#Jeffrey - Joseph - come on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gothamite-rambler · 6 days ago

Text

Jason may have a point here

Jason: Kill him.

Batman: No.

Jason (insistent): Kill him.

Batman: No.

Jason (angry): Kill him!

Batman (loud): No!

Joker: Can I kill myself to escape this nightmare of awkward father-son tension?

Jason and Batman: Shut up!

Jason: Ignore me, like you did when I died. What about the countless lives he’s taken? What about Barb? What about the hell he’s put all of us through for some sick joke? If you didn’t want to do it for those reasons, what about me? I wanted to ignore this, but he took me away from you! Why not vindicate me? I thought I was your son!

Joker: Guess you weren’t that close.

Jason smacked the Joker with the crowbar for the fifth time.

Jason: Shut. The. Fuck. Up! Back to you, B��Batman. When I saw the bomb tick down, I accepted it. I accepted my death with the assumption that when I died, you’d kill him. Then I wake up, and this monster is still alive. Why?

Batman: I’ve contemplated torturing the Joker in private. Making him feel pain from every nerve in his body, savoring the light leaving his eyes when I finally kill him. But I don’t want to go to that dark place… because that won’t fix crime. If I kill the Joker, I would be crossing a line I can’t come back from.

Jason (in disbelief): Stop joking.

Batman: I’m not.

Jason (tapping the gun on his leg): You have to be.

Batman (deadpan): When have I ever joked with you in this suit?

Jason: It’s not too late, because you can’t be serious. It literally would fix one thing… HIM! Because he’d be dead!

Joker: Can you tell me what type of torture methods you’d perform on me? I might need to use those later.

Jason pointed his gun at the Joker, showcasing how the crazy clown is only proving his point.

Batman: If I kill him, I would never return to who I was—the person I became to fight crime. I would kill the next one like him.

Jason: Then fucking do that! You can't be arrested. You’re friends with Commissioner Gordon, who, by the way, the Joker shot his fucking daughter. You shot his daughter, right?

Joker: Yeah.

Jason: Okay, so should I shoot him, or do you want to go first?

Batman: The Joker would have to do something insanely unforgivable to make me kill him.

Jason stays silent for fifteen seconds, unsure of how to respond.

Jason: …He blackmailed my mom into handing me over and tortured me horribly and then I died in a bomb explosion. Not from the bomb either, from being suffocated under rubble. Just so you know, I was legally dead for five years because of him.

Batman: That’s different.

Jason (twitching eye): Different how?

Batman: You're here now.

Jason looked around, incredulous.

Jason: Am I on a hidden camera show? Because that’s not a defense. Are you seriously trying to excuse what he did just because I’m back now?!

Batman: Um... It’s not right!

Jason: Why? Go ahead, tell me—why is it wrong for me to kill him and for me to kill irredeemable criminals? I'll wait. I have the detonator.

Batman: Because when my parents died—

Jason: Nope, nope, nope! My mom sold me out to the Joker. My dad beat me; my step-mom beat me! You’ve got to come up with something else!

Joker: …He has a point.

Batman (clenched fist): Okay, after saving lives without killing criminals, I learned that all life is valuable.

Jason (without hesitation): Joseph Stalin.

Batman: Okay, that was a war leader—

Jason: Charles Manson.

Batman: Hold on, he was a cult lea—

Jason: Jim Jones.

Batman: They volunteered in both situations.

Jason (calmly): Adolf Hitler. The Nazi soldiers who knowingly participated in the extermination of Jews and those who escaped to Brazil.

Silence.

Joker (weakly speaking): I’m… the one possibly dying, but he brought up a couple of good examples. Like I’d kill me after that.

Batman (stammering): No, wait, because that's not the same. The Joker is not the same as them.

Joker: Thanks, Batsy. I try to be different.

Jason (trying to breathe calmly): Okay, I’ll cancel out the world dictators, the cult leaders. I’ll do that for you… Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Wade Wilson... I can go all day; I love learning about true crime and wars. He’s not exactly like them either, but he’s pretty damn close.

Batman: …

Jason (irate): And again… him torturing and killing your adopted son isn’t the line? Am I near the line?!

Batman: I told you not to fall for your mother's tricks.

Jason (shocked): Oh… my God! Are you resorting to gaslighting? Are you really gaslighting me while I have a bomb? We’re doing that?!

Joker (not taking any of this seriously): I wouldn't stand for that, neither would Barbara.

Jason hit the man in the arm with the crowbar to silence him.

Batman (doubling down): All I’m saying is that when you came back, you started killing left and right.

Jason: Yes, rapists to my right and murderers to my left. It’s not like I kill shoplifters.

Batman (scoffing): Hypocrite.

Jason: A shoplifter might have a reason to steal and doesn’t resort to kill people.What rapists have you met that had a reason? Because rapists aren’t redeemable; they’re fair game. Same with, let’s see, child traffickers, pedophiles, serial killers, assassins—literally awful, evil people! That’s target practice.

Jason aimed the gun at the Joker as he spoke to emphasize his point.

Batman (indignant): Okay, last I checked, murder is wrong!

Jason (pointing his gun at the Joker): It sure is!

Batman: A criminal is a criminal. I treat them all the same.

Jason (laughing because he had this one ready): Let’s talk about Selina Kyle.

Batman (nervous): Let’s not do that.

Jason: No, no, she gets a pass when she’s attacked people to escape prison. If a criminal is a criminal, then why isn’t she in prison? Because she meows at you? Because of your odd sexual tension with her—I’ve read your journals. And I don't judge man, that's your love life, but I want to know why she gets a pass. Why does Black Mask walk? Why does Mr. Freeze walk? The Joker gets to walk… why is that? Tick-tock, detective.

Batman: …If you give me five minutes, I will think of an answer.

Jason (cocky): It bothers you, doesn’t it? That I’m doing a better job at being you? That I'm taking on businesses in this crime-ridden area because I can admit that crime will never stop? Is it that I kill murderers and rapists, and that hurts your feelings?

Batman: It doesn't bother me… I just don't want you to do this.

Jason (serious): Let me dial back the snark. I'm not asking you to kill Selina or Riddler or Mr. Freeze. I want you to kill the Joker. The man who's been alive and committing crimes since I died. I'm not even mad at you for not stopping my death. Honestly, I forgive you for that. But for the love of God, kill him! Kill him, and I’ll take the blame. That’s all I ask. I am begging you! Do you see this? I am begging you!

Batman sighed with regret knowing he couldn't turn on his morals again. It would only lead to worse happening to him and his family and that included Jason.

Batman (final decision): I can't. I won't. I'm sorry.

Jason: I—Wow, you’re actually going to make me do this. Okay, I kill the Joker or… you kill me.

Jason tossed Batman an extra gun, which the man catches with ease.

Jason: Or you can shoot him.

Batman (somber tone): I regret the day I let you into my life… Not because of any faults you made, but my own. I gave you a good life, with the life of a hero in the mix. Now that you’re alive again and there’s nothing I can do to stop you… I won’t kill him or you. Again… I’m sorry.

That was all he could say. The decisions he made in the past, when Jason died, were secrets he wanted to keep buried, even if it meant Jason would never learn the truth and would continue to harbor resentment toward him.

Jason: Heh… You regret taking me in because of the hero life you gave me—not because I died or because my murderer is still free. Cool. I suppose you’ll just stand by and watch me take him out.

With a dry chuckle, Jason spun the gun in his hand, poised to pull the trigger. Batman reached into his utility belt for a weapon.

Jason (with feigned sweetness): This is fantastic! I always wanted a moment like this with you!

Jason grabbed the Joker and aimed the gun at the cackling psycho's head.

Jason: I’m going to enjoy this!

Batman: DODGE!

Jason: What?

Batman hurled a Batarang at Jason, striking him in the neck and impaling him. In shock, Jason dropped the gun and the Joker, blood spurting from the wound.

Joker (amused): This is fun! What a twist! I didn't think you would hurt your own son!

Jason (shocked and angry): You threw a Batarang… at ME?!

Batman (regrettably): Oh shit, shit, shit! You were supposed to dodge!

Jason (betrayed): You pulled a Piccolo on me!?

Batman: I thought you would dodge! I shouted “dodge!”

Jason: You thought I would read your damn mind, toss Joker aside, dodge, and then not shoot him?!

Batman maintained a stoic expression, but inside, his mind was screaming in embarrassment.

Jason and Joker: Oh my God, you actually did. GREAT! I’m agreeing with him!

Jason yanked the Batarang out of his neck, chuckling dryly as he trembled.

Jason: This doesn’t even hurt me, crazy right? I—You threw this at me to save him… You know, maybe in a few years we can laugh about this, but not here, not today. I’m sorry too… but I’ll see you again.

Jason pressed the detonator, successfully escaping alongside Batman. The Joker was buried beneath the collapsing debris of the buildings, but somehow still alive.

150 notes · View notes

thesixthruin · 4 months ago

Text

i don't fandom post here but. currently obsessed with welcome to night vale again and can't stop thinking about episode 221 (glow cloud, explained). keep thinking about dr. janet lubelle "explaining away" things as acts of both a disruption of collective faith and a killing of creativity.

we (as the audience) have witnessed cosmic horror as the everyday in that town for a whole decade. we, just like the citizens of night vale, take it as normal, or as adaptive to be normal. and then lubelle comes in and disrupts it to the point of death. she rendered a god useless. she killed a sentient river rock. even when cecil tries to chant all hail, all hail the glow cloud, the magic is gone. the faith is gone. it's been explained, unravelled, revealed to whatever kind of truth "science" has applied to it.

also, it serves as an allegory for how, when you try to explain your work to an audience, it kind of kills it? especially any writing that is absurdist or surrealist. explaining why the glow cloud even exists, or trying to pick it apart, renders it and the magic of night vale (both story and podcast) useless. the glow cloud is fun because it is a glow cloud that drops dead animals! we found out it was a god too! it has a child! isn't that whimsical and horrifying and brilliant? does it need explaining? no! and it's heartbreaking when it is! it's such a staple of the series and it's smart of joseph/jeffrey to play around with this after 10 years of creating and writing for this beloved show.

