#a death in bloomsbury

[johnwickb1tsch]

Everyone is sending GIF requests, so, here is mine. Hint: Jealous John? (Though I doubt this man can ever be jealous but...whatever comes to your genius brain)

Thanks!

@sweetwolfcupcake SWEEETS!!!!! I loved this prompt SO MUCH!!! You're such a genius. *kisses your head* I hope you like this! 💗💗💗

Bodyguard!John Wick x Shy!Curvy!Fem!Student!Reader

⚠warnings: threat of noncon (not John), mention of parental death

For the record, you didn’t mean to fall in love with John Wick. But he was nothing like the other goons your father had tasked with guarding you before.  Wick was tall, and handsome, and had the soulful eyes of a poet. You know he’s dangerous; he can kill a man 30 ways with a pencil (the men of your father’s Bratva will not shut up about it) but he seems so…gentle. And the thing that really proved your undoing?

That good looking bastard was bookish, and it did something inconceivable to your lit major brain. Ever your dark shadow, you spent countless late nights in the library together, and so many Saturday afternoons browsing the used bookshops, combing for treasures. He would rescue the books that looked better fit for the waste bin, taking them to repair. Maybe he was there to protect you, for your father had many unsavory enemies, but it was easy to forget when John discussed with you the finer points of the Bloomsbury Set or the themes of Anna Karenina.  

Maybe your father assigned John to you because he was one of the few gangsters around in his brigata one could trust to guard a relatively innocent young lady–that didn’t mean John was safe from you. You just couldn’t help yourself; you’d like to plead insanity, your honor, the night you finally broke and tried to kiss him, while he was helping you with your homework for Russian Lit 301. 

How stupid you felt, how utterly pathetic, when he’d very kindly dislodged you from his so soft mouth, looking at you with pity in his sad dark eyes. “You know…we can’t do this,” he told you.

Mortified, you’d fled to your room and cried, knowing you are the most ridiculous human being on the face of the earth.

What were you thinking?

You are nothing like the tall, ethereal creatures that populate the clubs where Wick frequents with your father. You are shy, and curvy, and frankly…a nerd. An old soul, your father would say fondly, but you know he is just being kind.

You’re not sure how you got it into your head, that you were going to make Wick sorry. You’ve never been one for going out, but you decide to give it a whirl, wanting to be anyone but yourself. You decide to go to the Red Circle, to hang out with the other Bratva brats who care way more about clubbing and clothes and who’s fucking who, than classes at NYU. 

At first you really hate it–but after a few shots of vodka, it’s not so bad. John has to hang back, keeping an eye on you but not interacting with your friends. He’s scary good at lurking in the shadows, but you know he’s keeping an eye on every move you make. Maybe that’s why you let Alexsei kiss you, the son of a semi-friendly loan shark who works in proximity with your father. You don’t really like him, if you’re being honest. But he’s not totally hideous–and he’s there–and John will have to watch it all. 

You and Alex start to have a thing. It’s no big deal. Something to do, on the summer break from your studies. You invite him over to watch a movie, knowing you’ll have the house to yourself. Your father is always at his office doing business, your idiotic brother is always out getting into trouble with his khuligan friends, and your mother…is dead, God rest her poor soul. 

You can tell Alex is a little drunk, when he shows up at your door. He’s very handsy, when you settle in on the couch to watch the latest mindless action flick, his pick. It’s ok, until he tries to unbutton your pants.

You have a secret. 

You’re 21, nearly graduated from university–and you’re still a virgin. 

This is not a thing you intend to give to Alexsei Plushenko. You don’t even really like the way he touches you.

“Stop, Alex.”

“Don’t be scared,” he tries to coax you. “This will be fun.”

“No,” you say. “Let’s just…”

He covers your mouth with his, shutting you up, his heavy body pinning you on the couch. “Don’t be such a stuck up bitch.” His groping fingers squeeze your breast clumsily, painfully, before fumbling with your jeans again. You try to push him off, but he’s heavy, and strong.

