#Spooky Typewriter

[elirainy]

TV show and movie moodboard series

~ part 1 ~

Wednesday

[me-myself-and-my-fos]

don’t @ me if I add the entire Addams family to my familial f/o list

[ace-with--a-mace]

HE GOT THE PART

[hostiae]

easier said than done when when he's been startled by a stranger. he's more prone to believe him only because he imagines a threatening vampire would have already made it known that he had ill-intent. why play games in the alley? thinking that, he considers might also be naive. benji takes extra caution, arms folding defensively.

❝ if you say so, ❞ he replies, when he says he's not there to start a fight. benji leaves the dumpster behind, a few careful steps taken in riccardo's direction.

❝ a friend? ❞ it's possible he knows those he's already met before, that their circle of vampires overlaps, but as he tries to consider it, he finds himself with more questions than answers. ❝ does my new friend have a name? i'm benji. ❞ even though he's receptive to him, he's still on high alert. to take him at his word would have been foolish on his part, but given that benji doesn't want to try to fight the other vampire, he's willing to hear him out. besides, his curiosity would never let him rest if he simply fought first and asked questions later.

he's just a child.

one of them, of course, and that makes him different than any actual child, but— still young. too young to have been turned; not just by the edicts of the covens, but by any measure. and young in the blood, too, if riccardo isn't much mistaken — no matter whose blood it might be.

❝ you can relax, ❞ he says aloud, easily, pitching at an angle and leaning his shoulder against the alley wall. ❝ i'm not here to start a fight. ❞

that doesn't, of course, mean that one won't get started anyway. but riccardo hopes he'll at least get heard out first. ❝ i'm a— friend, you could say. ❞

[brokenbard]

creepy vintage pixels? 4 exampl ;

ugly scary antique dolls, old timey tvs, or VERYYY old computers, typewriters, just anything that looks like it would be in a haunted house...m.. maybe bloody

okay not the creepiest apologies i rushed these becauee im sick but !!

ill probably make some better ones when im not sick but for now take em for all your spooky old pixel needs ^__^

[grimmweepers]

i’m so late to this game and i wasn’t tagged at all but i’m curious so here it is

[anonymousewrites]

A Good Day for Death Valentine's Day Special 2024

Wednesday Addams x Reader

            Ordinarily, Wednesday wasn’t a fan of Valentine’s Day. It was too sappy for her, and romance wasn’t her thing. That being said, everyone else being out on dates or with friends meant that Nevermore was quiet, and if there was one thing Wednesday liked, it was solitude.

            She could come out of her dorm with her typewriter to work on her novel without being bothered. She finished her work for the day, packed away her typewriter, and walked towards the library to pick out a book to read.

            Wednesday paused as she passed a hallway full of empty classrooms. Sounds echoed out from within, music and singing with a mysterious tune. Wednesday wasn’t someone to not investigate, so she walked down the corridor and arrived at a classroom. She looked in and saw the projector turned on and playing an animated movie. The character on screen sang dramatically, the sound reverberating through the silent school.

“Our son will be married, According to plan.”

            Wednesday glanced between the unique animation and looked at the desks at the front of the room. She was a bit surprised to see (Y/N) alone. They were leaning on their hands while watching the movie.

            “(Y/N)?” said Wednesday.

            (Y/N) started and turned. They smiled when they noticed who it was. “Oh, hi, Wednesday!” They reached over and paused the movie. “How are you?”

            “I thought everyone had gone out for the holiday,” said Wednesday.

            (Y/N) shrugged. “All of my friends had dates.”

            “I do not,” said Wednesday.

            “We’re friends?” said (Y/N) teasingly.

            “By the typical definition, I suppose,” said Wednesday, but she knew that they were. And, of course, she had a crush on (Y/N), but that was neither here nor there (another lie).

            (Y/N) grinned. “Whatever you say!” They tilted their head. “What are you up to today while everyone else is out?”

            “I worked on my novel,” said Wednesday, walking farther down in the room to the row of desks (Y/N) sat out.

            “That’s cool. I just slept in, wrote a few melancholy poems about love—very ‘tragic poet’ of me, I know—and came in here to watch a movie,” said (Y/N). “Do you want to join me? If you’re not going to do anything.”

            “I had planned to read,” said Wednesday.

            “Oh, well, then, have fun,” said (Y/N), a little (lot) disappointed that Wednesday didn’t want to hang out. They knew their crush wasn’t exactly a people-person in any sense of the word, but they had hoped maybe she’d want to spend time with them since they were both alone and friends.

            “…How long is this movie?” said Wednesday.

            (Y/N) brightened. “A little over an hour.”

            Wednesday pretended to consider, but she already knew she was going to stay. (Y/N)’s companionship was nice, and a nice moment alone with her crush would be…pleasant since usually Wednesday was also around other people.

            “I will still have time to read,” decided Wednesday. “I’ll stay.” She sat down at the desk next to (Y/N). “What are we watching?”

            “Corpse Bride,” said (Y/N). “It’s a fun Tim Burton musical. It’s on the spooky side. My mom and I watched it a lot growing up.”

            “Is it a love story?” asked Wednesday.

            “Yeah, but it’s got ghosts and murder and mystery, so you’ll enjoy it, too,” said (Y/N).

            “You chose something you thought I would enjoy?” said Wednesday, not missing anything.

            (Y/N)’s cheeks warmed, and they chuckled nervously. “Well, you know, I knew you’d be in Nevermore, so I thought I’d choose something you’d enjoy in case you came in.”

            Wednesday felt the now-familiar—but still disturbing—warmth enter her chest at (Y/N)’s consideration. “That’s…unusual.”

            “To think of my friend?” (Y/N) laughed. “You need to get more friends, Wednesday.”

            “I don’t have an affinity for people,” said Wednesday.