(also, if you decide to engage with this post, please do not share spoilers for future episodes, i am still playing catch up).

#welcome to night vale #i'm inviting people to engage if they feel like it. these are like half-baked and i'm still playing catch up but i'm having fun!

177 notes · View notes

pluralcollector · 3 months ago

Text

it takes two to make a story: one to deliver it and one to receive it

a toh emperor acolyte au fanfic.

(emperor acolyte au by tumblr user pespillo.

warning for allusions to and discussions of child abuse, both physical and psychological / emotional. assuming you're familiar with the emperor acolyte au that this is set in, you can expect similar heavier themes.

king is humanoid in this story.)

“every story has a happy ending if you wait long enough. death is only the end if you assume the story's about you. wouldn't you prefer to escape stories and endings altogether?”

--paraphrased from an episode of “welcome to night vale” by joseph fink and jeffrey cranor (but then we added some inferences)

“i’m the hero of this story, don't need to be saved. (hey, open wide, here comes original sin.)”

--quoted from “hero” by regina spektor

“how does our story end?” king asks, his voice rippling through the previous quiet like the chiming of a bell that signals the termination of one thing while shepherding in the next -- a clear and clean distinction that hazards no space for ambiguous twilight.

king’s been watching the collector read for well over an hour, a habit he indulges in not infrequently (though he prefers to avoid describing it as frequently -- such convoluted employments of language help keep king’s paradoxical state of being just slightly more palatable, and he's never counted with much of that to begin with).

usually, the collector interrupts their reading swiftly anytime king makes his presence known within the same space (the same applies to some instances of the collector noticing king's presence without king intending to, but at other times the collector can prove remarkably adept at discerning when king, like a feral cat or a skittish rabbit, wishes to be in the collector's proximity without directly engaging them), greeting him amicably before inviting him to hear about whatever fabulous and fantastical adventures they're reading through this time around.

king, in turn, tends to promptly acquiesce, though he is usually more interested in just hearing the collector talk than in the content of books themselves. it works out for both of them this way: the collector gets to ramble enthusiastically about something they're really interested in, and king gets to be soothed by the continued production of the voice he's grown simultaneously most familiar with and in most need of hearing.

today, though, there is a slight modification to that routine: the collector has delved into a particularly engrossing escapade, and thus has refrained from immediately reacting to king’s presence. that's fine, king thinks: he'll wait; just being able to see the collector is almost as good as hearing them, and he's in no rush anyway.

king can discern the outward signs of the collector struggling between the gravitational pulls of king's presence and the book in their hands, their gaze periodically flickering towards king for an instant before scrambling back to locate whatever sentence they were in the middle of reading, reminding king of a compass that's been placed by a magnet and thus lost all sense of orientation, floundering in erratic pirouettes as if every direction could somehow be pointed at simultaneously (as if pointing at every direction simultaneously could communicate some secret, meaningful logic, and not merely an unhelpful paradox). this fortifies king's resolve to remain patient, but desires often clash unsettlingly within him, and, as time drags on, king starts feeling like a piece of furniture that has become so old and commonplace that it no longer elicits any reaction from whoever selected it as a suitable addition to their household, and this proves too disconcerting for king to not immediately attempt to dissolve.

hence king’s question: “how does a story like ours end?”

he phrases it differently the second time around, having become embarrassed -- as well as alarmed -- by the potential implications of the question he's rather carelessly blurted out in his haste to entice the collector to pay attention to him. both versions encapsulate feelings he's been mulling over for quite some time now, though he's unfortunately just now figured out how to parse them with deceptively effective concision -- unfortunate because he would have much preferred to have put that question to himself in the privacy of his own mind before alerting the collector to its existence.

at least the collector is paying attention to him now.

the collector sets down the heavy, leather bound tome they've been perusing and quirks a quizzical eyebrow, regarding king with surprise. this has the (presumably) unintended effect of making king feel like a bug that's unwittingly wandered into a glass jar and is now being scrutinized closely by the owner of said jar, which is hardly any improvement on the unnoticed furniture scenario.

king meets the collector’s gaze with steady solemnity, endeavoring to expose none of the loud, messy feelings presently thrashing within him like a shark hauled out of the water by a pair of inexperienced hands that hold on despite understanding viscerally that it will lead to getting bitten and the shark escaping back into the sea anyway (perhaps putting up the appearance of struggling, like refusing a gift before capitulating to the giver’s insistence purely as a pretense of politeness, is important in some interactions, but king does not think this is one of them -- now that he's dropped this load unexpectedly and unceremoniously onto the collector, he'd rather pretend that's always been his intention).

the collector stares at king silently for a handful of seconds, understanding dawning on his complexion with a steady slowness that reminds king of flipping through pages of stop motion illustrations, appreciating both how they must all play out in more rapid conjunction and how distinct and essential each individual snapshot is. king isn't sure if other people also experience this clarity while interacting with the collector or if it is yet another curious quirk of king's special closeness to them.

“i don't know, king,” the collector answers honestly, both eyebrows furrowed with obvious concern now, their pupils darting almost imperceptibly as they take full stock of king’s appearance. they vocalize with a seriousness that mirrors king’s, though king suspects theirs is more genuine. “i’ve never read a story like ours.”

there's a pause in the conversation, the collector raising a thumb and index finger to frame their chin and tilting their head sideways as if to examine a painting from another angle, their mind clearly churning with the effort to provide their best friend with a satisfactory or at least worthwhile answer. but, strive as they might, they have to admit when they're stumped, and they'd rather say so to him than pretend otherwise.

king waits a breath’s length longer for the collector to muster something further -- only once he realizes he's been holding his breath for an uncomfortably long period does he exhale -- another bell ringing to signal a transition.

“you really don't know then,” king remarks, trying not to sound disappointed while also feeling that concealing how he really feels might prove a dire mistake in this situation -- the conflict between not hurting the collector's feelings by exposing his own feelings and not hurting the collector's feelings by withholding his own feelings as present and alive as ever.

“i don't,” the collector confirms, apparently uninjured -- but not unbothered -- by king's disappointment. their eyes are swirling with growing worry, gray clouds gathering into each other’s embrace and steering steadily towards a downpour.

the last thing king wants is to make the collector cry, but perhaps he doesn't deserve to ask a question like this without being punished a little -- it is, he recognizes now, a bit cruel of him to even confront the collector with it.

what other answer could the collector possibly give king without lying? did king just need to hear directly from the collector what he already knew to be true? is this just another one of his petty, ill-mannered attempts at making someone else feel as bad as he does because he's so self-righteously indignant by being completely alone in his grief? or was some part of him -- some awful leech of a part of him -- actually hoping his best friend would lie to him?

if the collector had lied, king is now forced to wonder, would he have been relieved and pretended to believe them? or would that have been exactly the excuse that leech part of himself always seems to be seeking out like warm blood to stage a vicious and melodramatic upending of their entire relationship, claiming -- as he'd surely claim to have been certain of all along, even though he is presently not -- that the collector does not trust him enough to award him the truth, and, adding insult to injury, thinks king could ever fail to slice through such a shallow farce? (this hypothetical scenario somehow coexisting with the one where he is eager to be lied to and to internally gaslighting himself into believing he really does not know he is being lied to and what both of their behaviors suggest about their relationship).

“that's worrisome,” king states flatly, more to avoid saying nothing at all as he feels himself start floundering in his own internal ruminations and dissociating from the reality presently surrounding him, as if he really does believe he can just drop these potentially highly distressing things on the single most important person in his life with neither warning nor explanation, then silently retreat into himself without a care for its potential consequences.

king spent too much time alone with his own thoughts when he was younger, blurting things out aloud because there was no one around who could or would answer, slowly and effectively desensitizing himself to any and all severity that they might carry.

numb to his own feelings then, and, now, also numb to how his feelings make others feel. it's a hard habit to smother.

“more worrisome than feeling yoked to a predetermined destiny?” the collector inquires, smiling slightly in a fashion that clearly conveys that he intends the question in a lighthearted, theoretical, thought experiment sort of way -- not in relation to any specific real world situation.

yoked, king thinks, finding it, for a moment, exceedingly amusing that anyone would use that word in a conversation not about cattle or some other beast of burden type -- an effect of just how much the collector reads, this aspiring literati tendency to season their otherwise perfectly ordinary statements with the occasional poetic lingo.

but then king considers the actual implications of being described as yoked, even in a metaphorical sense, and gets the dreadful sense that maybe he is a beast of burden type -- he's certainly a beast, and he was certainly raised to shoulder burdens, so what really sets him apart from an ox physically yoked to the plough they will someday collapse next to, dead from the exhaustion of doing nothing throughout their life except dragging it along for someone else's benefit?

king tries to muster some compassion for the collector's careless misstep by focusing on how profoundly apologetic they look after quickly realizing the potential implications for him, but, alas, it does not succeed in softening his tone when he next speaks.

“at least back then i knew what to expect, and i could prepare myself,” king snaps sulkily, seeming to shrink into himself as he wrinkles up his dirt smudged nose, but with the careful calculation of a snake that only withdraws to aim better upon lunging. “but a story that doesn't adhere to a formula is sure to be filled with unexpected plot twists, and how am i ever supposed to get comfortable with how things are when i’m always expecting them to change?”

despite the tension boiling between them like a cauldron of soup that's seconds away from spilling over if the heat isn't quickly and dramatically toned down, the collector smiles with pleasure (and a dab of pride) at king’s reference to literary tropes -- proof he's been paying attention during their rambles.

the collector decides to try continuing the conversation through this lens -- perhaps it can help king feel less antagonized if he is not so obviously

being discussed.