Suddenly, he is yanked from you like he weighs nothing at all. You hardly recognize what is happening at first, until you hear the sound of flesh striking flesh. John is on him, his iron fist meeting the younger man’s face. 

“John! Stop!” 

Wick looks up at you, meeting your eyes in a primal lock of stares–your heart drops and soars again, as you feel as though you’ve stumbled on a wolf over his kill, and the wildest thing?

You get the inkling that wolf is jealous. 

“Don’t hurt him anymore,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. A beating will make some complications for your father. A death? Could mean war.

Wick punches the handsy young man one more time, his eyes never leaving yours, before hauling Alex up by the collar and frog marching him out the front door, tossing him down the concrete steps of your home.

John finds you waiting for him in the marble foyer, his eyes wild, his knuckles torn. You don’t even know what to say. 

“What did you even see in him?” he finally demands, clearly annoyed.

“He wasn’t you,” you answer without thinking.

Wick steps up to you, toe to toe, so that you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. His hair has broken free from its slicked back style, tendrils in his eyes.

He’s never looked more beautiful, your savage savior.

“You’re trying to get me killed.”

You shake your head, the very thought anathema to you. You are transfixed, unable to look away, unable to think. “You’re too precious to me,” you admit, and screw your eyes shut the moment you admit it, a spear of mortification piercing you from your heart to your stupid, aching, cunt.

“Milaya…” 

It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said to you.

Your eyes drop to his knuckles, torn open in his defense of you. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Not to me.” You don’t know where you get the courage, to take his hand, and lead him up to your room. You can hardly believe it, that he actually follows you. In your ensuite bathroom you dab at his knuckles with a washcloth, slather him with ointment and plaster him with bandaids. You run out of sober flesh colored ones, so the last cut gets a Disney bandage, Ariel and sea-flowers decorating this severe man’s knuckles. 

He lets you do all this, watching you intensely with those dark eyes you’re certain can see into your soul. You stand too close–and he lets you, this haunted man who watches over you day and night. Your whole life you have never wanted for anything, your father’s money buying you all your heart could possibly desire.

Until now.

You find it hard to meet his eyes, zeroing in on a spot of blood on his stark white dress shirt. 

“Y/n.” With a gentle knuckle under your chin he turns your gaze up to his again. “You are too smart, and too beautiful, to be wasting your time with a fuckboy like Alexsei Plushenko.”

The first part you already knew. The second, from this man’s lips? Your knees nearly collapse out from under you, a flood of excitement and dread coursing through your system. You almost can’t stand it–it’s like being burned alive, and your native shyness rears with a vengeance. 

You try to flee, back to the safety of your room, and your books, your imaginary lives that can’t really hurt you–but he catches your hand. His grip is not hard, but it is enough to stop you dead in your tracks. 

“Y/n…” He’s pleading with you, but you don’t understand what he’s asking you. 

“You said you don’t want me, John…” you say, still unable to meet his eyes. “So let me go.” 

He answers by pulling you against him, the solid line of his torso a brick wall beneath the hand you raise to catch yourself. But bricks are not warm, like the flesh beneath his designer clothes. You can feel the wires in your brain sizzling, the synapses simply melting down. Your heart is Chernoble waiting to happen. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You said–”

“I said, ‘We can’t.’ Not, that ‘I don’t want you.’”

You almost cannot breathe, your heart attempting to beat out of your chest, a ringing in your ears that drowns out all else. There is nothing, nothing, in this world you’ve wanted more, than to hear those words from this man. But now that he’s standing before you, against you, holding you–you cannot move. You do not know what to do. 

He solves this problem by cupping your cheek in his big hand–God, how you’ve noticed those hands–and then he is pressing his mouth to yours, gentle at first, but then…hungry. As though John Wick has been starving, for you, and it’s all you can do just to stand there and take it without melting into a puddle on the floor. His arms wrap around your back, holding you, lifting you to your tiptoes as he devours you. When at last he pulls back you are left seeing stars, struck utterly speechless with your hands on his broad shoulders. 