            “Neither do I,” said (Y/N), shrugging. “I guess we make sense together, then. Two people not great with others but okay with each other.”

            Wednesday allowed herself a smile. “I suppose so.” She steeled her features and faced the screen. “Now, how much have I missed?”

            “Oh, not much! The movie just started. Basically, what you need to know is…” (Y/N) began to ramble.

            Wednesday had to fight not to stare at them as they spoke so passionately and happily. It was pleasant to watch them be so happy and bright. Wednesday knew they were right: she and (Y/N) worked well together. They understood each other well, and Wednesday liked that (Y/N) was her friend. And it was nice to know they felt the same way.

            It was amusing that neither knew they felt the same in another way.

Taglist:

@strawberriesareprettycool

@im-making-an-effort

@champagnewitnocham

@simpcreator

@ksunoosworld

@dot-and-co

@genderfluid-anime-goth

@itsyapeepkiri

@daza1s-w1fe

@tired-writing-reader

@mary-jinx

@ognenniyvolk

@under-kitty

@colezb

@simp4natasha

@emily-roberts

@left-and-right-up-and-down

@star583

@rainbow-love4ever

@nemtodd-barnes1923

@likefirenrain

@ziro-the-null-god

@youralphawolf72

@mjoiner1136

@alexkolax

[germhammy]

Not so secret surprise party

Enid: let’s go Wednesday. It’s time for your party

Wednesday: I hate parties, Enid

Enid: I know. That’s why it’s not a surprise this time. But we gotta celebrate our favorite spooky girl who is born during spooky month on bad luck day when it’s actually on bad luck day, right?

Wednesday and Enid arrive in the Ophelia Hall common room. All their friends are there.

DREADFUL BIRTHDAY!! They all scream. Wednesday smirks. Everyone is dressed in black. All the decorations are black. Bianca walks up with a black cake with blood red letters that says Wednesday. There is a mound in the middle covered in Oreo crumble to look like dirt and a tombstone that reads “here lies Wednesday who died upon realizing she actually has friends who care” Ajax handed her a knife to cut the cake when Bianca put it on the table. It was a deep red velvet cake.

Presents. Enid was super excited

Eugene gave Wednesday a jar of his honey with a personalized fancy label. Ajax said the knife used to cut the cake was hers to keep. Bianca gave her a new fencing foil. Yoko a rather morbid vampire novel. Divina and Kent a statue of two familiar looking mermaids being chased by a hand and shoal of hungry piranha. Enid gave her a ream of paper and ribbon for her typewriter. Wednesday was touched by the gifts and actually thanked them all as they ate their cake

Xavier: this is for you.

Wednesday glared. She unveiled the art piece. It was a painting of her in the quad playing the cello as she was during her promposal. Her dress seemed to have been painted to look a bit more sexy and revealing than she would have liked.

Xavier waved his hand. It started to move playing a song she had never played

Wednesday: Johannes Brahms Cello Sonata No. 1 in E Minor, Op. 38

Xavier perked up: oh! You know it! It’s one of my of my faves. My dream is that you would play it for me one day.

Wednesday: never in your wildest nightmares would I ever play such a thing. Perhaps Nimrod by Elgar- Wednesday picked up what remained of the cake and smashed it in Xavier’s face

Enid: Wednesday? Would you play “Ready to Love” for me again?

Wednesday: of course. I learned the whole song. I only played a snippet in the quad. - Wednesday kissed Enid on the cheek- thank you for the party. Sorry about the cake

[simpingforstardew]

muse

pairing: sdv elliot x reader

synopsis: elliot is struggling with severe writers block; if only he had a muse...

note: a while ago i talked about having a derivative idea for an elliot x reader fic; here is that fic !! the premise is completely unoriginal, but i'll leave the references at the end of the fic to avoid spoilers hehe

warnings: i don't even know for this one gang, wholesome w/ an ending that could be read as spooky? let's call it a doomed romance !! tw/ relationships that are doomed by the narrative !!

word count: 1.5k

Adronitis

A heart so damaged; tender; sore—

You ever-blooming sycamore,

Through hunger pangs; my deliriousness,

I mourn my mortal catoptric tristesse.

With starving dreams, your warmth I crave—

I worship you, I must embrave,

Indulge me, lay your fear ahind.

Our sanctuary; your piece of mind.

My amorous famine demands more […more what?],

So I feast on your smile […] petrichor.

i am just writing this right niw so it

looks lije i am being pro ductive oh Yoba

andnow leahs comin g over this

is alll shit im jist going to star t overrr

“How’s the writing going, El’?” Leah peers down at Elliot with a smile, wiping the sweat from her brow. “We’ve been at it for a while without a break, you know?”

“Oh, Leah! It’s going splendidly, and yes, it seems we have…” Elliot coughs, avoiding eye contact while tearing the paper from his typewriter. “Why don’t we call it for today then?”

“Without showing me what you’ve done? C’mon,” she whines, “What do you have?”

Elliot and Leah had decided, sometime early last Spring, to meet in Cindersnap forest every Wednesday to work on their current projects. ‘Parallel play for artists,’ Penny once called it when walking Jas back to Marnie’s ranch. For Leah, this weekly rendezvous has (so far) allowed her to complete 2 clay sculptures, 3 wood sculptures, 23 drawings, and 8 paintings; for Elliot, the last few months has allowed him to create…

“Nothing,” Elliot sighs, packing his typewriter’s case with a frown. “I have, somehow, written nothing! I mean, I wanted to craft a Petrarchan sonnet, inspired by Poe’s romantic, yet macabre sensibilities. I ended up with trash I couldn’t even make hendecasyllabic. It’s embarrassingly Shakespearian and—”

“Whoa, whoa, buddy, that’s okay. That’s fine. I’m not sure what any of that means, but…” Leah scrunches her freckled nose, hoping to find the right words to calm Elliot down, “It seems like you’re expecting perfection from a first draft. Maybe we should call it for today, and you could revisit your poem tomorrow?”