“surprises are good in a story! they can lead to something entirely new, which has never been experienced before!” the collector proclaims, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically to be entirely credible, but king does find the ease with which they deflect his animosity without anything like an equally acerbic retort quite the relief (as well as a target of envy).

at times like this, king gets the intoxicating sense that there is no insult, argument, or otherwise hurtful remark either of them could make that their relationship could not somehow survive -- intoxicating because it occasionally tempts him to recklessly test the collector with an egotistical need to prove to himself just how valuable he is to them (too valuable, he hopes, to be permitted to push them away so easily), but also because it might someday actually lull king into a false sense of security.

“besides,” the collector adds, waving one hand in the air with such fluidity that a cornucopia of tiny, prismic stars burst like confetti from the tips of their fingers -- an entirely unconscious and -- to king -- entirely endearing use of magic. “a story with no surprises isn't much fun to read!”

king’s mouth twists sideways to land somewhere on the spectrum of smile to snarl, his upper lip curling back in that characteristically animalistic fashion that he is simultaneously proud of and disturbed by, without quite reaching the point of exposing his fangs any more than they normally protrude from his mouth -- a compromise between the desire to backtrack to explicitly addressing himself and following his best friend into this detached anonymity, as if either of them could ever mistake this conversation for anything other than what it has been from the beginning: king’s -- and now, as king has so selfishly dragged them in, also the collector’s -- anxiety over the future of their relationship.

“it can be… reassuring,” king tries, as cautiously as a hiker that is as noisy as possible in hopes of scaring away any nearby predators, king’s halting words and darting gaze an implicit plea for the collector to gently steer him away if he wanders too close to territory that might prove too treacherous for even the two of them to navigate at this stage in their shared and individual development.

the collector waits quietly for king to continue, patient and expectant as a hound plopped down at the foot of their human companion in anticipation of the occasional, much relished head scratch -- a comparison king instantly detests and chastises himself internally for even conceiving of, certain it's just him who keeps projecting his weird hierarchical complex onto the collector, and any mention of any of this to them would leave them utterly baffled (and serving as further proof of how out of touch with reality king has become that he can not even be friends with another person without constant anxiety over either being exploited or him doing the exploiting).

“to not have to be guessing all of the time. to not have to struggle to understand what is happening and why,” king offers by way of explanation, gripping both of his hips so he can tap his fingers nervously against them, his tail swishing just as restlessly as a dog that thinks there might be a reason to wag happily but isn't quite convinced they won't be disappointed by the complete withdrawal of the hoped for reward. king hates exposing uncertainty, but this, naturally, only heightens the outward signs of it.

“to be able to just go along for the ride, without doing any additional work,” king huffs, sounding -- to himself, at least -- exactly like a child that knows he'll be told he's correct if he's just petulant enough about it, because no one else wants to deal with arguing with him anymore.

sometimes, it feels simply impossible to turn off the urgent sense -- which instilled in him years ago -- that he has only ever earned anything through coercion and domination, through the bullying of people that would rather give him his way than deal with the wrath and cruelty that they're certain -- that eveb king is certain at times -- would follow any failure to do so. in king’s mind, he is always only ever a tiny emotional flare away from reverting back to his most bestial qualities, a monster whose vision turns red with fury and can no longer distinguish between an acceptable and drastically disproportionate response to any perceived slight. even in a casual conversation between best friends, king does not feel safe to be around.

“as a reader,” king clarifies quickly. “a reader doesn't always want to deal with the emotional whiplash of surprises. it can be pleasant to not be surprised.”

the collector watches king pensively and he can tell that they agree with him, both in a literary sense and, more pressingly, in regards to life itself: there is comfort to be distilled from mundanity, from the repetition of routines and the fulfillment of expectations, from a seed planted in the ground and watered regularly growing into a sprout and following the steps laid out in a manual building a functional radio and eating lunch together with a best friend being filled with fun chatter and laughter and the same sense of revival and renewal that the rare good night’s sleep provides but by far more easily and more reliably.

“besides, king blurts out, continuing with an urgency that suggests if he does not share it now he might quickly forget it forever and then no one will ever know about it, “nothing is ever really new. even the unexpected relies on expectations, which means it also follows a formula, albeit a more hidden one. but it can still be cracked.”

the collector raises their eyes from the spine of a book they had been idly tracing, affixing king with the excited glimmer that he recognizes from invitations to go exploring and play grudgby and dance together. even if the collector’s lips have not moved, king can see that their eyes are already smiling.

“what's your strategy then?” the collector asks eagerly. “do you try reverse predicting outcomes? figure out what the obvious cliché would be and expect the opposite?”

“i’m afraid i may already be doing that.”

there it is: king once again making explicit that he is still thinking -- still talking -- about himself, that this entire conversation, to him, revolves around him (even as he knows an equally critical part of it is entirely about how the collector fits -- and will fit -- into king’s life, choices, future). does it make king seem honest and vulnerable, in that peculiar manner others sometimes find compelling, or is he just coming off as hugely egotistical?

perhaps all deliberate vulnerability is, to a degree, an egotistical act: to expose -- to offer -- one's vulnerability is to assert it is of value, that one’s struggle matters not just to oneself but to someone else, too.

what if this doesn't matter to the collector like it does to king? what if the collector doesn't care about king’s anxiety regarding the future, doesn't deem it worth attention, or -- worst of all -- finds it laughable? has king just lost respect in the mind of the collector, has he been diagnosed as weak, ridiculous, neurotic?

while king is agonizing over the potential disaster he may have deliberately staged, the collector is doing their own calculations, peering at their best friend as if through the wall of a cell, wondering if enough pressure has swelled around them to permit the process of osmosis that might lead the collector straight through the barrier and into the shell of an abode that king has sequestered himself within. too much pressure, and the collector may well be forced back out -- but it might be worth the journey if they can reach king through that distorting blockage for even a brief moment.

the collector decides to try.

“would you prefer to still have everything laid out for you by someone else?” the collector asks at point blank, eliciting such a choking gasp from their best friend that they feel the impulse to take it all back, apologize, and promise to never bring such things up again, but they muscle through their own defensive barrier and determine to endure the stabbing discomfort exuding from both of them. “it might seem like it was easier when you thought you didn't have any options, when you thought no decision you made was your own, but…”

the collector trails off, biting their tongue from the embarrassment of having lost their nerve at the most crucial moment. king, however, has heard enough to draw his own conclusion.

“i’m a coward, then.”

king spits out the words like a bullet he hubristically thought he could catch between his teeth but instead let jam into his tongue, resentful yet matter-of-fact, accepting of something else he has failed to hate into nonexistence.

astonished, the collector’s eyes go wide as he shakes his head, trying and failing to muster any verbal opposition.

as for king, his eyes roll towards the back of his head, an arc as smooth and graceful as it is dismissive. the collector cringes reflexively.

“to miss being controlled, to want to go back to it, to think it's the only way i can be -- i’m a coward for that,” king continues, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting his best friend a defiant glare -- a misdirection of the contempt he feels for himself.

the collector, to king’s surprise, does not answer with any trace whatsoever of anger, instead reaching for king’s hand -- which, upon registering the familiar and coveted warmth of the collector’s skin, immediately releases its grip on his arm and capitulates to being cradled by the collector’s like a wild animal that knows there is no point even trying to swim against the river’s tide, that, wherever it might lead them, they are better off submitting passively to its will.

there can be great comfort in such a giving in, but king is not quite ready for it yet.

“being afraid isn't the same as being a coward,” the collector says softly, taking a step towards king so they can stand closer, so their fingers can thread freely through king’s claws while their equally warm breath sprinkles his face like the misty spray from a waterfall -- gentle, refreshing, and agonizingly ephemeral.

it doesn't have to feel ephemeral, king thinks, then nearly laughs aloud at the notion: like he'd ever have the courage to tell his best friend how intensely he longs to feel that warm breath on his face, those warm fingers cradling his hand, this warm proximity between their bodies -- without having the entire experience dampened by the certainty of its brevity, by not being able to simply say -- with words or otherwise -- please just stay this close to me for a while longer. king really is a coward.

“but it leads to the same,” king contends gruffly, like he's refusing some medicine he knows will help him feel better because he's determined to just weather the symptoms until the illness resolves itself (while also knowing this particular illness can not resolve itself on its own).

“i can't imagine ever thinking of you as a coward, king,” the collector counters, correctly ascertaining that king’s anxiety balances precariously on the collector's perception of him but managing, unknowingly, to set off a different source of said anxiety. “not after everything we've been thr --”

“so you don't have any expectations for me, then?” king challenges with blatant hostility, his upper lip successfully retreating into that dastardly snarl that makes him look and feel like an old and battered beast that just doesn't know how to stop picking fights with everyone and everything. “i’ve already fulfilled my role as poor, sacrificial lamb -- suffered enough to earn eternal adoration, regardless of everything i do after!”

king is shouting and he knows it's alarming the collector, tightening their muscles and quickening that normally pleasant breeze of a breath of theirs, but king has moved squarely into wanting to see the same despair that consumes him reflected in someone else -- it suddenly feels like the only way he can ever come even close to being understood.

the collector, king knows, is highly empathetic, and with none more than king himself. king really is a monster for doing this to them.

“i could do nothing for the rest of my life and you'd keep on loving me just the same, no more and no less than if i’d done any number of other things instead!” king yells. he knows he's gone too far, burdened them both with this terrible experience, but he can't stop, not when every despicable feeling he's ever harbored for himself is suddenly bubbling up his throat and no one but him seems willing to state aloud the veracity of it all -- if his best friend won't condemn him, he can do the work for both of them.

