

“All right, James, you’ve got a challenger!” Marvin calls.

“Here I go,” Roman says, slightly muffled by his helmet, and he turns to face his competitor; suited in green-and-white, helmet and foil already in place, ready to begin the match.

“Go, Roman!” Maple cries as they meet in the center of the makeshift ring, foils clacking briefly together.

“Fencers ready?” Marvin asks. Roman nods.

“Prête—allez!”

The opposite fencer attempts some fancy maneuver with kicking up the foil from the ground, managing to catch it and swirl it around in some embellishment.

“En garde—Fence!”

And they’re off.

The challenger’s thwacking at his foil repeatedly, as if that’ll somehow get Roman to trip up his guard; he parries all of them easily, keeping his footing as the challenger charges forward.

The challenger steps out of the ring onto woodchips. Roman lunges, attempting to land a hit just to end the match, but the challenger bounces off of a tree, and Marvin doesn’t call foul even though he’s clearly out of bounds.

Then the challenger slashes his foil through the air, and Roman dodges—again, and to the left—Roman spares a look at Marvin, who still isn’t calling foul, and just barely manages to block the stranger’s foil from hitting a passerby.

“You could’ve hurt someone!” Roman says, furious.

“He wasn’t looking where he was going!” The challenger scoffs, and the match begins to grow fierce.

This challenger clearly has no semblance of strategy—their foil bounce off each other, each parrying each other’s every attempt at getting close enough to land a hit—and Roman’s back hits a wooden post.

He spins out of the way just in time for the foil to land in the post.

Right where his face would have been.

“You seriously could hurt someone!” Roman yells, and clearly Marvin isn’t about to bother stepping in—he plants his hands and cartwheels over a haybale, just to gain some ground away from this—this hacking, whirling dervish of a maniac.

He has the challenger with his back to the haybales now—he attempts to conduct the game legally, though it makes the challenger yawn, putting his face in front of the mask—and Roman snarls, infuriated by this.

The challenger takes immediate advantage, and attempts to disarm him—the foil flies in the air, hovering for an impossibly long moment—Roman runs up to the cabin, leaning over the railing and , gaining the upper ground, hand in the air, and he manages to seize the handle just in time.

“Nice catch!” The competitor says, before he promptly begins chasing Roman up the cabin stairs.

“You’re mad!” Roman yelps, twirling out of the way and doubling back, “completely barking mad!”

“Thanks!” The challenger says brightly, as though Roman’s paid him the highest compliment, and then sidesteps the foil, plants his hands on Roman’s chest, and gives him a great, hard shove.

Roman shrieks as he falls over the railing—he braces himself for a hard fall—but—

SPLASH!

He surfaces—not that the water’s very deep—and coughs, shocked, the wind having been knocked out of him. He’s landed in some kind of trough—really, why on earth was there a trough there? He’s grateful—he could have broken a bone from a fall of that height!

He could have gotten really badly hurt! Not just the fall—during at least five different points in that match!

But Marvin does not seem to care in the slightest.

“O-kay, that was quite a show!”

Marvin’s approached the green-suited competitor, hoisting his hand in the air.

“I think we’ve got ourselves a new camp champ—from California, Mr. Remus Parker!”

“He cheated!” Roman protests, furious, and finally manages to extract himself from that ridiculous trough—really, who just put water in some random receptacle like that?!—and shakes off the excess water as best he can, though the suit’s quite waterlogged.

But Roman’s protests—and the protests of his cabin—go unheard over the raucous screaming of the Pines; Marvin Jr. is too busy looking at his clipboard to register this complaint.

Roman storms over to put away his foil, taking off his helmet and tucking it under his arm.

“This is absolutely ludicrous,” Roman says, to the loud agreement of Asher.

“He shoved you in the trough!” Asher declares, pointing over his shoulder, where the cheater must be standing. “That’s gotta be against the rules!”

But all fell on stubborn ears; at last, Marvin Jr. looks up from his clipboard, only to say in a mild tone of voice. “All right, boys, now shake hands.”

With a dirty rotten stinking no good cheater?! Marvin Jr.’s out of his bloody mind!

“Come on, boys, be good sports. Shake hands.”