“Tell me to stop,” he raggedly demands, his eyes boring down into yours. 

Finally, you find your courage, meeting his stare. “I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper. 

“Good. Because I don’t think I can.” He kisses you again, just as hungrily as the first time, his arm an iron band around your waist and his fingers sneaking up into your hair. That’s your kryptonite: your hair, and blithely you know he can do anything and everything he wants to you now.  

Your father is a bad man, but you have not had a bad life. You have never known hunger, or true physical pain. He has protected you from the violence of his world. He has played things smart enough that not even the FBI can touch you, even though they absolutely know what he is and where your family gets its money. Despite all this, you have been dying inside, a slow, withering demise, until John Wick’s lips touched yours. He is the life-giving rain over the desert; your heart is a field of wildflowers erupting in a superbloom. 

This time, he leads you, in between kissing you, to the loveseat at the foot of your bed. He sits, and only when he tries to pull you into his lap do you resist. “John…I’m too…much,” you insist, conscious of your generous flesh and what it would be like to set that on top of him, afraid he’ll be horrified. 

However, he just scoffs at you, grabbing you up anyway and guiding you down. For a moment you are weightless–he knows how to upset a person’s balance, how to use their weight against them to put them on the floor. This time he uses it to put you on him. You’re not exactly proud of it, but the ease with which he utterly manhandles you makes your long-neglected lady parts sing with desire. 

“You are perfect, dietka,” he insists, pulling you closer with hands on your round behind, “And I am very strong.” For the first time in you can’t remember how long–he smiles at you. That beautiful half smile with a sparkle in his dark eyes that takes your breath away–you love him so much it hurts. 

This time you don’t feel so shy, about kissing him. You feel like your bones are filled with butterflies, and you both moan and giggle as you do your best to devour each other from the mouth down. Aside from an appreciative squeeze of your thighs bracketing his hips, he doesn’t try to seduce you, even though you know you absolutely would have given him anything he asked you for. He is content, just to kiss you, for this night at least, and oh. He’s good at it too. 

You decide you would burn down the world, for one more kiss from John Wick.  

Later you find yourself snuggled in your bed with John, fully clothed, your head on his shoulder as he toys with the fine hairs at the back of your neck. His touch is heaven, and with your legs twined with his it’s hard not to squirm and writhe against his muscled thigh like a horny little gremlin. 

Later, you tell yourself. It can wait for later. 

Like maybe, tomorrow. 

“We’ll have to be careful,” he warns you. “If your father…” 

If your father found out, the best thing that could happen to John is getting fired. 

“I won’t let you get hurt,” you promise, kissing his bearded cheek, praying you’re telling the truth.

He chuckles at this; a deep sound you feel more than hear. “I thought that was my job?”

“You know what I mean.” 

“I know.” He looks down at you with a tenderness that curls your toes. “It would be worth it, for you.” 

Your heart has suddenly decided it would like to take up residence in your throat–permanently.

“Oh, John…”  

He kisses you again, a soft brush of lips that renders you weightless. This is how you die: it’s almost too much to stand, this impossibly full feeling in your chest. Then he narrows his eyes at you playfully. “You have been driving me mad, you little minx. I wanted to kill everyone who so much as looked at you in the Circle.” 

You snort at the thought–you do not understand, really, that he could absolutely do it too. 

“Not to worry. I think the library is more my speed.” He rests his head against yours with a small, contented sigh. “Mine too,” he admits. The smell of old books around you is a soothing balm to you both. 

You know small bits of his past. Morsels he has sprinkled, here and there in the conversations you have had. You know he did not have an easy childhood. You know that this life was not really his choice. Even less so than most, who move and work in the Underworld. 

“If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?” you ask. 