“it's all the same to you, even if i were to - were to - to -!”

king is sharply cut off in the same instant he realizes he is entirely out of breath, his eyes widening with a trickle of panic as his unoccupied hand clutches the area across his chest that guards his heart. he wheezes for a smattering of seconds, gaze lowering to the library floor with a melangé of shame and despair.

the collector remains silent for a spell, which feels as eternal and bewitching as actual magic, their eyebrows furrowing with the agonized consternation that only encountering king’s pain can elicit in them. the collector sucks on their inner cheek, eyes darting across the covers and titles of the various books scattered across the table, as if their recollections of how the stories contained within them were resolved could provide the collector with some answer, with some formula to carry the two of them safely through the trials before and between them.

king stiffens as he feels the collector lean closer, but otherwise restrains himself from reacting. slowly and gently, the collector cups their palm around king’s cheek, and nudges him towards meeting eyes with them.

king’s breath catches in his throat like vomit he refuses to expel, striving with feverish impotence to reverse the process and fill his lungs with enough carbon dioxide to force him to pass out and thus escape this situation altogether.

unfortunately for king, life has honed him into far sturdier material, and he's disappointed by the sharp inhale that parts his lips like a knife prying open the shell of a still living oyster. he's still panting slightly, trying to recover from momentarily depriving himself of oxygen, when the collector speaks.

“i love you, king,” the collector begins simply yet intensely, hitting king quite like he has never heard such words from his best friend or really anyone else before and thus proportionally deluging his nervous system with both ecstasy and terror, the sort of whirlwind thrill that he imagines must keep recreational skydivers hooked to periodically flinging their lives in death’s direction. he wants terribly to hide his face behind his hands and run away, find some niche he can crawl into and expire without ever being found again, but he is even more intensely transfixed by the delectable sound of his best friend’s profession and, like with the echoes of a bell that continue to ring in his ears long after the bell itself has stilled, he can do nothing to rid himself of it.

“loving you doesn't mean i don't expect anything from you,” the collector continues gently. “but it does mean i won't stop loving you just because you diverge from those expectations. you're full of surprises, king, and that's a big part of why i love you!”

the collector’s words taste so sweet to king that he is reminded of those excessively elaborate confections that the collector is so fond of indulging in: whipped cream and meringue and sugar cubes that melt on his tongue the instant they touch it -- so ephemeral he can only continue to enjoy them by eating copious amounts of them, and even then they eventually run out and he is left with a yearning for their return.

it's that kind of yearning that king feels for the collector, a need for company and conversation and closeness and comprehension that is never fully satisfied, that always begs for more. king is like a child that failed to develop object permanence, but with his relationships: anytime the collector isn't actively paying attention to him, the strength and certainty of their friendship might as well never have existed.

“besides,” the collector adds, a suspiciously mischievous sentiment tugging one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile, like they've just orchestrated a marvelous heist or other such plan to get the two of them into a lot of fun and a lot of trouble. king envies their ability to find such carefree joy in the midst of this situation.

“it's not like there's a limit to loving someone. there's no set amount of love you can either gain or lose forever. i’m constantly finding new reasons to love you. and if there's ever trouble between us, well, we can work it out -- and then maybe our love will be even stronger because we got through that together!” the collector says, seeming quite convinced by this theory.

king wants so profoundly to also believe it that, for a moment, he allows himself to imagine a future where he does -- it's a fleeting vision, like reading an especially fanciful science fiction story, but even implausible stories reveal something of what is plausible.

“love evolves as relationships do,” the collector concludes with an air of satisfaction, as if they have indeed reached the conclusion of a particularly stressful story, one in which, despite the greatest of odds, everyone ends up happy. “it's not quantifiable. it's qualitative.”

king is so shaken by what the collector has said to do much besides stand there, rigid as a mouse that knows moving in any way will give its position away to a nearby predator and thus seal their demise -- though he does manage to lift his gaze when he feels his best friend’s fingers brush against his forehead, watching utterly transfixed as the collector guides a lock of dark, curly hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear.

“you really are cute when your hair gets all over your face,” the collector murmurs, with such naked tenderness that king thinks they must certainly mean those words only for themself, having only accidentally -- and, judging by the unperturbed serenity that frames their facial features, unconsciously -- uttered them aloud. “you have such gorgeous hair…”

and there it is, king thinks: the possibility of a different kind of love -- a love that makes room for the sort of physical and emotional intimacies that king daydreams of but dares not make known with any sort of declaration or request; a love that can encompass and account for the fervent intensity of king’s feelings for the collector; a love that requires no secrets from either of them and instead demands a radically transformative honesty in all matters; a love that might entail king finally placing his own hand on the collector’s cheek and feel comfortable in the certainty that this gesture can only ever be a welcome and pleasant caress, and not the dangerous proximity of his claws to his best friend's throat. but whether the collector is thinking -- or, indeed, has ever even considered -- this sort of love, king has no way of judging for certain. and so, with a regretful resignation that has become entirely too familiar to him, he lets the moment -- the opportunity -- pass them both by, offering his best friend nothing beyond a steady and attentive gaze.

even if king can not express his true appreciation for the collector’s proclamations, he will, at the very least, ensure they know he's paying attention to each and every word.

the collector smiles with a serenity that king finds himself perplexed to be the target of, fiddling with the strand of his hair and managing to wrap it around their finger -- a sight that elicits a soft chuckle from deep within the collector’s throat and a ricocheting heartbeat from king. it all looks to king like nothing more and nothing less than an excuse to remain this physically close to king, and king, despite his outward guardedness, hopes against hope that the pleading within him for the collector to just continue this way indefinitely somehow permeates through his petrified expression and reaches his best friend.

despite his yearning -- or, perhaps, perversely, because of his yearning -- king can not bring himself to say anything back to the collector, so the moment, once again, goes no further.

king tried not to visualize punching the petulant muscle that is his heart.

“here, why don't i tell you a story?” the collector offers, breaking a spell king is now fairly certain both of them are pretending to not be aware of.

the collector performs a small jump to propel them into the air, pirouetting on their way up until they're hovering next to one of the shelves in the bookcase that are too high to be reached by king. he watches anxiously as his best friend runs their index finger across various spines, considering each title for a moment before moving onto the next.

“i’ve read some pretty fun ones lately!” the collector exclaims, shooting king an amicable grin before seeming to decide none of the books presently within reach will do for their best friend and instead churning up something from memory -- king always prefers when the collector gives stories their own personalized spin, after all.

when king doesn't respond, the collector adds hopefully, “it might help get your mind off what's bothering you. and, if not, well… at least we'll spend some time together, and that's always nice, right?”

the question feels, to king, entirely rhetorical, but he nods his assent anyway, which -- mercifully -- broadens the collector’s smile to the point that the dimples in his cheeks become visible, like beautiful islets that only rise above the water when the tide is at its lowest.

“is it an allegory?” king asks, more to force himself to start using his vocal cords than anything else, though it's also true that he's hoping to dispel the residual anxiety that buzzes around him like a flock of gnats that just won't give up on their quarry.

“every story is an allegory if you're willing to put yourself in it!” the collector answers breezily, sweeping aside the various books scattered across the table with magic so they can take a seat right at the center of it, legs crossed and hand beckoning at their best friend.

king finds himself unsettled by this response, but climbs onto the table anyway, plopping down in front of the collector with a pair of eyebrows that remain stubbornly -- and frustratedly -- scrunched.

“okay,” king concedes. “let's find out what allegory we can find in this story then.”

the collector beams, then reaches for king’s hand again, meeting no more resistance than the first time around. king swallows with noticable difficulty.

“i’m glad you said we,” the collector says, drawing attention to something king had neither consciously intended nor noticed until then.

king thinks, but doesn't say: i’m glad there's a we to speak of, and i keep having to say we aloud just to remind myself we are a real thing.

king stares blankly for a moment, then nods. the collector squeezes king’s hand.

“once upon a time,” the collector begins, swirling their unoccupied hand around to conjure a small bubble of iridescent magic, which projects objects from the scene they describe. “there was a sea, and on that sea there was an island, and within that island there was a jungle, and inside of the jungle there was a temple, and at the heart of the temple there was an egg.”

the collector pauses -- clearly for dramatic effect -- the magic bubble swelling to accommodate a rendition of what this mysterious scene might look like, each couple of words uttered by the collector compelling it to zoom closer and closer, until king can see the white marbled walls and platinum statues and obsidian pedestal where a single egg balances precariously.

king squints at the image, wondering how much of it is due to the collector’s imaginative creative license and how much faithfully adheres to the descriptions they read in whatever book they are now paraphrasing for him.

then the hair on the back of king’s neck starts to stand up and he swats at it reflexively, like it's some kind of bug he can just scare away. unsettled, king turns away from the magic bubble.

the collector, mistaking king’s behavior for disinterest or -- worse -- displeasure with them, tries making the narration more interesting.

“the egg was the last of its kind, and it had waited, for a very long time and all on its lonesome, to be ready to hatch,” the collector continues, nudging the magic bubble towards their best friend so it's once more within his line of sight. king realizes with a start how he's made them feel and opens his mouth to muster something like an apology -- or, at least, a plausible explanation -- but nothing comes out. he briefly considers just fleeing the scene.

“the egg might have well hatched with no one around to witness it,” the collector says solemnly, before adjusting to a far cheerier timbre: “were it not for a young witch that happened upon the mysterious temple and its egg at precisely the right moment!”

watching the peculiar egg in the illusion start to crack, king feels his stomach contract painfully, like he's being warned about having just ingested something poisonous.