Roman, with a great roll of his eyes, turns around just in time to hear a loud, nasal sigh.

And then he jerks back in shock.

It’s like they’ve stuck a mirror in the ground.

The mirror image pulls back too, eyes bugging out, but it’s like it’s Roman. Same freckles splashed across his cheeks from spending time in the sun; same height, same brown eyes, same brown hair, even the same stubborn cowlick!

But then, it’s like a funhouse mirror, on second glance; the cheater (the cheater! yes! this boy cheated!) has a ghastly streak of white hair throughout his too-long hair; unkempt where Roman was neat, exaggerated in expression where Roman was calm, and, oh yes, a cheating cheater where Roman was honest!

Roman swallows, but he sticks out a hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, the cheater sticks his out. Yes, that’s just the same, too, except, Roman notices with distaste, that the cheater has bitten his nails down to the quick, his chrome nail polish chipped. And, ugh, how is there so much mud caked under them?! Roman’s are neatly trimmed and clear.

But Roman clasps it to shake all the same, real and not a mirror at all; it’s damp, like his, but warm, shockingly so.

The other boy—Remus Parker, hadn’t Marvin said?—yanks his hand back as quickly as he can manage, mussing his already messy hair.

“Why’s everyone staring at us?” He says, loud.

“...Don’t you see it?” Roman says.

“See what?!” Remus says with a scoff and a dismissive shake of his head.

“The resemblance between us!”

The other boy’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Resemblance?” Remus repeats. “Between… you and me?”

Roman nods, still stricken; yes, there’s that smirk on the other boy’s face, the same on Roman’s practiced in the mirror before, the one that he tries to use to demonstrate nothing anyone ever says bothers him.

“Let me see,” Remus says, mockingly putting a thoughtful finger to his temple. “Turn sideways.”

Roman huffs out a breath, but pivots to display his left profile; Dad always says that statistically, someone’s left side is almost always going to be their good one.

“Noww the other way.”

Roman rolls his eyes and acquiesces. He feels like he’s in a police procedural to get his mugshot.

“We-ell,” the other boy drawls. “Your eyes seem a bit crossed—you don’t have to try that hard to look at me, I’m right here.”

Roman clenches his fists, tops of his ears burning, as Remus Parker’s cabin mates laugh at him.

“That nose—well, don’t worry, I bet you’ll grow into it.”

Roman resists the urge to cover his nose with his hand.

“And your teeth are like someone shoved a crumbling Jenga tower in there, but hey. That’s Brits for ya, innit?”

And an awful attempt at a British accent too! Roman’s positively fuming.

“But do you want to know the real difference between you and me?” Remus says.

“What?” Roman says snidely. “That I know how to fence and you don’t? Or is it that I have class and you don’t? Take your pick.”

“Why I oughta—”

Roman would be delighted by this utterly American line if it hadn’t been accompanied by this brute clenching his jaw and taking a closer step. As it is, Roman sets his jaw and takes his own step forward.

“Boys, stop,” Marvin Jr. is saying in the background, and Roman is about to take another step forward, and damn that he doesn’t know how to enter fisticuffs when a hand comes down on each of their shoulders.

“Now Remus—”

Roman glowers at Marvin. He doesn’t have that ghastly streak of white through his hair!

“Roman—I mean—”

Remus takes a moment to pull a grotesque face at Marvin before returning his attention to Roman.

“Now Roman—Remus—I-I mean—oh, whoever you are, it’s time to break up this little love fest—”

The boy snarls at him—snarls! Like some kind of animal!—and Roman has to resist the urge to snap right back at him, even as they’re jostled away from each other.

“Whoa,” Asher says, to the general mutterings of agreement of cabins Pine and Maple.

⁂

The discussion of the fencing match and the shock of the identical combatants carried over, Roman found, through lunch, dinner, and even during pre-bedtime downtime when Roman was trying to write a letter to home with absolutely zero mention of it.

He’s absolutely sick to death of this conversation. And yet.

“I mean, don’t you think it’s weird?” Asher pushes.

Roman presses down a little too hard on his pen, where he’s trying to describe the activities he’s gotten introduced to since arriving at camp. I’ve found I’m rather a dab hand at kayaking…

“For the thousandth time, yes, of course I think it’s odd,” Roman says wearily. …spent the whole morning that day in the lake, which was very beautiful (sketch enclosed)...