“Yes, you are right,” the authors scowl softens; after a moment of meditation—feeling the summer breeze tangle in his hair—he looks towards Leah with a smile. “I will see you next week, Miss Faraday.”

Elliot didn’t return to his typewriter until later that week, deciding instead to bask in the sun’s warmth on the beach. The author sits on the pier with a contented sigh, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore providing a soothing backdrop to his afternoon reverie.

Even still, despite the Elysium that he has found himself in, Elliot cannot shake his frustrations; his linguistic discouragement plagued his every thought.

“Ahoy there, my boy! Perfect weather for fishing don’t ya reckon?” Willy smiles, closing the front door to the Fish Shop behind him. Elliot

“Ah, hello Mr. Tucker,” Elliot waves as the fisherman sits beside him, attaching a small blue tackle onto an impressively shiny rod, “I suppose it is, although I fear I don’t have my fishing gear with me today.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me that? No need to be so formal, son,” Willy chuckles, casting a line into the vast depths of the saltwater, “Say, aren’t ya usually off in town around this time? Feel like I never see you this early on a Wednesday.”

Elliot still had to adjust to the predictive routine of a small town, and the horrifying consequences of straying from said routine: becoming the topic of mid-afternoon gossip.

“Yes, well, I um—,” Elliot sighs, looking into the deep blue below as if the ocean concealed the antidote to writers block, “I have been, writing with Leah every Wednesday and… actually can I ask for some advice?”

“O’ Course ya can, my boy.” Willy nods.

“I have been… struggling lately,” The taller man slumps as he runs a hand through his auburn hair, his voice heavy with uncertainty, “I feel as if I have lost my spark, my… capacité artistique. I cannot, for the life of me, write anything of quality! I just… I feel broken, Mr. William.”

Willy takes a moment to think, slowly breathing in the salty air, “Hmm, I see your problem, lad— but it’s important to know yer not broken. Aye, nothin’ about ya is broken.”

A fish tugs at Willy’s fishing line: desperately; hopelessly.

“It’s like if yer pal Willy couldn’t fish anymore… I’d sooner swallow a sea urchin than lose my ability to do what I love,” Willy pulls the rod towards him, putting up a fight with whatever poor creature is on the other end of the line, “but sometimes it’s tricky doing what ya love 24/7, son! You got to remind yerself to take breaks, and…”

The creature is hurled out of the ocean, flapping helplessly as the fisherman releases it from his tackle. Willy holds the freshly-caught octopus up to Elliot.

“Remind yerself why ya love it!” Willy chuckles, before mumbling to himself about throwing his newest catch in a tank lest he ‘gets inked’.

As Elliot sits in contemplative silence, the ocean offering solace: the rushing winds, the distant cry of seagulls, even the smell of salty air. Over the last year and a half, he has grown to love it all.

As he rises to his feet, Elliot considers his friends’ advice. He certainly didn’t want to remain in this slump forever; so he needs to find a reminder of why he loves writing; a source of reinvigorating inspiration.

He needs to find a muse.

A muse in a village with a population of 27.

‘Well,’ Elliot thinks, slamming his cabin’s door shut behind him as he slides onto his desk chair. He sets up his Olympia SM 9 for the second time today. ‘If I can’t find my muse in life, I will simply create my muse in art.’

For a moment, the black page loaded into the typewriter stares back at Elliot, mockingly. Then, as suddenly as the crash of thunder that bellows from above, the author began to write.

Elliot bursts into the Fish Shop, his manuscript clutched tightly in hand, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Willy, my friend, you’re incredible!” he cheered, his excitement palpable. “I truly could not have done this without your support.”

Willy grins, offering a sincere thumbs-up. “Glad to hear it, lad! So what was your reminder, eh? What got you back on track?”

Elliot coughs, a flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. “Well, you see… I made it up.”

Willy arches an eyebrow, bemused,“Ya made up yer reminder for why you love writing? Now, son…”

“No, no,” Elliot hastens to explain, “My love for writing is genuine. But my muse, my darling muse, is not.”

“I’m not following, my boy.”

“I have spent all night crafting the narrative of a completely fabricated person, it’s all here,” Elliot elaborates, “They’re genuinely kind, talented and hard-working, despite never being appreciated. They have the most charming mole on their neck, and they’re delightfully witty! After their grandfather passed away, they—”

“Son,” Willy interrupted gently, his tone tinged with amusement, “Yer a peculiar one, ya know that? How is this going to help with yer writing?”

“It does sound ridiculous, but dedicating my sonnets to this idealised character… thinking of them as I work on my novel… It has been phenomenally motivating!” Elliot laughs, re-reading through the pages before stopping in his tracks, “Oh, I do apologise old friend, I barged into your shop like a man possessed.”

It had been months since Elliot had felt such a fervent desire to write; his unbridled excitement was contagious; a smirk spreads across Willy’s face, crinkling the corners of his dark green eyes.

“If it were anyone else instead of you, I’d be furious, lad,” Willy chuckles, reaching into his mini fridge, “‘Ere, I whipped up too many crab cakes last night, and I know they’re yer favourite— consider it a gift.”

As Elliot arrives back at his cabin, writing snacks in tow, the muffled playing of his piano greets him. He chuckles softly, before preparing to shoo Harvey out of his home so he could resume his day of writing.

“Sincerest apologies, I—,”

“Oh! Honey, you’re back so soon.” Turning away from the piano, your eyes catch Elliot’s with a familiar warmth. You admire the way your boyfriend’s hair always forms delicate waves when exposed to the sea spray.

The author was struck speechless, his heart pounding as he stared at you with more focus than you have ever been subject to.