“the witch decided to take the egg back with her to her home, where it was able to hatch in her company. and the name of the creature that emerged from that egg was --”

“stop,” king says, the word almost too quiet to be heard by even himself, but with all the telltale alarm of someone trying to stop another person from stepping right in the middle of ongoing traffic.

the collector feels that alarm constrict around their chest like a rubber band snapping back into its smallest size, but their mouth is already open and words are continuing to spill out of it, until --

“stop!” king yells, fury nestled like a cuckoo's egg amidst his every effort to have a nice, normal time with the collector, to not burst with a pyroclastic flow of emotions that suffocate everything before even becoming aware of its approach.

the collector, apprehending the intensity of king’s command, slices through the word they were in the middle of uttering and adds no more from the story, but they can not help sputtering out puzzledly, “what? why?”

“this story could never happen,” king states, firm but with a pleading that he hopes the collector can discern just well enough to heed.

“stories aren't only about what could happen,” the collector counters, still struggling to understand why their best friend’s demeanor has shifted so drastically, what has upset him so clearly and profoundly.

king lowers his gaze in lieu of offering an answer, so the collector also stares down at the ground, as if this could somehow lead them to perceive whatever is troubling king.

after a tense pause, the collector offers hopefully, “it's an allegory, remember? what happens isn't what's import --”

“i don't care about the allegory in this story,” king mumbles. the implication -- that king himself doesn't want to become part of the story -- goes unaddressed, but king has spoken with a finality that the collector knows well enough to respect.

the collector nods in comprehension and contracts the fingers of their hand into a fist to make the magic bubble burst. king expects to only feel relief at its disappearance, yet discovers a strange yearning alongside it, like nostalgia for something he can't be certain he ever experienced.

“where did you even find a story like that?” king huffs angrily, more an admonishment than an inquiry, which he immediately realizes is cruel of him and wishes he had the magic to make disappear like his best friend did with the bubble.

the collector, however, seems less perturbed by king’s acerbity than intrigued by the prospect of answering. their lips twist into a pensive frown as they scratch the back of their head, seemingly genuinely stumped by the task.

shrugging their shoulders, the collector states casually, “somewhere in the restricted section of the library probably! it's a pretty big place, and there are so many old journals from long dead witches and demons in there. i tend to forget what happened in which.”

this information does nothing to assuage king’s unease, but the possibility that everything the collector just told him was an entirely fictional composite of multiple different sources does, on an intellectual level, relieve him: it is truly a story that could never happen, that never has happened.

there's another uncomfortable pause, king trying half-heartedly to come up with an excuse to leave that won't further injure his best friend, the collector fidgeting by running a hand across their forearm while chewing on their lower lip.

then the collector has an idea, and blurts out brightly, “hey, i know! why don't you tell me a story? that way, you can decide what kind of story it is!”

king stares at his best friend perplexedly for a few seconds, as if this has never even crossed his mind as an option -- which, he's equally baffled to realize, it hasn't.

“i,” king stammers, feeling like he's just been pulled onto a stage and told to dance in a style he knows nothing about (a real scenario he has ample experience with, also thanks to the collector). “i don't know any stories… besides the ones you've told me, i mean. and you already know all of those better than me, so…”

king deliberately trails off, hoping that will be the end of it -- but also, mysteriously, delightfully, relieved when it isn't.

the collector can be quite insistent, and, despite the chagrin at being dragged out of his comfort zone, king is glad the collector deems him worth dragging along.

“really?” the collector asks, with a surprise that bears no judgment, only curiosity. “you didn't hear any when you were little?”

a bout of sweat breaks out across king’s temples as he's forced to -- however briefly -- consider a truthful answer to this question -- he arrives at nothing so concrete as images or even words, but there are a lot of feelings that he instantly realizes he can not allow to proliferate for even a nanosecond.

“i don't remember anything from when i was little,” king states decisively, as much for his own ears to hear as the collector’s. he starts repeating it in his mind, like some kind of warding spell (knowledge of what he needs to ward away at all costs being part of what he is warding away), even as he utters different words aloud: “if i ever did hear any stories, they're gone now.”

like everything else from when i was little, king could add, but doesn't. it's not true, anyway: nothing’s gone, not entirely -- he just prefers to believe every recollection he ever has from his childhood, whether merely a vague yet arresting emotional aura or a full-blown, multi sensory hallucination, is some fantastical fabrication, the manic misfirings of his twisted, knotted, broken neurons, and not in any way reflective of any real past experiences.

to the collector, it's like the sound of a door slamming shut in their face before they ever even tried to open it. they sigh wearily, but elect to push no further.

both friends descend into a silence that feels like a scab that's been scraped all over again and bleeding anew, and king thinks maybe the time has finally arrived for this entire interaction to come to an end.

but king just sits there, making no attempt, either verbal or physical, to leave. he's stuck remembering something the collector once said to him, not long enough after the day of unity for him to not feel like it was somehow part of the same, uninterrupted event.

this can be a new beginning, the collector told king. you can start over -- with me!

king wants to believe in that vision more than he can recall ever wanting anything else in his life, to feel that this -- where he is sitting right this moment -- is part of a new beginning, with none of his past attached to it: no preface, epitaph, or prologue -- just the first chapter in what will certainly sprawl into a vast and exciting epic.

with the collector. a new beginning for king’s story, with the collector by his side this time.

the question that keeps tormenting king is whether a new beginning, even with the collector as part of king’s story, is enough for a new ending as well -- it's always possible they are merely rehearsing for the same grand finale that marked the end of his past, violently aborted and still aching life.

king is so deep in the labyrinth of his own ruminations that he doesn't notice the collector’s face brighten.

“so invent one!” the collector exclaims, looking proud to have come up with what seems to them the perfect solution. “make up your own story, one you want to tell!”

king isn't sure about that. the things he comes up with that make it onto his tongue and through his lips are rarely things he wants to tell. and so he can only imagine that any story he could come up with would amount to much of the same, like being betrayed by the inadvertent flushing of his face or poisoned by a beverage he brewed himself.

the collector says every story is an allegory if you are willing to put yourself in it, and king can only hope he would be positively unwilling to put himself in any story he concocted.

yet the collector is staring at king expectantly, full of a love-laced conviction that he is capable and willing to step up to this task, and he feels he has reached the limit of times he can disappoint his best friend in one afternoon.

so, worn down by fatigue and a desperate desire to prove his best friend’s faith in him is not ill-founded, king sucks in a deep breath, and begins.

“there was once… there once was,” king mumbles, uncertain how to even open a story he has not thought out ahead of time, a story he is now determined to somehow improvise in its entirety -- and all it takes is the slight widening of the collector’s smile to muster the foolishness to continue.

“in the beginning… that was not the beginning,” king starts over, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. “there was… a child from the stars… and there was also… a titan.”

king pauses to swallow anxiously, a disruption probably only noticeable to himself.

“they were both very young when they met... and they were both very old when they were still friends… at the end… that was not the end…”

king stops, feeling that the story has reached its natural conclusion after only those couple of lines (isn't it the collector who once said, brevity is the soul of wit?), but the collector is still watching king expectantly, eyes wide and sparkling, lips arched into an enchanted grin, like a child that's being given a special treat for behaving so well all day long -- and, king knows (oh, how he knows), the collector has been very, very good to him, and not just today. it'd feel cruel to withdraw such a prize at this point, and king is willing to believe many things about himself, but cruel… well, cruel is one he certainly doesn't need to be collecting more evidence for, so best to avoid it whenever possible.

so king tells the kind of story he thinks the collector would enjoy -- full of silly characters, ridiculous problems, and absolutely chaotic adventures -- because, as it turns out, the kind of story king wants to tell is one that the collector wants to hear.

#emperor acolyte au #pespillo

34 notes · View notes

inthewitchesstew · 3 months ago

Text

My book recs

☆Mostly classics but a few more modern ones in there too!! Make sure to check warnings for any books you read ☆