“You’ve seriously never met this guy before.” another cabin mate pipes up.

Roman rolls his eyes, carefully sorting through his sketches to select the most picturesque for his father. “I’ve seriously never met him before.”

“Nothing? No mention of a weird American cousin or anything like that?”

“I don’t have any cousins our age,” Roman says, settling on a landscape that shows the sun dappling beautifully through the leaves and landing on the glittering lake. “The closest age cousin I’ve got is my dad’s age, and he’s not even technically my cousin, he’s my dad’s cousin.”

“Weird,” Asher says with a shake of his head.

“Weird,” Roman agrees, hoping he’ll be able to resume his letter in peace now that they’ve hashed it out for the billionth time.

…I’m getting along just fine with my cabin mates, and my counselor hardly seems to have a care about what shenanigans some of them get up to—breaking into the kitchen for sweets and the like.

It seems to be a bit of a tradition to do that kind of thing anyway; I guess the reasoning is if we do small bits of rebellion, we won’t turn our attention to absolute chaos. Not that I’ve been joining in outside of enjoying the occasional contraband snack, I assure you (so long as you don’t count swiftly establishing myself as the predominant poker talent in the cabin)…

“...dunno, what are your theories, then?” he can hear Asher say to another kid in the cabin, as if Roman isn’t even there. Roman grits his teeth and presses his pen back to paper, perhaps a bit firmer than he did before.

…be sure to tell Grandfather that his new deck of cards has come in handy and I thank him again for the gift. I’ve taught them a few new card games, too, and there’s rumors of them trying to teach me one—have you ever played something called Egyptian Rat Screw? I guess it’s fairly similar to Beggar-my-neighbor. Americans, as usual, have their own take on things. That might be the plan for the evening, if I don’t have any takers for poker this evening.

But that’s proven rather popular. People seem to think they can defeat me.

Someone storms in from outside, clearly in the midst of a rant.

“—my whole allowance, it’s absolutely insane—”

“Who took your allowance?” Asher asks.

“That Remus Parker kid,” he says. “He’s bleeding everyone dry. He’s like a freak poker prodigy.”

A smile creeps across Roman’s face. “Is he now.”

There is a great turning of heads to Roman’s bunk.

More specifically, there is a great turning of heads to Roman’s cubby of pride, where he has placed every trophy he’s wrought from every poker game he’s played in camp.

Every undefeated poker game.

“Say, Roman,” he says slowly. “I don’t suppose… you’d want to win it back for me, would you? I’d get you whatever you wanted from the kitchen. All summer long, even.”

Everyone looks very tempted by that offer. Let alone Roman, who is always a little nervous about the potential of being caught out in the kitchens anyway.

“C’mon, Roman, please,” Asher urges. “I know you want to. Don’t you want to get back at that dirty stinking cheater?!”

That does it.

“Yes, of course, let me just finish this so we can drop it in the post box on our way there—”

He turns and quickly jots off the ending line of his letter, then signing it Love from, Roman James in a great swooping signature that his dad had helped him perfect.

Off to win what will surely be a rollicking poker match!

⁂

Remus tsks in delight as he extends his arms, having to use more than his hands to be able to pull in the sheer quantity of quarters, dollars, chewing gum, candies, nail polish, and—the most sacrosanct—a key to get into the kitchens someone filched from some stupid counselor! No more jimmying open windows for Remus! That will definitely make fulfilling his nighttime cravings easier.

“Sorry, gents,” he says smugly and not at all apologetically as the majority of the Catalpa Cabin’s riches tumble into his lap.

There’s a great chorus of rumblings as Remus begins to sort the dollars from the quarters, and the food from the money, ostentatiously fanning himself with them. “Any more takers?”

The door to Pine Cabin opens, and Remus cranes his neck over the crowd of spectators that have crowded into the space; he snorts at the sight.

“No refunds, Monroe,” he says. “Should’ve known better than to bet all your money on a two-pair.”

“He’s not going for a refund,” a very, very familiar voice rings out over the flock of Maple Cabin.