It couldn’t be real. And yet there you are. You. The muse Elliot had crafted— who's entire life was written mere hours prior on the pages that were now strewn about the floor— was standing before him in flesh and blood.

Every flawless detail exactly as he had imagined.

“Elliot, darling, are you okay?” Your smile becomes wry; nervous as to why your lover was acting so peculiar, his pale skin was now a ghastly white. “Would you like me to pour some wine? We can—”

Before your suggestion was made, Elliot was gone; the door slamming shut behind him.

note #2: okay if you didn't catch it, my inspiration was the 1960 episode of the Twilight Zone: 'A World of His Own', and (more relevantly) the 2012 psychological horror romcom Ruby Sparks !! if you check out either that episode or movie, pleasepleaseplease lmk what you think <33

[tfp-is-my-lifeblood-lol]

How would the bots and cons handwriting be like? (Sorry for my bad English lol)

Ahhh! I love this idea! Had WAY too much fun with this.

Bots and Cons Handwriting

Optimus:

-Can write insanely neatly, and in literally ANY font

-Everything he writes looks like it came straight from Google Docs

-He can perfectly recreate Comic Sans, much to the children's amusement

-Handwriting KING

-He's too powerful

Arcee:

-Her handwriting is gorgeous

-She writes very neatly, definitely in cursive

-Everything she writes looks like a diary from the Victorian era

-Majestic✨✨✨✨

Ratchet:

-Cursive, but MESSY cursive

-Like, REALLY messy cursive. What is he even writing? Who knows? It's a mystery.

-You know, cuz, like, that's how a pharmacist's prescriptions look, and he's a medic. Lol

-Ratchet has messy pharmacist handwriting

Bumblebee:

-His handwriting is so cute���

-Basically Comic Sans

-Not PERFECT Comic Sans like Optimus, but just bubbly and adorable

-Having legible handwriting is something he practices a lot, since his voice box is broken. Writing is a nice way to express himself if need be.

-He has kindergarten teacher handwriting

-My dyslexia would be so happy

Smokescreen:

-Neat enough handwriting, but HE WRITES SO BIG

-All caps, all the time

-He goes through too many notebooks, because he saves NO space

-Poor guy. He just has a big personality

Bulkhead:

-Unreadable

-His hands are just way too big

-Very messy. Only Wheeljack can read it because he and Bulkhead share the same braincells

-Bulkhead and Ratchet get in arguments, because Ratchet's reads Bulk's handwriting, and is like: "Bulkhead, your attempts at penmanship are downright INCOMPREHENSIBLE."

And Bulkhead's like: "You say that like any of us can read yours!"

And Arcee's like: "I second that."

And Bumblebee buzzes in agreement.

Ratchet just rolls his eyes, like "ugh." Because he can't argue. HIS handwriting is gibberish, too.

Ultra Magnus:

-Opposite of Smokescreen...Ultra Magnus's handwriting is TINY!

-Seriously, where is it? You need a microscope.

-Only the humans can read it, because it's so small. And even THEY have to squint

-It's also PERFECT. His handwriting is very neat

and blocky, like a typewriter

-If only we could actually see it

Wheeljack:

-He's like, a graphic design CHAMPION

-He learned handwriting from Miko, so he loves big bubble letters. He decorates them with cool patterns, like flames, and lightning bolts

-Very stylish

Megatron:

-What I can only describe as "spooky cursive"

-Very formal, and kinda gothic

-He'd use some kind of calligraphy pen with very dark, splattery ink, or, like, whatever the Cybertronian version of a quill is.

-He's an elegant guy...well, sort of, except most of what he writes consists of:

"My dearest Starscream,

It is with great regret (note my sarcasm, Starscream.) It is with great PLEASURE that I must inform you...

I have caught you invading my stash of dark energon, once again.

I will be grinding you into scrap metal momentarily.

Yours truly,

Lord Megatron."

Starscream:

-Starscream has the ABILITY to write neatly, and in cursive

-But he writes very scribbly, because he's angry

-If "ranting" was a font, it's the font he writes in

-Also, he probably keeps a rage journal, where he trash talks everyone he knows

-Somebody help him🥲

Soundwave:

-Handwriting? What's that?

-He probably uses his internal computer to make documents, and prints them

-And when he prints things, they probably slide out of his neck. Terrifying. So he prints things to freak Starscream out

-It's beautiful

-If Soundwave was FORCED to handwrite, he'd do it in computer code, or morse code, or something weird like that. Everyone would be baffled trying to understand it.

Airachnid:

-Very splattery

-But that's what happens when you use energon and human blood as ink.

Shockwave:

-Writes in calculator font

-Like, the font a calculator has

-He says it's "the most logical font"

-Starscream constantly judges him for it

Breakdown:

-Definitely not neat, but not Bulkhead levels of messy, either

-He doesn't have the best handwriting, but he can make some pretty good doodles

-If, for some reason, Megatron assigned Breakdown and Knockout a task involving handwriting, Breakdown and Knockout would both doodle instead of being productive

Knockout:

-Ooo! So majestic!

-It's very bold

-His handwriting is suave and announcer-y, just like him

-It'd also be curved slightly to the right, like italics

-Almost like something you'd see in a commercial, or a movie trailer, or a billboard

-Like a NASCAR advertisement (y'know, because race car)

[bigmilkagenda]

Of the many, many plates of pancakes* that were offered to the listener in magp 1-07, this one may be my favourite

[ID: A screenshot of an unofficial transcript to The Magnus Protocol. CELIA is saying "Yeah. I mean, it's an old system, but it could have been worse. It's not like we're wrestling with tape recorders and manila folders." /end ID]

When we meet TMA-Celia for the second time, she's lost her name. She was Lynne Hammond, and now she's not. She doesn't seem to remember Martin, either, but it's not clear how much of herself and her life from before the change she does remember. She's freaked out by the tape recorders that start showing up, and there's no indication that she associates them with the Institute specifically.