1. The Virgin Suicides - Jeffrey Eugenides

2. 1984 - George Orwell

3. If We Were Villains - M.L Rio

4. Animal farm - George Orwell

5. Dracula - Bram Stoker

6. Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

7. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

8. Notes From the Underground - Fyodor Dostoevsky

9. Dante's Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri

10. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

11. Ariel - Sylvia Plath

12. The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath - Sylvia Plath

13. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath - Sylvia Plath

14. Moby Dick - Herman Melville

15. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper lee

16. Hamlet - William Shakespeare

17. Macbeth - William Shakespeare

18. The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoevsky

19. The Devils - Fyodor Dostoevsky

20. The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoevsky

21. A Nervous Breakdown - Anton Chekhov

22. Nausea - Jean-Paul Sartre

23. The Wind in The Willows - Kenneth Grahame

24. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë

25. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

26. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

27. Metamorphosis - Franz Kafka

28. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austin

29. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

30. Emma - Jane Austen

31. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald

32. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

33. The Odyssey - Homer

34. To The Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf

35. The Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

36. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

37. A Little Life - Hanya Yanagihara

38. The Trial - Franz kafka

39. My Year of Rest and Relaxation - Ottessa Moshfegh

40. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

41. The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt

42. Romeo and Juliet - William Shakespeare

43. Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury

44. Selected Stories - Alice Munro

45. American Psycho - Bret Easton Ellis

46. Normal People - Sally Rooney

47. Existentialism is a Humanism - Jean-Paul Sartre

48. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

49. Persuasion - Jane Austen

50. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

51. The Death of The Heart - Elizabeth Bowen

52. The Iliad - Homer

53. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest - Ken Kesey

54. The Catcher in the Rye - J.D Salinger

55. The Outsiders - S.E Hinton

56. The Chrysalids - John Wyndham

57. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller

58. Middlemarch - George Eliot

59. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

60. Meditations - Marcus Aurelius

61. Beyond Good and Evil - Friedrich Nietzsche

62. The Stranger - Albert Camus

63. The Republic - Plato

64. Letters From a Stoic - Seneca

65. Man’s Search For Meaning - Viktor E. Frankl

66. The Myth of Sisyphus - Albert Camus

67. Bunny - Mona Awad

68. Belladonna - Anbara Salam

69. The Yellow Wallpaper - Charlotte Perkins Gilman

70. My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun - Emily Dickinson

71. How We Weep and Laugh at the Same Thing - Michel de Montaigne

72. The Telltale Heart - Edgar Allen Poe

73. The Death of Ivan Ilych - Leo Tolstoy

74. Come Close - Sappho

75. The Fall of Icarus - Ovid

76. Tender Is the Flesh - Agustina Bazterrica

77. Cassandra - Christa Wolf

78. Forbidden Notebook - Alba de Céspedes

79. Girl, Interrupted - Susanna Kaysen

80. Carrie - Stephen King

81. Mrs. S - K Patrick

82. Sunburn - Chloe Michelle Howarth

83. Perfume - Patrick Suskind

84. After Dark - Haruki Murakami

85. Kafka on the Shore - Haruki Murakami

86. No Longer Human - Osamu Dazai

87. Wednesday's Child - Yiyun Li

88. My Husband - Maud Ventura

89. All Down Darkness Wide - Sean Hewitt

90. Norwegian Wood - Haruki Murakami

91. The Waves - Virginia Woolf

92. The Talented Mr Ripley - Patricia Highsmith

93. We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson

94. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway

95. Journey Into the Past - Stefan Zweig

96. Outline - Rachel Cusk

97. Chess Story - Stephen Zweig

98. Diary of a Madman - Nikolai Gogol

99. A Very Easy Death - Simone De Beauvoir

100. A Writer's Diary - Virginia Woolf

Enjoy!!

#book recommendations #books #english literature #literature #classic #classics #dark academia #chaotic academia #bookblr

21 notes · View notes

goosemixtapes · 1 year ago

Text

max's favorite short stories & articles!

to be updated as i read new things! "articles" could be anything from political points to philosophical musings to fascinating stories. obligatory statement that i don't necessarily agree with everything in every one of these stories/articles, but i think about them a lot and want to share :)

short stories

Avi Cantor Has Six Months To Live by Sacha Lamb (@kuttithevangu) (novella) (so says the writing on the bathroom mirror. of gender & judaism & magic and t4t trans guys. cw for suicidal ideation and bullying)

Epistolary by Sascha Lamb ("The [stuffed] frog you are selling on your blog is MINE and he is NOT HAUNTED and his name is MOSHE not BILLY HOPPER.")

Chokechain by Andrew Joseph White (a trans man discovers his parents have replaced him with a robot version of his pretransition self. cw for transphobia and violence)

Sandrine by Alexandra Munck (the tagline for this one is "I dated a sun god in college" but that doesn't do justice to the sheer concept here please read this)

You Wouldn't Have Known About Me by Calvin Gimpelevich (set in a hospital ward where patients are recovering from gender-confirming surgery)

No Flight Without the Shatter by Brooke Bolander (novella) ("After the world’s end, the last young human learns a final lesson from Earth’s remaining animals." cw for climate change/extinction)

And You Shall Know Her By The Trail Of Dead by Brooke Bolander (what if you had to death-match-fight a virtual version of yourself at your meanest made by your boyfriend whose life you're trying to save would that be fucked up or what. cws for guns and violence)

Hell is the Absence of God by Ted Chiang (stories that clock you in the fucking teeth in the religious trauma.)

A Serpent for Each Year by Tamara Jerée (microfiction) ("Our relationship is almost a year old when I ask Nal why she is covered in snakes." cw for animal death)

The Front Line by W.C. Dunlap (microfiction) (cited as one of the world's finest attention-grabber openings. cws for police brutality, racism, and SA)

Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience by Rebecca Roanhorse (step into the simulation and gain an authentic experience! cws for anti-Native racism and alcohol)

The Husband Stitch by Carmen Maria Machado (one of the best stories ever written. once there was a girl with a green ribbon around her neck...)

City of Red Midnight by Usman T. Malik (a chronicle of nested stories-within-stories, set in old fantasy pakistan, inverting a myth from the one hundred and one nights)

We Work In Miraculous Cages by Brenda Peynado (following a college grad drowning in loans through the nightmare of neverending work)

Other Worlds and This One by Cadwell Turnbull (a brotherly relationship collides with a theory about atomic particles, space, and time)

And Then There Were (N-One) by Sarah Pinsker (a convention of alternate-universe selves--all Sarah Pinskers--becomes a murder mystery)

Fandom For Witches by Ruoxi Chen (fuck every other thing ever written about fandom)

Haunted Home by Conrad Loyer ("The ship features a recreation of a slave ship’s hold. The cruise prides itself on it. It is not a good recreation, if the metric is realism.")

articles & essays

Lockhart's Lament (on how math is taught in schools. that is, badly. one of the most cathartic essays i've ever read on education)

Against Cop Shit by Jeffrey Moro (on adversarial education)

Debunking "Trans Women Are Not Women" Arguments by Julia Serano (comprehensive, well-written, good to have as a reference point)

On Liking Women by Andrea Long Chu (and on the politics of desire)

Turning a Unicorn Into a Bat by Josh and Lolly Weed (on Mormonism, love, and whether a gay man and a straight woman can marry happily. cw for homophobia)

Laziness Does Not Exist by Devon Price (musings on motivation from a social psychologist and professor)

How Millennials Became the Burnout Generation by Anne Helen Peterson (how come everything happens so much?)

White Women Drive Me Crazy by Aisha Mirza (on the harm caused by white women. cw for racism)

Everything You Know About Obesity Is Wrong by Michael Hobbes (should be required reading for everyone at this point. cw for fatphobia and eating disorders)

Becoming Anne Frank by Dara Horn (on the cultural fascination with Anne Frank. cw for antisemitism)

The Ecstasy of Influence by Jonathan Lethem ([on/a] plagiarism)

On the Ethics of Boinking Animal People by Patricia Taxxon (video essay) (ostensibly what the title says, but actually a detailed musing on the essential properties of furry media and the freedom of dehumanization; changed my life a bit)

#max.txt #yayayayayay :)#i've decided i'm going to start doing the 'what i read this month' thing #so this is like #my base to come backt o and update when i find new favorites #readings

72 notes · View notes

babiebom · 1 year ago

Text

Dbd Killers as Nicknames my friends and I use in game

A/N: because i think. I only have like one thing posted for dbd. These are the Male Killers!

Tw:maybe cursing? None? Slight sexualization of certain killers?

Genre:headcanons? Or written like headcanons at least

Wc: maybe 3+ for each killer?

The Trapper/Evan Macmillan

Has no nickname

Is just "the trapper"

Always said in a panic tho

Is usually called a "stupid stupid man"

The Clown/Jeffrey Hawk

"Oh it's *imitation of him coughing*"

His nickname is just us coughing in gross ways

Also "you absolute baboon" by when we're upset

The Ghostface/Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson

My boyfriend

I exclusively call him this

Everyone else says "oh no your boyfriend is here"

Or we call him Ghost-a Fa-che in really bad italian accents

The Executioner/Pyramid Head

Conehead

Forgot the word pyramid

Also trianglehead

Usually proceeded or followed by "ewwwwww why is he sludging up the place????"

The Twins/Victor Deshayes

Ugly little baby

We forgot that he is not really a baby

We also call him Viktor Vector

Usually followed by "kill her little baby"

Or "stomp on himmmmm"

Then "yeah that's what you get you ugly baby"

The Mastermind/Albert Wesker

Lil Kitty Meow Meow

Bc I accidentally called him whisker

And that reminded me of the Lil kitty meow meow meme

Is usually followed by his "urgh" when he does the dashy thing

The Nemesis/Nemesis

Nemesussy

It was a slip of the tongue that stuck

I also call him Thanos half the time

I forget his name and panic

Then call him Thanos because big purple man

Usually proceeded by "oh god it's Thanos I can see his stupid little zombies"

The Doctor/Herman Carter

Has no nickname but is usually called out by saying "sorry I can't talk right now he's ELECTROCUTING ME"

followed by imitations of his laugh

The Legion/Frank&Joey

I do not know how to write this

It's literally just The Legion but pronounced with a very bad French accent

Also Franklin or Frankie-boy

And Josepher and "which one is this one again"

The Trickster/Jiwoon Hak

We either call him Trickster

Or Jungkook from Bts(yes this whole thing)

Is usually followed by "bob and weave and bob and weave"

Or is followed by "please dont kamsahamnida me"

The Wraith/ Phillip Ojomo

Bing Bong

Because when he hits his little thing it goes Bing Bong

Usually proceeded by "oh god" and "please don't be bingbong"

Usually followed by "oh god where did he go"

The Hillbilly/ Max Thompson Jr

We just call him by Max

I usually call him Maxie-poo

Cute

The Cannibal/ Bubba Sawyer

Like Max we just call Bubba by Bubba

Bubba is a cute nickname in of itself

The Oni/Kazan Yamaoka

Onigiri

Because I said "Oni? Like onigiri?"

Followed by screaming or "someone stop him he's eating my blood"

The Deathslinger/Caleb Quinn

Rootie tootie mcshooty shooty

Because it's funny

Also sometimes call him the hashslinger

Or hashslinging slashed

From spongebob because we again forgot his name

The Shape/Michael Myers

Miku Miku

Because I panicked when I saw him and could not speak or remember his name for the life of me

Usually followed by "oh god this is gonna be a bad match"

Also followed by singing the song but only by saying Bing and bong.