He lifts an eyebrow at you. “I’m liking New York, at the moment,” he tells you with an affectionate squeeze. 

“Oh come on.” 

“Fine. I like Paris a lot.” 

“Hmm,” you answer, but what you think, is: Done.  You will have the opportunity to arrange to study abroad soon, and you think a trip away from the Tarasov territory might do you both some good.

Surely Papachka wouldn’t deprive you of your most trusted bodyguard?

[mrmousetolliver]

Officer Harry Daley and friend pose at a London swimming pool. (c.1930's) Harry Daley joined the London Metropolitan Police in 1925 and was the first openly Gay person to serve. Besides being a policeman, he dated E.M. Forster and partied with the Bloomsbury Group. His portrait was painted by Duncan Grant. His memoirs were published in 1987, 16 years after his death in 1971.

[hd-erised]

H/D Erised Art: Hauntingly Familiar

Artist: @sharperthan Recipient: @moonflower-rose Pairing(s): Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy Rating: Teen Tags: non-consensual voyeurism, ghosts, temporary character death, digital art, comic, additional warning's in author's note

Summary:  Struck down by a curse, Draco Malfoy is trapped in Harry Potter's flat. He proceeds to haunt the hell out of him.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

VIEW FULL ARTWORK ON AO3 HERE

[sad-boys-book-club]

"&" Ampersand - A Literary Companion

Selected stories with the themes of Bastille's upcoming project "&" Ampersand. And, of course, a love letter to my favourite band.

PART 1

Intros & Narrators: Wallace, David Foster. Oblivion: Stories. Little, Brown and Company, 2004./ Nancherla, Aparna. Unreliable Narrator: Me, Myself, and Impostor Syndrome. Penguin Publishing Group, 2023.// Eve & Paradise Lost: Bohannon, Cat. Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2023. / Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Alma Classics, 2019.// Emily & Her Penthouse In The Sky: Dickinson, Emily. Emily Dickinson’s Poems: As She Preserved Them. Harvard University Press, 2016. /Dickinson, Emily. Emily Dickinson: Letters. Edited by Emily Fragos, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2011.// Blue Sky & The Painter: Prideaux, Sue. Edvard Munch: Behind the Scream. Yale University Press, 2019. / Knausgaard, Karl Ove. So Much Longing in So Little Space: The Art of Edvard Munch. Random House, 2019.//

PART 2

Leonard & Marianne: Hesthamar, Kari. So Long, Marianne: A Love Story - Includes Rare Material by Leonard Cohen. Ecw Press, 2014./ Cohen, Leonard. Book of Longing. Penguin Books Limited, 2007.// Marie & Polonium: Curie, Eve. Madame Curie. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013./Sobel, Dava. The Elements of Marie Curie: How the Glow of Radium Lit a Path for Women in Science. Atlantic Monthly Press, 2024.// Red Wine & Wilde: Wilde, Oscar, et al. De Profundis. Harry N. Abrams, 1998./ Sturgis, Matthew. Oscar: A Life. Head of Zeus, 2018.// Seasons & Narcissus: Ovid. Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation. Penguin, 2004./ Morales, Helen. Antigone Rising: The Subversive Power of the Ancient Myths. PublicAffairs, 2020.//

PART 3

Drawbridge & The Baroness: Rothschild, Hannah. The Baroness: The Search for Nica, the Rebellious Rothschild. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013./ Katz, Judy H. White Awareness: Handbook for Anti-racism Training. University of Oklahoma Press, 1978.// The Soprano & Her Midnight Wonderings: Ardoin, John, and Gerald Fitzgerald. Callas: The Art and the Life. Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1974./ Abramovic, Marina. 7 Deaths of Maria Callas. Damiani, 2020.// Essie & Paul: Ransby, Barbara. Eslanda: The Large and Unconventional Life of Mrs. Paul Robeson. Haymarket Books, 2022./ Robeson, Paul. Here I Stand. Beacon Press, 1998.//