If Celia Ripley is, as we are clearly intended to believe or consider, the same Celia as in TMA, why is she making knowing comments about manila folders and tape recorders? Tape recorders in particular are hardly standard equipment at what seems to be mostly a text data-entry and cataloguing job. She could have said typewriters, or carbon paper. Fax machines, if we're dunking on Freddy specifically.

She says "tape recorders and manila folders." Celia Ripley is referencing The Magnus Institute, particularly the outdated technologies in use in the Archives.

Maybe she learned more from Melanie about what the recorders were and did at the Institute, sometime after MAG 190. Maybe she has those specific memories of giving her statement in MAG 100, and little else. Maybe Martin grew an apocalypse beard and she remembers everything, but just didn't recognise him out of context and in a tunnel and during A Pretty Weird Time Overall.

Maybe she stuck around with Melanie-Georgie-Basira for a while after things returned, and that's how she learned about the particular significance of tape recorders.

Maybe she found some tapes and listened to a couple hundred of them.

Or maybe she's simply an AU Celia, with a knack for oddly specific and kind of clunky comparisons, drawn into this through the powers of metafiction and string theory.

Or maybe someone filled her with spiders and sent her to finish the job of spreading Fear to this particular world.

And the reason this particular plate of textual pancakes** (short stack, butter and nightmare syrup) is one of my favourites from "Give and Take" is because I genuinely have no idea! None of these are theories because there isn't enough evidence to point me in any particular direction. It's a mystery!, Jon voice, etcetera.

If you cornered me and paid me to have an opinion about it I could say which options I thought were more likely, I guess. But the odds are high that I'd be wrong, and I think the boat for me getting paid to interpret texts probably sailed fifteen years ago, besides. I'm in this for the love of the game.***

November is the true spooky season in the northern hemisphere.**** Yeah, October ends with Halloween, but you know what month starts with Halloween? Mmhmm. By November of 2019 TMA had been on my list for a few years, and someone I was getting to know and really liked recommended it to me specifically in the days after 159 aired. The conditions were correct for me to get into something new, is what I'm saying. I still remember listening to "Anglerfish" for the first time, walking home from my office job in the blustery November dark. I got home starry-eyed and red-cheeked and thrilled by the story I'd just heard.

It took a couple of months for me to catch up, and though I loved having so much to listen to there were times when I wished I'd started earlier, to have the experience of seeing things unfold.

And now we're back at a beginning, and get to experience the horrible joys of finding out.

[ID: A screenshot of an unofficial transcript to The Magnus Protocol. LENA is saying "Of a sort. I hope you're as ready for it as you think you are. Consider yourself "in." /end ID]

*Sabrina pancake meme

** the best kind, especially if it's a contest between textual and fluffy pancakes. Keep those spongy bastards away from me, I'll take the kind with a typeface instead

***Being a huge nerd

**** For more of my opinions on November, see https://www.tumblr.com/almostmolly/188799234276

[anthrophobixx]

can u share with us why/how you chose the typings for the characters like why karen fairy, why oliver ghost and so on

of course !!

Karen got the fairy type because fairy types are mostly known for being quiet, calm, collected, but also very hard hitting, which I feel like resembles Karen quite well

Oliver got ghost because of the spooky mansion !! At the end of his good route he talks about how the cinema was indeed haunted by ghosts, but he managed to befriend some of them. This was actually suggested by a different tumblr ask, since we originally wanted to give Oliver the electric type :]

Randy got poison, since poison types usually live in conditions that are deemed "poor" by humans, but they're infact optimal for them. That's kinda how they found Randy actually. Bro is also probably a walking hazard so it only makes sense. Not to mention the kind of poison type pokemon that exist that just...scream Randy Jade (eg garbodor, who's actually his strongest guy)

Gabby got electric since she works at a phone shop and her job is to fix phones, printers, typewriters, all that good stuff. Since she fixes items that require electricity we thought electric type was the most fitting. Even if electricity isn't always needed when repairing things, pokemon such as magnemite, magneton and rotom can be useful regardless as shown in the games

Jerry got normal since he is probably the most casual citizen in dialtown. He's just livin his life, got nothing too special going on, he's just a regular guy

Norm got fighting and I feel like it's kinda self explanatory why. Fighting types are known for being angry and aggressive, but also reasonable and kind once they get used to their trainers. Some fighting type pokemon are also known for wanting justice and they fight for whatever they feel is right (eg lucario). Sounds kinda like Norm imo

Mingus got dark because she's a corrupt mayor, but also because the dark type has the most cats. Majority of dark type pokemon are sassy and they all give off this weird mingus energy I can't put into words.

Callum got steel because he works with metal. His arms, legs and his head are made out of metal. There's pokemon that shed pieces of metal when they evolve (aron) so he doesn't only use his pokemon in battle, but also in his workshop, kinda like Gabby. I can't explain it any better sobw

Bunny got ice since he's "cold as ice" iykwim. Tried to give him as many passive aggressive pokemon as possible (and this includes alolan ninetales somehow)

Gingi doesn't have a specific type since it probably ate the gym leader guide book it got from the higher ups. It also doesn't keep it's pokemon in pokeballs since 1. no money 2. the concept of big ass creechurs being trapped in tiny balls terrify it and it doesn't want its pokemon to be "put in ball prison". Gingi also resembles the player in this au thing

Abel got fire since fire does resemble anger, but also power. Abel owns a whole ass funfair and is also part of the minglings !! Bro got plenty of power !! He is also angry at Gingi for wasting his time, bothering his employees and pissing on one of his attractions I totally didn't forget what it was but I remember it happening !! We tried giving him all the passive aggressive fire type pokemon we could find in the dex (he's also matching w his boywife bc love wins)

Mr. Dickens got psychic since psychic types are known for being the wise, knowledgable pokemon. Like fairy types, they're also calm, quiet and collected, but they got a lil touch of wisdom in there. They also represent the power of the intellect, which is pretty mr. dickenscore if I say so myself.