The Nightmare/Freddy Kreuger

"Ew its stupid what's his face....sleepytime....nightnight"

Has no real nickname because we're not happy to see him

"Why is there blood coming out of this...oh."

"Haha your neck is bent weird"

The Blight/Talbot Grimes

Incoherent screaming

Literally it's "uhhhh HA HUHHHH WHA HELP"

Followed by "why is he so fast?"

Or is called speedy Gonzales or Sonic

The Knight/Tarhos Kovács

I have accidentally called him the borgo

We also just call him the knight or just scream

The Cenobite/Elliot Spencer

Pinhead

I find it funny that that is an actual name for him

Because we usually call him that

The Demogorgon(?)

Or "stupid pinhead" but you get the gist

Also BabyBox

Bad doggie

He is a dog that is bad because he keeps biting me with his weird little face

The Dredge(?)

Is this thing a male? Idk but it counts

Again we are bad at remembering names

Half the time he is called the sludge

Usually followed by "why is it nighttime"

#dead by daylight #dead by daylight killer #dead by daylight headcanons #dbd shitpost #dbd headcanons #dbd killer #dbd #dbd ghostface #dbd doctor #dbd wraith #dbd wesker #dead by daylight shitpost #dbd male killers #dead by daylight male killers #slashers #slasher headcanons

64 notes · View notes

this-is-a-podcast-fanblog · 9 months ago

Text

Before we officially settle on Brinknor as the new title for the writers, may I humbly propose the alternative:

Finknoriams.

I like this for a few reasons. 1, and most important, is because it sounds like a kind of mysterious ailment. Like hey man are you okay? No, I have a case of the Finknoriams (Janet hasn't come back yet and it's making me sad.) I also don't like that two of the writers have their last name in the mish-mash, but one of them has their first name. It shouldn't be BRie williams, joseph FINK and jeffrey craNOR, doesn't that look weird? We should incorporate Brie Williams's last name just like Fink and Cranor have theirs incorporated.

Third, it places the last names in the order that they joined the project. Fink is the creator, Cranor came on as the co-writer, and Williams got boosted from part-time to full-time writer this past year.

So what do you think?

#brie williams #joseph fink #jeffrey cranor #i really dont like brinknor im sorry it doesnt have that jen a say quaw #dont know how to spell that #dont care #wtnv #welcome to night vale

16 notes · View notes

foccaccia · 2 years ago

Text

"well, listeners, the riots have been forcefully calmed down by the sheriffs secret police, and the definitely-not-angels have put out their burning effigy of that round skeleton and ceased their chanting of 'SE-XY MAN. SE-XY MAN.'

"i am finally safe and alone in my office once more, and i - oh. oh god. oh dear god. listeners, i have just noticed what appears to be a dead body at my door, left there as if a gift from some well meaning but utterly clueless and unrelatable animal who does not know basic social etiquette - that, of course, corpses as gifts should be wrapped in silver paper with pages of that great american surrealist parody novel "Eat, Pray, Love" taped into a bow stuck on top.

"since khoshekh, my cat, floats four feet off the ground next to the sink in what was the mens restroom and is now a unisex restroom, this can only mean station management has left this corpse here.

"listeners, i find myself nervous, wondering if this is a warning to me from the edritch plural monstrosity that governs my work life and threatens me constantly - oh, but no, listeners, i am observing the dead body more carefully and am sensing the bitterness and fear that can only come from one who has lived a live spouting so much hate and pain. this corpse, whoever she may have been, lived a life of cruelty and deliberate harm, perhaps in the form of anti-transgender laws or severly antisemitic childrens books, though of course, listeners, i would have no way of knowing for sure. i can absolutely say i would not brave a library to find out.

"regardless, i think this must be a congratulatory gift from station management as to my new crowning of 'sexyman' status. my beloved carlos assures me i deserve it, though i admit i do not know, because of course i do not look in mirrors.

"well, listeners, if we have learned anything today, it is that the kindnesses and good intentions of our past, no matter how distant, will always remain in the hearts of the people around us, and may someday crown us - while our poison and hatred may end up with us brutally murdered by squamous beings and dropped at the doorsteps of unsuspecting radio hosts. good night, night vale. good night."

welcome to night vale is a production of commonplace books. it is written by joseph fink and jeffrey cranor, and produced by joseph fink. the voice of night vale is cecil baldwin. original music by disparition. all of it can be found at disparition dot info, or at disparition dot bandcamp dot com. this episode's weather was 'megalovania' by toby fox.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #cecil gershwin palmer #undertale #sans the skeleton #sexyman #sexyman polls #LMAO IDK MAN REMEMBER HOW SANS WINNING KILLED THE QUEEN? MAYBE CECIL WILL KILL JAY KAY ARR #m text

126 notes · View notes

metamorphesque · 2 years ago

Text

💌 some of my favorite poems for World Poetry Day 💌

A Cloud in Trousers by Vladimir Mayakovsky

Don’t leave the room by Joseph Brodsky (the original)

Ich finde dich (I find you) by Rainer Maria Rilke

The Thing Is by Ellen Bass

You, Darkness by Rainer Maria Rilke

I Am Offering this Poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca

a splinter of my imagination by Halina Poswiatowska

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel

Wait For Me by Konstantin Simonov (tr. by Mike Munford)

Before You Came by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

What I Could Never Confess Without Some Bravado by Emily Palermo

Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you. by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

I Want to Write Something So Simply by Mary Oliver

What's Not to Love by Brendan Constantine

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

Time does not bring relief (Sonnet II) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath

Dear [ ] by Nick Lantz

Dogfish by Mary Oliver

Persephone the Wanderer by Louise Glück

Scheherazade by Richard Siken

The End of Poetry by Ada Limón

A Myth of Devotion by Louise Glück

Where does such tenderness come from? by Marina Tsvetaeva

I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin

Poems for Blok by Marina Tsvetaeva

I’m Glad Your Sickness by Marina Tsvetaeva

Wait for her by Mahmoud Darwish

The Guest by Anna Akhmatova

Listen! by Vladimir Mayakovsky

Carousel by Vahan Teryan

Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors by Richard Siken

Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light by Richard Siken

Notebook Fragments by Ocean Vuong

Headfirst by Ocean Vuong

Advice from Dionysus by Shinji Moon

#poetry recs #poems #literature #translated literature #classic literature #poetry

1K notes · View notes

the-girl-who-didnt-smile · 2 months ago

Text

CRACKPOT THEORY: THE VOODOO ‘VIRGIN MARY’ IS ACTUALLY ERZULIE

Pictured: “Miss Erzulie Freda” by Andre Pierre

(Previously, I had argued that this must be Erzulie Freda, but now I no longer think that is necessarily the case.)

In Voodoo in New Orleans, Robert Tallant described how New Orleans Voodooists worshiped the Catholic saints:

“These merchants also sell pictures of saints. To certain Roman Catholic saints particular Voodoo power has been attributed: St. Michael is thought best able to aid in conquering enemies; St. Anthony de Padua is invoked for “luck”; St. Mary Magdalene is popular with women who are in love; St. Joseph (holding the Infant Jesus) is used to get a job. Many Voodoos believe a picture of the Virgin Mary in their homes will prevent illness, and that one of St. Peter (with the Key to Heaven) will bring great and speedy success in financial matters (without the Key to Heaven, St. Peter is still reliable in helping in the achievement of minor successes; the power of the picture is less, however). Pictures of the Sacred Heart of Jesus are believed to have the ability to cure organic diseases.”

SOURCE: Source: Tallant, Robert. Voodoo in New Orleans. 1946. Reprint, Gretna, La.: United Kingdom, Pelican Publishing Company, 1983.:

Many of these saints are not actually the Catholic Saints, but African-derived deities hidden under their names.

From the interview with the 75-year old Mary Washington (“Mary Ellis”), who was born in 1863*:

“That’s all I can remember. Marie Laveau used to call St. Peter somethin’ like ‘Laba.’ She called St. Michael ‘Daniel Blanc,’ and St. Anthony ‘Yon Sue.’ There was another one she called ‘On Za Tier’; I think that was St. Paul. I never did know where them names come from. They sounded Chinee to me. You know the Chinee emperor sent her a shawl? She wore it all the time, my aunt told me.”

SOURCE: Source: Tallant, Robert. Voodoo in New Orleans. 1946. Reprint, Gretna, La.: United Kingdom, Pelican Publishing Company, 1983.:

*Age and date of birth described in: Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans voudou priestess: The legend and reality of Marie Laveau. University Press of Florida, 2007.

Due to her age, the septuagenarian seems to have corrupted the pronunciation of the deities’ names. “Daniel Blanc” can be identified with Dan (Damballah), while “Laba” can be identified with Legba (Papa Legba). “Yon Sue” is probably Agasu (Miché Agoussou), while “On Za Tier” is possibly Azaka (Assonquer).

In Mythologie Vodou, Milo Marcelin identifies Maitresse Ezulie (Erzili Freda Dahomey) with the Virgin Mary. To be precise, she is identified with Our Lady of Sorrows (Mater Dolorosa), and two “Black Madonnas”: The Virgin of Altagracia, and Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

“Maitresse Ezili est identifiée à la Mater Dolorosa, représentée, dans les chromos catholiques, sous les traits d'une jolie femme qui porte des colliers en perles et en or, beaucoup de bracelets et de bagues en argent et en or, et qui a le coeur transpercé d'une épée en or. Elle est aussi identifiée à ces deux Vierges noires: Altagrace, appelée aussi Vierge d'Higuey (nom d'une ville Dominicaine), et Notre Dame du Mont-Carmel.”

SOURCE: Marcelin, Milo. Mythologie vodou: rite arada, vol. I. Haiti, Éditions haïtiennes, 1949, p. 77.