PART 4

Mademoiselle & The Nunnery Blaze: Gautier, Theophile. Mademoiselle de Maupin. Penguin Classics, n.d./ Gardiner, Kelly. Goddess. HarperCollins, 2014.// Zheng Yi Sao & Questions For Her: Chang-Eppig, Rita. Deep as the Sky, Red as the Sea. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2023./ Borges, Jorge Luis. A Universal History of Infamy. Penguin Books, 1975. // Telegraph Road 1977 & 2024: Kaufman, Bob. Golden Sardine. City Lights Books, 1976./ Wolfe, Tom. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Pan Macmillan Australia Pty, Limited, 2008.

Original artwork created by Theo Hersey & Dan Smith. Printed letterpress at The Typography Workshop, South London.

[acourtofthought]

This is how sad certain journalists have become in order to get clicks to their articles and how desperate some fans have become when they think they're winning and it gives them the right to send death threats because of what's written by aforementioned journalist (who has absolutely no clout when it comes to Sarah or Bloomsbury).

Fact check: the ring is far from blue (and I don't think anyone believes the other ring is red). Thinking it suggests Az's Siphons is a reach and a half not to mention the journalist called his siphons his "aura".

@starlightjasminsblog provided the following:

I know everyone's screens are different but you're honestly color blind if you think that ring could represent Az's Siphons. Clearly the journalist did not bother to do any actual research or care about authenticity before regurgitating the lies spread in the fandom.

Then:

Azriel is actually not confirmed to have the longest wingspan. Not only is it clear Feyre was just teasing Rhys in ACOMAF but Sarah actually did an interview after ACOMAF where she would not confirm any of them as having the longest wingspan. Therefore using something that's not even true as proof that the next book being long is because of Az's wings rather than Sarah having a lot of plot to work with is scraping the bottom of the barrel. Once again the journalist and many e/riels refuse to bother with actual research.

I think people should feel embarrassed if they took that article as actual proof of something. Some say they're just having fun but having fun isn't shouting "confirmation" and simultaneously telling the other side that they keep winning while Elucien's / Gwynriels have nothing. Fun isn't sending harassing messages to the other side over that article.

If fake articles from a source completely unrelated to Sarah or Bloomsbury mean we have nothing then I guess yeah, we have nothing and we're glad of that. Because it's not something anyone should be gloating over.

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 2 - SECRET WATCHING

Pairing : Judge Turpin x OC

Summary : 5 years. 5 years that The Death's Judge had noticed you. 5 years he was watcing you in silence. But now, it's time to speak out if he doesn't want to lose you... for ever.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Angst. Violence towards a woman. Manipulation. Deceptiveness.

A/N : I didn't proofread, therefore let me know (or not) if there are any too obvious mistakes.

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

It had been a long time since he had noticed you. 5 years, 8 months, 23 days and 6 hours to be exact.

Lord Richard Turpin, High Judge of London, The Death's Judge, was a man of precision, even more so when it came to you. 

It was a cold and foggy evening in November that he had noticed you. You were walking down Fleet Street, your bun letting loose little unruly hairs that flew in the wind and in your hands, you held books. On your back, you had a coat much too thin for the harsh winter that was coming.

Who were you ?

This question haunted him the second you raised your big green eyes to him without seeing him.

That evening, he had followed you under the pretext that nothing happened to you. After all, the streets of London can be dangerous, especially in the middle of the night, when they are lit only by the weak lanterns that adorn the sidewalks of the City without really illuminating it.

A creature as beautiful as you... what an unconscious judge he would have been not to stay hidden in the shadows to watch over you... and find out where you lived.

You entered a small modest house in a poor neighborhood of Bloomsbury, in a small shop where the sign read [[Y/S] - Watchmaker].