They all part to reveal Remus’ clone from an alternate, much dweebier universe.

“But I’ll give it the old college try.”

Remus snorts, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.

“Sure, James,” he says. “Take a seat.”

Roman James tucks himself tidily atop the bed, hands folded.

“Hold’em? Omaha? Seven Card Stud?” Remus fires off.

“We’ll do a classic Texas,” Roman says.

Remus snorts. Figures. He probably doesn’t even know to ask if they’re playing Short Deck or not.

“Fine,” Remus says, beginning to shuffle, but Roman makes a sharp noise of protest.

“After your stunt at the fencing grounds? You’ll have to forgive me to think you’re not stacking the deck in your favor.”

Remus shrugs, unoffended. He probably would if he knew for a fact he’d get away with it.

“Someone else will have to deal us in, Parker.” Roman says pointedly.

“Fine,” Remus says, settling his sunglasses back on his nose. With the glass root beer bottle beside him, Remus probably cuts what Virgil would call an intimidating figure.

He hands the cards to the first set of hands that take them. It turns out to be someone from Catalpa; probably good. He doesn’t want James to cry cheater again if someone from Pine had dealt them both in.

Remus can play this in his sleep. Classic Texas Poker, it’s a shoo-in. Clearly he’d bruised more than just James’s body when he’d shoved him in that trough; he’d bruised his ego.

Shame that James was about to stake his honor on the game that Remus had been playing practically since he was born.

The crowd around them is heavy; Pine, stacked up behind Remus, and Maple, stacked up behind Roman, seemingly as a matter of Cabin Pride or principle.

The real interesting read of the sway were any Catalpas—even a few of the older boys from Rowan and Sequoia filter in after a while—switching their vantage points from one to another, whispering to each other and gasping appropriately when things get added to the pot.

Remus gets the card. The. Card. Just the one he needed.

Remus smirks at the sight.

“Tell you what, James,” he says. “Let’s make things really interesting.”

Roman arches an eyebrow.

“Loser jumps into the lake after the game.”

“Excellent,” Roman says, examining his cards.

“Butt. Naked.”

There’s a chorus of sniggers erupting from the flock of pre-teenage boys.

A slow smile curls over Roman’s face. “Even more excellent.”

Remus grins back. Oh, when that stuck-up English prude has to go down to his skivvies, or whatever screwed-up word they use for underwear…

“Start stripping, James,” Remus says smugly. He smacks his cards against the table, face-up.

“Straight! In. Diamonds.”

Remus smiles.

“Oh, you’re good, Parker,” Roman begins to hum, a tune that Remus thinks he’s probably heard somewhere…

“But not good enough.”

Remus’ smile drops.

“In honor of my homeland,” Roman says. “God save the Queen, Parker.”

Roman flips around his cards to display a royal flush, covering his smiling, humming mouth.

Of spades.

No way, Remus thinks, furious—but he’s the one who passed off the cards to Catalpa, there’s no way he could have—

Remus forcibly shoves down any anger. He can use that later.

To come onto his turf, to challenge him at his thing, all because of a measly little shove?

This meant war.

“Well,” Remus says, removing his sunglasses, and puts his biggest grin on his face.

“Anyone going to give me some music for this? No?”

He dramatically whips off his green, Walden-branded bomber jacket, tossing it in the general direction of his bunk.

“Come on then, boys, time for me to put on a show! Probably a better one than his lily-white pasty ass would’ve given you!”

And so Remus begins to sprint to the dock, tugging off his shirt in the process, to the great chorus of preteen footsteps behind him, laughing and whooping the whole way down.

⁂

It’s difficult to see their way down to the lake, but fortunately some of the boys from Sequoia had gathered candles so, at least, Roman wasn’t tripping over his own feet on his way down there.

Not that he would have been mocked for tripping; it seems that winning back Monroe’s allowance and handing over a key for the kitchen to their preeminent food heister, Antony, seems to have solidified a place of popularity within Maple, even spreading out to these witnesses from Sequoia and Catalpa.

The expression on Remus’ face when Roman had won—! It surely made up for the disrespect of being shoved into a trough, of all things. And for this indignity to be from Remus’ own suggestion, only to come back to bite him!