An intriguing bit of evidence is mentioned in Jeffrey E. Anderson’s Voodoo: An African American Religion.

In her thesis, Kendra Cole discovered a pencil drawing on the upper right corner of a document from the 19th century: The State of Louisiana v. Louise Johnson, New Orleans: City Archives, June 7, 1893.

The drawing can be viewed here, on page 31: https://aquila.usm.edu/honors_theses/658

It is not an exact match, but resembles Erzulie’s vèvè, as portrayed by Andre Pierre (shown above) and identified by Maya Deren in the 20th century.

See: Deren, Maya. Divine Horsemen : The Living Gods of Haiti. New Paltz, NY: McPherson, 1983 (originally published in 1953), p. 260: https://archive.org/details/divinehorsemenli00dere/page/260/mode/2up

Erzulie Dantor is also identified with the Virgin Mary, but her vèvè is not a match. See: https://haitianartsociety.org/ezili-dantor

Cole notes:

“My research in New Orleans was the first time the case had been opened since it was deposited; therefore, the probability of someone else representing the practice and drawing the symbol is doubtful.”

SOURCE: Cole, Kendra, "The State and the Spirits: Voodoo and Religious Repression in Jim Crow New Orleans" (2019). Honors Theses. 658. https://aquila.usm.edu/honors_theses/658

However, Anderson cautions:

“Unfortunately, the drawing is of uncertain age and origin and has no clear relevance to the case with which it associated, rendering it possible that the resemblance is simple chance.” (footnote 88)

SOURCE: Anderson, Jeffrey E. Voodoo: An African American Religion. LSU Press, 2024.

Indeed, the symbol might not be related to the lwa Ezili, but African in origin. For example, a similar heart-shaped symbol appears in the following photograph from 1900:

Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, Jean Blackwell Hutson Research and Reference Division, The New York Public Library. "Le roi d'Allada." The New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1900. https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47de-07a3-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

As suggested by the name “Ezili Freda Dahomey”, Erzulie’s originates in the West African vodún Azili:

“An enslaved woman from Agonli-Houegbo, east of Abomey, established a shrine for the spirit Azili in the Tové neighborhood. Azili is the namesake of Haiti’s Èzili spirit family. The Dahomian army sold the woman in Hueda during the reign of Agaja, where she ended up remaining...Given Èzili’s importance in Haiti’s Rada and Petwo Rites, the narrative of the spirit’s origin in Dahomey and implantation in Hueda after 1720 suggests that the Èzili spirits have a Dahomian or Mahi origin.” (p. 73)

“Some have claimed that Ezili is a Haitian spirit (Dayan 1995, 58). However, the spirit Azlì or Azili is still served today in the Fon language area of Benin. Azlì dwells in the waters of Lake Azili that surround the island of Agonve, located on the left bank of the Oueme River (Brand 2000b, 7). In addition to their common traits, major differences include leprous male manifestations of Azlì in Fon culture (Tossounon 2012).” (pp. 169-170)

SOURCE: Hebblethwaite, Benjamin. A transatlantic history of Haitian Vodou: rasin figuier, rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites. Univ. Press of Mississippi, 2021.

See also: Daniels, Kyra Malika. "An Assembly of Twenty-One Spirit Nations." Africa and Its Historical and Contemporary Diasporas (2023): 67.

Worship of St. Peter and the Virgin Mary were prominent features of New Orleans Voodoo.

In an interview from the Federal Writer’s Project, Charles Raphael (“Raoul Desfrene”, born ca. 1868) described how Marie Laveau’s altar for “good work” featured statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Peter:

Raoul Desfrene, a “French Negro” of 77, remembered Marie II well and attended some of her rites when he was a boy of about fourteen. What impressed him most was the jewelry he said she wore, which included, besides the ponderous gold earrings, diamond and ruby clasps in her scarlet-and-blue tignons, many rings set with diamonds and other precious stones, a huge horseshoe brooch of diamonds and a heavy gold bracelet on each arm. “She sure used to dress up,” he said.

He dismissed Marie I with, “There was an old lady living there, but nobody paid her no mind.” Raoul enjoyed describing the home of the Laveaus. According to him there was an altar for “good luck and good work” in the front room. It was covered with a white cloth and held a statue of the Virgin and one of Saint Peter. Raoul recalled one of another saint, a Saint Marron, who, he explained, “was a colored saint white people don’t know nothing about. Even the priests ain’t never heard of him ’cause he’s a real hoodoo saint.”

SOURCE: Tallant, Robert. Voodoo in New Orleans. United States, Pelican Publishing, 1984. Originally published in 1946.

If St. Peter was Papa Legba, it is plausible that the Virgin Mary was Erzulie, due to her prominence in Haitian Vodou as the divine feminine principle.

In Haitian Vodou, Milo Rigaud emphasized the importance of Damballah, Legba, and Erzulie, where the three form a holy trinity in the form of a triangle (“le triangle”):

Legba is figured as a divine masculine prototype, while Erzulie is figured a divine feminine prototype:

Dans le voudoo, Legba origine et prototype mâle du voudoo, est donc le soleil qui préside aux rites, tandis qu'Erzulie, origine et prototype femelle, en est la lune. Legba en est le Christ et Erzulie la Vierge. Les autres mystères viennent à leur suite, par ordre hiérarchique.

TRANSLATION:

In Vodou, Legba - male origin and prototype of Vodou - is the sun who presides over rites, while Erzulie - female origin and prototype - is the moon. Legba is the Christ and Erzulie the Virgin. The other mystères follow them, in hierarchical order.

SOURCE: Rigaud, Milo. La tradition voudoo et le voudoo haïtien: son temple, ses mystères, sa magie. FeniXX, 1953. https://original-ufdc.uflib.ufl.edu/AA00002240/00001

SEE ALSO: Rigaud, Milo. Secrets of voodoo. City Lights Books, 1985. French edition by Editions Niclaus 1953. Accessible here: https://archive.org/details/secretsofvoodoo00riga/mode/2up

This mirrors the importance of Saint Peter and the Virgin Mary in Louisiana Voudou.

Additionally, “Mama You” might be referring to one of the Ezili.

This is what is known about “Mama You”:

“Finally, some divinities survive only as names recorded in old documents, while others were probably no more than creations of imaginative authors. Mama You is one of the former, with her lone mention being a brief reference in a 1939 Federal Writers’ Project oral history. The only details supplied by the document are that she was “the mother of the child Jesus” and that she would sometimes answer from the ground when called by Marie Laveau.”

SOURCE: Anderson, Jeffrey E. Voodoo: An African American Religion. LSU Press, 2024.

Pictured: The protective mother, “Erzulie Dantor” by Andre Pierre

In Haitian Vodou, Ezili is sometimes referred to as “Manman” (as in, “Ezili bel Manman”, “Manman cherie” “Manman lavi” etc...) This is especially true for the protective mother Manman Ezili Danto. Words of praise for Ezili (especially, “Manman Danto”) sometimes refer to her as “Manman Ou”; there are many examples of this that can easily be found on the internet.

Just a hypothesis, but “Mama You” might be derived from “Manman Ou”, or part of a sentence that goes “Mama, You…” where “Mama” refers to (Mama) Ezili. In other words, “Mama You” might not be the name of a spirit but words of praise for Ezili - possibly, but not necessarily Ezili Danto.

In Lapriye Ginen, there is a lwa called “Manman Wou”, who is part of the Ezili famille. Another possibility is that "Mama You" is derived from this "Manman Wou".

SOURCE: Beauvoir, Max. Lapriyè Ginen. Haiti, Edisyon Près Nasyonal d'Ayiti, 2008.

Benjamin Hebblewaithe reproduced Beauvoir’s list of lwa here: http://ufdcimages.uflib.ufl.edu/AA/00/02/68/96/00001/Historical%20Linguistic%20Dimensions%20of%20Spirit%20Migration%20in%20Haitian%20Vodou.pdf

This is nothing definitive; I could have this wrong.

***

Previously, I proposed a theory that the Saint-Domingans may have brought a version of Erzulie who was both Erzulie Freda and Erzulie Dantor, like so:

“While I previously argued that this must be Erzulie Freda Dahomey, I have since realized that my logic was not entirely consistent. In Haitian Vodou, there exists a massive pantheon, where the lwa can be categorized by famille . “Erzulie” is actually a famille of lwa , where Erzulie Dantor is often described as the Petwo counterpart to Erzulie Freda Dahomey. (others categorize Erzulie Dantor as Rada and Erzulie Freda Dahomey as Danwonmen ) In the historical record of New Orleans, there is no evidence of an organization of Voudou spirits by famille . Petwo counterparts to Rada lwa - such as Damballah la Flambeau, Erzulie Dantor, and Maitre Carrefour - are absent.

Papa Lébat (Louisiana Voudou) might capture an earlier version of Papa Legba (Haitian Vodou), where he is both Atibon Legba and Maitre Carrefour. If Erzulie really was incorporated into Louisiana Voudou, it is possible she was both Erzulie Freda Dahomey and Erzulie Dantor.”

Upon reflection, I realize this theory doesn’t actually make sense.

The emergence of Erzulie Dantor can be dated to Bwa Kayiman. The Saint-Domingans fled to New Orleans years after this event. It is very unlikely that Erzulie Dantor would have merged with Erzulie Freda during this time window.

Because the historical record is so sparse, there is a lot of uncertainty here. But it seems more sensible that the Saint-Domingans would have brought something resembling Azili and possibly Erzulie Freda Dahomey, if they brought a version of Erzulie with them at all. In other words, my previous speculation that this version of Erzulie would be both Erzulie Freda and Erzulie Dantor is probably wrong.

#commentary #lady love (hazbin hotel)#lady rose (hazbin hotel)

2 notes · View notes