Now that he knew your address and your supposed last name, he rushed to his gloomy mansion without wasting a second. In the comfort of his leather armchair, far from the slums of London, he waited for his faithful and deceitful secretary while watching the wood fire crackling in the fireplace of his office. He found himself wondering if you were shivering with cold in your small house that must have let the wind through every window. If that was the case, he wanted to be the one to warm you up... even if he had to learn that you were married.

"BEADLE !" he had shouted, putting down the book that he wasn't even trying to call a book.

"My lord ?" The Beadle had asked in his honeyed voice, appearing out of nowhere, like a rat waiting for a good reason to come out of its hole.

"Find me everything you can about a young woman. Her name is [Y/S]. She lives in the deprived area along Goodge Street."

It didn't take much for The Beadle to come back in just a few days with everything Richard was burning to know.

Your full name was [Y/N] [Y/S]. The watchmaker's shop you had entered belonged to your father, but it barely allowed you to live decently. You weren't married and no fiancé was in sight. This last piece of information had strangely relieved Richard.

You were a little schoolteacher with no real official qualification except for a certificate with no real value, but the little informal girls' school you worked for didn't care about your qualifications. You knew how to read, write and count to teach these poor little girls to do the same in addition to learning sewing, embroidery and all those domestic tasks that would become theirs.

Richard deduced that you had to work hard for a salary that must have been very meager, but according to The Beadle, that didn't stop you from doing your job well. Your students liked you, especially since you were the only teacher who didn't beat them with that long wooden stick that bruised the hands of the other little girls in the school and the parents had no complaints about you.

And after that, he had continued to observe you. For a long time. Without ever trying to approach you, but not without acting. Indeed, strangely enough, your father had found himself counting lords and important men among his clientele. Your school had received new notebooks and the stoves that heated the classrooms had never run out of coal in 5 years.

And yet, he had never tried to speak to you. Certainly not because he was too embarrassed by your 20-year age gap or your differences in social class. No, it was much darker than that. You exuded innocence, purity and Richard, in his depraved nature, wanted to take all that away from you. He knew that the moment he allowed himself to be close to you, that he would say hello and let you know that he had noticed you, he would ruin all that pure beauty that was in you. Because he wanted you and what he wanted to do to you would have made God himself blush.

5 years he had been watching you, his heart singing for you every time he saw you while you were in total ignorance. How could you have suspected for a single second that you had made the terrible Lord Turpin fall in love ?

Oh, you knew his name, he was certain of it. Everyone in London knew the terrible Richard Turpin, The Death's Judge. But no one could have imagined that a man like him could have let such a pretty little thing as you creep into his mind so much that it was your face that he saw when he was fucking the whores of Whitechapel.

In five years, he had never seen you with any friend. Sometimes your father accompanied you on your walks, but most of the time, you were alone. Always impeccable, despite the modesty of your outfits, always friendly and smiling, there was nevertheless no one around you.

Until last week. For the first time, Richard felt his heart pinch, almost break, at the sight of a young man who walked beside you, a stupid smile on his face. He was clean on him, of a higher class than yours, but certainly not higher than Richard's.

Jealousy completely consumed Richard in the face of this sight.

It hadn't taken more than half a day for Richard to have a detailed report on this young man who answered to the name of Robert Crawford. He had hoped to find something, anything, to send this impertinent little boy who had set his sights on you to the depths of a colony in Australia. But nothing. He had found nothing and neither had The Beadle and it made Richard sick.

He could not bear that you had finally found the one who was going to take you away from your father and take your purity, especially this purity.

Robert came from a family of rich merchants and he himself was a fierce and renowned trader. However, there was something about this Robert that Richard did not like. He could not say what, but there was something disturbing about this young man.

Perhaps it was this reserve that you always seemed to have around him. You only half smiled and in truth, you did not really seem in love with him. But it was not surprising. Few women had the luxury of dreaming of love, even less when, like you, they had no money. Marriage was not a matter of the heart but of pragmatism.

On the contrary, Robert never failed to smile in your presence, but it seemed false to Richard. This man was hiding something, he was certain of it, his cold, calculating and manipulative nature had never deceived him and he promised himself to keep an eye on this young man.