Yes, Roman thought, as he gathered his packed-up-sock full of candy, dollars, quarters, and even his own pounds; victory certainly is sweet.

Meanwhile, Remus had finished his run down to the lake, and was standing amidst the lot of them, staring out at the wide expanse of the dock in nothing but his pants.

“Well,” Remus says. “The pièce de résistance.”

Remus seems entirely unaffected as he officially strips down, and begins to run down the dock.

“CANNONBALL!” He bellows, with little care that any dozing counselors might hear him, and tucks himself up into a perfect ball, letting out a truly impressive splash.

“C’mon,” Asher says, “Grab his clothes!”

“Wait—” Roman says, “what—?”

Too late—Monroe is already lunging for Remus’ messily deposited shirt, and Sequoia and Catalpa are scattering for their own cabins, and Asher picks up his pants, and all that’s left are the shoes and everyone’s running—

“Guys!” Roman says, running after them. “Wait!”

But there’s nothing he can do to stop them—he can only keep pace with the rest of them as they bolt back to Maple, clinging tight to his contraband.

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#my fic #my fanfic #tpt fic

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lnstallationwizard · 1 year ago

Text

URL playlist meme: pick a song for each letter of your URL + tag as many people as there are letters! I was tagged by @djungelskogikeabear ! tyyyy this was fun :]

Lace and Leather by Britney Spears

Nicotine by Panic! At the Disco

Shhh by Tarkan

Temptation by Arash

Aya Benzer by Mustafa Sandal

Let My Hair Down by Nelly Furtado

Love Me Or Hate Me by Lady Sovereign

Aşk Kovulmaz by Mustafa Sandal

Talking In Your Sleep by Asher Monroe

In the Shadows by The Rasmus

One Weird Tip by Lemon Demon

No Me Acuerdo by Thalía

When It Was Good by Flipsyde

In Your Eyes by Tarkan

Zehir Gibi by Zeynep Dizdar

Animal by Myah Marie

Reva by Ferhat Göçer

Doing Things That Artists Do by The I. L. Y's

and uhhhh im gonna tag @midyearflowers @auspiciouscat @iris-in-the-dark-world @cakesdown @herbert-west @otacon-kinnie and @squonkalicious and we'll pretend that's the right number of people LOL

#julianposting

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hyumjim · 7 months ago

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I googled it and I am not confident that this was ever said by either Sylvia Plath (famous author who killed herself in 1963) or A.R. Asher (an “Instagram poet”). You may as well attribute it to Marilyn Monroe at this point.

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shinigamimailjeevas · 2 years ago

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For the WIP tag game, all your WIPs look amazing but 1, 5, 8 and 16 have me intrigued 👀

1: A Million On My Soul– so I first started noting this April 2022 and it has 27 pages of notes/half written scenes. But it keeps getting put on the back-burner for other projects.

Eyes parted into slivers, unblinking, unmoving—lifeless. “Liam?” he tries to scrape the blood and wolfsbane from Liam's face, only managing to streak purple dust down his cheek and across his lips instead. “Liam?” He listens for the heart that had become as familiar a tune as the one that rested in his own chest; one that he had fallen asleep to for many nights only to hear silence.

“Liam!” Shaking the beta sharply, his lips curl into a facsimile of a snarl, all teeth and trembling lips. Tears form and fall as he pulls Liam into his arms, Theo hiding his face in the ruin of that stupid Beacon Hills hoodie. The one with a hole in the sleeve that constantly caught on any edge encountered and had more bleach spots than maroon color anymore. Deaton finds him minutes, perhaps even hours later. He'd heard the former emissaries footsteps long before he spoke.

“You know it is not safe to still be here.” The chimera lifts his head to look at the haggard man, face sticky with more than tears. The war had touched them all in different yet equally draining way.

“Nowhere is safe anymore.” The unspoken 'I will not leave him' hangs between them. The last light disappears with the sun as it dips below the horizon bringing shadows forth to cover part of Deaton's face. He sighs. “I really did not want to do this.”

Theo feels the jab before even noticing Deaton's hand move. As his eyes slip closed and he falls forward, the last thing he sees is the apologetic expression.