Theoroar got the dragon type, since theo doesn't actually give a damn about building a bond or relating to his pokemon. He wants the rarest, most powerful pokemon under his grasp and dragon types just so happen to fit in both of those categories. His logic is that his pokemon work for him and whatever gets him to the top he will use it

Hobo got all the gods. Dialga, the god of time, Palkia, the goddess of space, Xerneas, the goddess of life, Yvetal the god of death and Arceus the creator of it all and the being above everything. He probably has Groudon and Kyogre in his pc, since they're the god of land and the sea respectively. He got herdier for good measure, it's kinda like Red's pikachu in the johto games.

Tango and Billy are both rocket executives so they don't have a specific type they specialize in, but Billy has a more offensive team no pun intended, while Tango has a more defensive one

Shooty and Stabby well....they obv don't have a type they specialize in since they're pretty much just rocket grunts. Their goal is to become executives one day

[gvfmarge]

Lighthouse of my Soul - Chapter One

Hi everyone!

This is my very first multipart fic! I hope you enjoy it! I’m feeling a little underwhelmed with how this first chapter turned out. I want it to be more, so hopefully you’ll stick around! I’m hoping to grow my writing a with this fic and maybe get some feelings out while doing it. This is going to be a bit of a slow burner, so be gentle with me, I’m a baby!

(Ghost)Jake x Reader

Warnings: none? Some cussing, some slightly spooky stuff but not too much for now.

I’ve also never had a tag list, so if you’re interested in the next parts just let me know and I’ll tag you! Xoxoxoxo

Were you running away? From what? It didn’t matter. You felt like you had finally reached your destination. You felt the ocean was your new beginning. The Outer Banks had always been your comfort place, growing up vacationing here was always your favorite. It felt like home every time you visited, so it was a no brainer when you had been offered a temporary position at the local newspaper in Hatteras. You felt that you were going to finally make something of yourself. All the hard work you had put into studying and writing was going to pay off. 

You had luckily stumbled upon a tiny cottage to rent. The owner explaining it had been built in 1874 and had weathered many storms and tribulations. It had originally been part of the life-saving station before they had built a newer building and eventually became the Coast Guard. The house had endured damage along the years from storms and each time had been repaired. When you stepped foot inside, you could feel the history. The floorboards squeaked with each step inside, taking a deep breath it smelled like sea salt and fresh air. Everything in the house was basically original. The dark hardwood floors showed signs of wear, with little scratches here and there and you could see the discoloration throughout the house where many footsteps had worn down the stain. The walls were fully covered in shiplap and had been sanded down and painted a beautiful light blue color. The kitchen was small, with only 3 overhead cabinets, a small older fridge and a stove. The living room was connected to the kitchen, you could barely see where the owners had taken out the wall to try and have somewhat of an open concept. Slowly inspecting each room, you came to realize just how small it was compared to the pictures you had viewed online. You realized you might not even have enough space for a couch and a table, but you would figure logistics out later. Walking up the steep rickety stairs you came upon a short hallway, at the end was a window stretching from the ceiling to the floor with an amazing view of the beach and ocean outside of the house, from the second floor it seemed you could see forever over the horizon. There are two bedrooms split by the hallway. Looking inside the room to your left, you noticed a small desk sitting underneath a window looking out to the ocean. On it, sat an empty white vase and a typewriter. It piqued your curiosity, the home came unfurnished and you were not made aware of anything left behind for you to use. 

Walking over to it, you sat down in the tiny wooden chair and ran your fingers over the vintage keys. As soon as your fingertips met with the cold metal, you felt electricity flow through your hand, up your arm and down your spine. Goosebumps rose over your skin and you quickly pulled your hand away. The shock and stress of moving must be getting to you, you thought. You gazed out the window taking in the ocean waves. You were finally alone, it felt peaceful but somehow, you felt a longing in the house. There was something that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. 

You felt a presence with you and quickly turned around to the entrance of the room. You could have sworn you felt eyes on you but there wasn’t a soul there. You slowly turned your body around again to face the window and your mind wondered back to the memories you had that led you here. Suddenly, a faint smell of tobacco burning filled the room. The sweet but heavy aroma seemed to swirl around your body. It was intoxicating but slightly overwhelming. You felt frozen for just a moment, not quite understanding what was happening. With another deep breath you slowly stood up and scanned the room for any sign of someone else. As quickly as the tobacco smell came, it was gone. You shrugged the smell off to the history of the cottage and made your way back downstairs to begin unpacking and making yourself finally feel at home. 

The sun had slowly crept through your first floor windows and shown brightly against the kitchen cabinets. You looked at the clock you had just hung on the wall to see that it was 6pm. You had worked for hours trying to unpack all of the boxes the moving company had just piled into your living area. Thankfully, the moving company had taken your mattress upstairs for you so you didn’t have to figure out how to lug it up the tight cornered stairs by yourself. Deciding it was best to take the empty bedroom, you asked them to place it under the window that overlooked the ocean. The bedrooms were narrow, with only about two feet of space between both sides of the mattress and the walls. At the other end of the room was a built in closet that was actually a nice size considering how small the whole house was. The door opened up beside the closet, so there was really no other option for your bed. You were not a fan for your bed to be facing the door or the closet, but it would have to work. 