For the first time, he had hesitated to come and talk to you. He could have easily torn you away from this boy, but it would have been so hypocritical of him. It was surely not better, he who had often wondered what he would feel if he took you on his desk in court between two trials.

Months passed and this young man became more and more present in your life, until Richard saw a ring with a tiny diamond adorning your finger. And yet, you still did not seem happy. There was no excitement in your eyes, only resignation.

And once again, he did nothing, waiting to see the banns announce your marriage and when they finally came out, he felt his world collapse, his certainties fly away, his heart break for good, he who had always thought he was made of nothing but ice. In two months, you would become Mrs. Crawford.

It was three weeks before your wedding that something changed. You were crossing the street when Richard saw you, but what he noticed most was the bruise on your cheek. Black. Painful. And finally, he understood why this Robert was bothering him so much, why his instinct was screaming at him to send this man to the end of the world or to the end of a rope.

Taken by an impulse, Richard crossed the street to find himself in your path and gently jostled you, as if nothing had happened, making the books you were holding in your trembling hands fall.

"Forgive me, miss, I was distracted," Richard lied.

"It's nothing," you replied as you bent down, not even daring to look up at him.

He bent down to help you, holding out a hand to help you up while his other hand held two of your books. You finally looked up at his, your big green eyes widening in surprise when you recognized the man who had just helped you.

"Lord Turpin," you said in a breath.

"So you know who I am," Turpin said softly with a sad smile.

He was not fooled, if you knew his name, it was because of his terrible reputation and nothing was made up. What earned him the nickname The Death's Judge came from his ruthless judgments, his austere nature and his ability to manipulate the course of events to his will.

"Your cheek," he said softly, unable to take his eyes off the dark stain, that even though didn't spoil your beauty.

"I fell against a piece of furniture," you whispered, looking away.

Liar, Richard thought. You had been slapped. Hard. Probably hard enough to make you fall. But that mark on your face was a mark made by a hand. The hand of a man. Certainly the hand of the man who would soon swear to love and protect you.

A shiver ran down Richard's spine thinking about it. You were going to marry a man who was going to make your life hell, who would beat you every chance he got and who would make a shadow of you. In three weeks, you would no longer be allowed to teach. You would be a prisoner in your own house and corrected for every sideways glance. He would teach you not to think for yourself anymore, because every time you tried to contradict him, he would remind you of your place with a good slap... or worse.

"A very brutal piece of furniture," Richard said coldly.

"Yes, indeed," you answered in a whisper.

"Can I walk you home, miss..." he asked, pretending not to know your name.

"[Y/N], my name is [Y/N] [Y/S]."

"A very pretty name, Miss [Y/S]," he said before asking you again if he could walk beside you.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Richard hadn't missed the glint of panic that had crossed your eyes. The hold had already begun. You couldn't even talk to a man without fear of being punished. He wondered if your father knew or if you had told him the story of the furniture and he had believed it.

"In that case, be careful. The streets of London can be dangerous in the dark for a woman," he said without taking his piercing gaze away from your small, frail figure.

"Closed doors are even more dangerous," you replied in spite of yourself before greeting him respectfully and leaving.

Indeed, closed doors could be dangerous, but enough of watching you in secret. Richard knew. Richard was going to act. This marriage would not take place, he promised himself that.

The Beadle was tasked with finding something, anything that could legally indict this young man from a good family. Richard had to play it smart, he wasn't going after some scumbag from the London slums. The Crawford family, though untitled, had some good allies thanks to their money.

But when, three days later, he saw you with a split lip and a new bruise near your nose, a dull anger filled him, and nothing was going to stop him from getting rid of this Robert.

"Miss [Y/S]," you heard behind you.

You turned around with a start before raising an eyebrow in surprise when you recognized Lord Turpin.

"Your furniture seems to particularly hold a grudge against you," Richard said immediately without giving you time to greet him formally.