5: Learning Your Worth (Argent sells Theo) – so this oneeeeee. The basic premise is that Argent agrees to hand Theo over to another pack in exchange for information on Monroe, including hideout locations, her supporters etc. The notes are split between three documents but I have not sat down to write it out yet. It's also meant to be Thiam (with a twist pairing in the tiny sequel, entirely my beta MelMat's fault.

Alvarez—as Theo has been calling him since he refuses to call him Alpha, or any name that gives him power—paces the length of the room, hand resting on his left hip, gait throwing to the same side as the weight of his single arm messes with his balance. "I am so tired of you special bloodline folk. Or the ones who are handed abilities on a silver platter. You know nothing of what true struggle is." His red eyed gaze snaps between his beta—a rust colored shifter who Theo has never seen outside of her wolf form, who is always at Alphas heel—and Theo, who despite the continuous need to heal, is bright eyed and as smart mouthed as ever.

"I've heard of you 'chimeras'. Spliced together genetically, held together by means most have no hope of understanding." Alvarez stops, suddenly, his entire being locking up, still. So very still. Theo grinds his teeth against the spike in his instincts, the one that pleads he flee from the threat. Alvarez turns toward him, slow with movements jerking like a broken marionette; his lips are pulled back into a monstrous grin, wide, feral. "I am not most," he motions to the stump of his missing arm, flesh a gnarled white with groovespetering the end—claw marks, Theo realizes when he focuses on it, "your secrets will be uncovered. With it. The return of what is mine."

8: Asher/Liam- :) yeah. I really couldn't help myself here. Started off as a smutty oneshot idea and then kinda kept growing. A lot of the notes are not typed up yet though. But here is the opener:

Liam meets Asher at a club. At first he confuses him with the missing Chimera, but after taking an open mouthed breath—while stalking over, trying to conceal glowing eyes and lengthening teeth—he notices the lack of the soap Theo uses. This person's scent is all wrong. The look-alike smells sweeter. Like ripe pears and summer sun, whereas Theo is earthy, like really good potting soil and pine. The guy arches a brow, smiling easy and confident as Liam stops short, realizing his error but still confused because, hello, he looks almost exactly like Theo.

“Can I help you?”

Liam shakes his head.

“Sorry, You just really look like someone I know.” He smiles awkwardly back and wishes he were still across the room so he could observe not-Theo a little longer.

“Is this ‘someone’ you like to have fun with?” Not-Theo asks and Liam can smell his curiosity…and arousal as he eye-checks him. It makes him blush, but he manages not to stutter as he usually does in these situations. “Ah, no. Not like that.”

Not-Theo’s expression falls the tiniest bit in disappointment. Liam licks his lips nervously. He shifts his weight foot-to-foot and his heart starts to beat fast. He is curious. Feels kind of bold too, for once. “But maybe you could be that kind of fun.”

And not-Theo’s expression turns into a wide smile, carefree and interested. Charming, in a different way than Theo, and sincere. “Well then, shall we get the hell out of here?”

16: Beast Flesh (Scott ruins Liam) – This is pretty much smut. With an amusing ending.

"Don't give me that look," he glares down at the alpha, knowing that if Scott really tried he could overpower him unless it was a Supermoon. "You are always telling me to control myself. To keep my emotions in check. Keep the wolf in check." Clawed hands press harder against Scott's shoulders but do not dig in. "Your problem is you never let go so you can't actually help me." Liam leans in with eyes blazing gold. "Let go. For tonight, let go." Scott freezes. He doesn't even breathe.

"You don't know what you're asking." His body remains stiff under Liam, as if moving means he will give in. Liam realizes he wants that more than anything. "I want you, Scott." lips a breath from touching, Liam whispers his next words. "To. Let. Go." He kisses him and for a terrifying moment he fears he's majorly messed up, until Scott's eyes bleed a deep satisfying red. Liam has no time for a reply as his arms are pushed to the side and a clawed grip holds them tight as he is swung underneath the alpha. Scott grinds their hips together, nosing at his neck, scenting him as Liam lets out a shuddering gasp. Parting his legs, Scott falls into the welcoming space, "Liam".

His name, said like that, tightens something in the betas chest. He needs more.

#answered #teen wolf

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