 Boxes on top of boxes had somehow dwindled down to a select few that you didn’t know what to do with. As you carefully climbed the steep stairs with box in tow, you felt just how tired your legs really were. You had climbed these stairs at least a thousand times today just trying to get everything in your desired spot. You had been avoiding the typewriter room. It just felt odd to you and you really had no use for it now, so deciding to use it as storage for now, you slowly pushed the heavy wooden door open with the cardboard box and peaked inside. No one, just the lonely typewriter. There was such a sadness in the room and you didn’t know how. There was no explanation but you understood with old houses came a lengthy wrap sheet of history inside the walls. You finished bringing the random boxes into the room to go through later. Slowly exiting the room, you once again felt goosebumps raise across your skin. You quickly slammed the bedroom door shut and almost ran down the stairs. 

“You’re just imagining things, it’s an old house. You’ve watched too many scary movies.” Scoffing to yourself. You turned to the front door which was from top to bottom glass and stared out to the ocean. You felt such a connection. There was just something special about the ocean. It always made you feel whole, even as a child when you didn’t know you were missing something, you knew it was to be in awe of. 

You made a mental note to buy curtains to place over the front and back doors to keep your privacy. The two doors mirrored each other in the house, you could walk a straight line from the front door to the back door and see right through both doors of glass. 

That night you sat in the floor of your living room, using an empty cardboard box as your coffee table to eat the pizza you had ordered in off of. Thankfully you did have a TV, so there would be a little bit of entertainment to keep you occupied before you started your new position on Monday.  

After watching what seemed like hours of trash TV, you decided to tuck yourself in for the first night in your new home. Brushing your teeth and doing your skincare in the only bathroom downstairs, you stared at yourself in the mirror. “Am I actually doing this? Is this actually real?” Your mind was spinning miles a minute and you hoped you would be able to turn it off enough to get a little rest. The first night in new homes never seems to go smoothly. You either can’t sleep because it’s too quiet or the ceiling fan is too loud, or the room is too hot or too cold. You were nervous for what you would find when you made your way upstairs in the darkness. You huffed when you realized the owners hadn’t thought of putting a light in the stairway when they remodeled the house, so you had to use your senses to make sure you didn’t fall tumbling down to the bottom. 

At the top of the stairs, you sped walked to get inside your bedroom and practically slammed your bedroom door shut. “What are you so afraid of.” You laughed at yourself. This would be a long summer if you couldn’t get it together. Crawling into bed, really just your mattress on the floor, you turned the switch of the lamp off and faced the window that was on the left side of the bed. You could only see the stars and the moon through the window panes, you stared for what seemed like minutes until your entire bedroom was suddenly lit up with a bright white light. You shot up in bed and stared. “What the hell” is all you could say. Until a few seconds later, your bedroom was lit up like the Fourth of July again. “There’s no fucking way, are you serious.” You hadn’t realized on the drive here or even unpacking your things, that Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was literally in your back yard. The lighthouse was close enough to shine its light through your bedroom window and make you feel like you just got busted for drugs by the police. The lighthouse’s light rotation takes about 7 seconds, which is more than aggravating when you’re trying to sleep. You flipped your body over like you were trying to slam through the floor and groaned. “Of course, I would get stuck with a creepy old house and the lighthouse in my backyard.” You grumbled. After calming down, sleep finally found you and you more than gladly welcomed the darkness. 

How long had you been asleep? You picked up your phone and the time read 3am. You huffed out another long sigh. Your bladder felt like it was going to explode. There was no falling asleep like this or you would most definitely wet the bed. You laid there for a few moments until you felt like you could brave the dark house in the middle of the night. Of course the only bathroom was downstairs. Why wouldn’t it be? 

You turned your bedside lamp on and rolled out onto your feet. Creeping down the dark stairs with only your phones flashlight, you didn’t sense anything. Everything felt calm to your surprise. There was no uneasiness and you didn’t feel like the devil himself would pop out around the corner. You finished your business quickly and started the ascent back up to your room. On the fourth or fifth step up, a rhythmic sound stopped you in your tracks. You stood silent and as still as a statue, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your toes. Your ears became hot as you realized what the sound was. The vintage typewriter. You were frozen. Even if you wanted to turn around and bust your way out the front door and squeal like a baby all the way back home, your body wouldn’t let you. Your feet felt like they had been cemented to the step.

Suddenly the bell of the typewriter rang out in the upstairs bedroom and the keys were being pressed in a quick but precise fashion. The person using the typewriter knew what they were doing and they seemed to be in a hurry to write whatever they were writing. You heard the paper being ripped out of the roller. Silence. No foot steps, no more typing, nothing but the ocean waves outside. You took a deep breath and steadied yourself on the wall of the staircase. Did you imagine all of it? Are you still just half asleep and dreamed it? Are you actually going insane? Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion and turning black, the world felt like it was swirling around your head and you squeezed your eyes tightly shut to try and stop the uneasy feeling. 

When you opened them, you were staring at your wooden bedroom ceiling. You followed the grooves of the shiplap until your eyes met the window you had been looking out to see the lighthouse light. The sun was warming your face and the brightness almost seemed too bright. You scrambled around your comforter to find your phone, which showed 8:45am. 

“There’s no possible way that’s right.” You quickly googled the time and realized it was correct. You had somehow blacked out on the stairs and made it into bed? How? Your mind was racing with confusion and then you remembered, the typewriter. 

You quickly opened up the text thread with your landlady and hit the call button. Hearing the ringing tone you couldn’t even conjure up what you were about to say. Were you just giving up? Was this going to break you? 

“Hello?” The sweet lady answered in a joyful tone. “Hi Mrs. Hartley, did you accidentally leave a typewriter and desk in one of the bedrooms upstairs?” 

There was silence on the other end of the line and you were becoming more and more anxious the longer she took to respond. “No honey, I didn’t leave anything in the house. It has been empty for over a year now.” She quietly answered in her sweet but concerned tone. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yes, yes. No worries at all. I had a great first night here. Thank you so much again!” You hit the red button before she could even think of a reply. 

You looked up to your bedroom door that was wide open and felt the goosebumps rise once again down your spine. What the actual fuck is happening here? 

[etherati]

Another fanbind--still just my own fic, so I can experiment without worrying about doing poor service to someone else's work--and both my first quarto and my first quarterbind. This is still one of my favorite creations from my Watchmen era: The Widening Gyre, a really genuinely spooky ghost story with an extremely ambiguous ending. Only about 13,000 words, so a good small book.

Technical details below.

Text block is Adobe Garamond Pro on France French Parchtone in fleece white. Page headers are Traveling Typewriter and title page is Special Elite. Bird wingdings are from the font Birds of a Feather.

Endpages are just plain black Canson. Page edges trimmed with the chisel method and painted with Daler Rowney FW Pearlescent black acrylic ink. Headbands are premade, sorry, still not in that deep yet.

Spine in some generic black book cloth, covers in a natural fiber art paper I found at the local Guiry's, spattered with some red watercolor paint. Spine lettering done by hand with a Faber Castell pitt artist pen in white.

A lot of experimenting this time, really happy with the result.

[moonyinpisces]

Hi! I finally read HDWTOTL after seeing the cover art submissions on my dash for days. I won’t be emotionally the same ever again. Thank you, genuinely. But anyway, I was wondering if I could get some general writing advice?

I haven’t ever finished a story, and my problem is this: I can’t propel it forward. I have ideas for the beginning or middle of a story, but they’re just vague, disconnected scenes or emotions. I can never bring it to an end. And I can’t seem to bring people from location to location in a way that doesn’t feel very awkward.

Sometimes I look back at the writing I’ve done in a day and I realize it’s nearly all dialogue. Is this just my sign to be a screenwriter?

Or is there another angle to telling a story I’m not seeing?

How does one go from being a shit storyteller to a good one?

Thank you❤️

oh my gosh, thank you for reading hdwtotl and reaching out!! and yes, i can absolutely help you out, i'll throw my thoughts + advice down under the cut <3

i've always struggled with exactly what you're describing until relatively recently. i could get the barebone structure of a story down (beginning, end, vague plot points, dialogue-only scenes, etc.) luckily you mentioned you have disconnected emotions as one of the building blocks, which is, imo the most important thing you can have as a writer.

all that writing is is having an emotion and using all the tools in your arsenal to make someone else experience that same emotion.

that's all it is. what you're describing re: pacing and progression are all valid concerns, but i think you should remove that from the equation for now and just focus on what certain plot ideas make you feel, and how to evoke that feeling in others. personally, i struggle with properly explaining myself UNLESS i'm writing fiction. like, i can't tell you what i'm feeling, but i can make you feel the same way, and in the end we're now on the same wavelength. i don't think that's THE way to write, but it's the way i approach it and i couldn't do it any other way.

as to how to grow/push past what you're specifically struggling with: i think what helped me the most to develop myself as a writer is write the world around you. if you saw a sunset over farm hills in late october, how would you describe that to depict the feeling it evoked in you? the chilliness, perhaps spookiness, the beauty WITH the context that it's ushering in darkness, the dying plants, the cows huddling for warmth, the sound of a passing train. both the material and the immaterial work together in tandem in fiction -- what does the narrator sense from both? do that until it becomes second nature; if i see something incredible irl, you best believe my mental typewriter is going nuts. (the bentley scene in chapter 11 of hdwtotl had existed in my brain for MONTHS sentence-by-sentence WITH paragraph breaks before i finally got it down lol)

so if i were you, that's what i'd work on first before trying to bring it bigger picture with a beginning-middle-end as i think your pacing will naturally develop from it as well. what do you see, how do you feel, and how can the reader come away with both of those things without having been where you are themselves. also single scene oneshots to get in some practice translating that to fictional spaces.

good luck, i hope you break past this!! we need more storytellers out there

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Mambo #5

Tim Waggoner: I'm writing a book of advice to budding horror writers Waggoner: any advice to share? Stephen King: i like to listen to music to get in the appropriately spooky headspace Waggoner: ah interesting! Waggoner: what music? King: Mambo number 5 Waggoner:

King: [sitting at typewriter, cracking knuckles] ok! King: time to get down to business! King: [snaps fingers, fedora flies from off screen into his hand, smoothly places hat on head] King: [dancing] A LITTLE BIT OF MONICA IN MY LIFE!! King: A LITTLE BIT OF ERICA BY MY SIDE!!!

King: Submitted for the approval of the midnight society King: Poe: what's wrong? King: i don't know, i'm just not feeling it King: [snapping fingers] oh wait i know what's missing! King: A LITTLE BIT OF MONICA IN MY LIFE!! King: A LITTLE BIT OF ERICA BY MY SIDE!!

King: A LITTLE BIT OF MONICA IN MY LIFE King: A LITTLE BIT OF ERICA BY MY SIDE Poe: wow steve really likes that record Tabitha King: hm yeah he really does Tabitha King: hey let me see that record for a second Tabitha King: [immediately smashes record w/o breaking eye contact]

Stephen King: Tabitha King: I'm only going to ask this once King: have you King: or have you not King: heard about mambo number 5? King: CUZ EVERYONE KNOWS THAT MAMBO NUMBER 5 IS THE WORD! King: A LITTLE BIT OF MONICA BY MY SIDE- Joe Hill: mom, dad, are you getting divorced

Stephen King: joe! no no King: of course not! King: your mother and i still love each other very much King: it's just that sometimes when you've been married for a long time, you need King: [jumping up, dancing] A LITTLE BIT OF MONICA BY MY SIDE

King: boy! what a banger! its too mad we can't hear the first 4 mambos Poe: those were too dangerous to be released steve Poe: like the second act of the king in yellow Poe: or the first 5 leonard movies