"I..."

"No lies, miss. I am the High Judge of London, I punish lies," he interrupted you.

You looked down, not knowing what to say.

"Is it the action of your fiancé ?"

You looked up at him questioningly before looking away again, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

"Miss [Y/S], are you in danger ?"

"I don't know," you answered in a breath, tears in your eyes.

Richard grabbed your arm roughly and dragged you inside the courthouse to his office. You didn't even have the strength to protest, too surprised by his actions, also afraid that someone in the street had seen you and would report it to Robert. That you had let another man touch you would earn you a new punishment, you knew that.

"Sit down," Turpin ordered you, closing the heavy wooden door of his office behind you.

You obeyed without daring to look at him, wondering what he was going to do. You had nothing to reproach yourself for, but you were not afraid that he would imprison you. Your recent experiences had taught you that there were many other things you had to fear from a man.

"When did it start ?" Richard asked, coming to sit in front of you.

"Why do you care ?" you asked, raising your chin a little.

Richard smiled imperceptibly. You were certainly not broken. You still had the strength to rebel, your flame was not extinguished, this man had not yet completely subjugated you by making terror your worst enemy.

"Miss [Y/S], it is my duty to worry about the citizens of London."

You finally looked him in the eye, a small ironic smile on your lips that Richard didn't miss.

"I can protect you, Miss [Y/S]. But you have to tell me the truth for that."

You hesitated. Even though he was the highest authority in the court, you weren't sure that a man like him could be trusted. Not without having to pay the price. But at this point, it was after all, choosing between the plague or cholera.

"I..." you began, hesitant, not knowing what to say.

"Is he your fiancé ?" Richard asked again.

"Yes," you finally answered.

"When ?"

You shook your head, hoping to stop the tears that had just welled up in your beautiful, bruised eyes from flowing.

"A little after the marriage proposal. He..."

The tears began to flow in spite of yourself. Richard handed you his handkerchief embroidered with his initials. You took it, trembling, and you finally tell everything.

You had met Robert by chance in your father's shop and he had courted you almost immediately. You weren't really interested in this young man, but he was kind, well-mannered, and above all he had money. It was this last criterion that had pushed your father to encourage you to frequent him. Your father was not unaware that when he died, you would inherit nothing and he could not bear the idea of ​​you ending up on the street. It was not your meager income as a schoolteacher that could have supported you.

At first, Robert was only kind. He covered you with gifts, his parents seemed happy to welcome you into the family, and you had ended up telling yourself that with time, you could learn to love him. But after the marriage proposal, he had changed. It had first been a slap in the face because you had reprimanded him for a simple language error. Then another, and another, until he promised to "re-educate" you once you were married. As if to prove his point, he had hit you with the hand that held your family's signet ring, splitting your lip. Each time, it was for stupid reasons. Because you were too smart, because you were too intelligent, because you had said no.

"And your father, does he know?"

"No !" you cried, "he must not know. He would kill Lord Turpin and I do not want my father to be hanged," you said quickly.

Richard clenched his fists. He too wanted to kill him, this Robert who thought he could beat you for his own pleasure.

"And he believes your stories about falling on a piece of furniture ?" Richard asked coldly.

"I don't think so," you murmured, "but I don't want my father to get into trouble."

Richard's features softened slightly. Of course, as a good, loving daughter, you didn't want your father to have blood on his hands because of you. But you were the one who would end up dead if this match went through.

"Do you really have to marry him ?"

"I said yes, the banns have been published," you answered as if it were obvious.

"You could go away, hide yourself," Richard suggested.

"But where would I go ? I only have my father and he's too old to start a new life anywhere else. All he has is here in London and his job has worn him down more than he'll ever admit."

Richard watched you, letting the silence settle between you. You shifted slightly, uneasy under his scrutiny. He had a plan. A plan that wouldn't alienate anyone, an immediate solution to get you out of this situation. After that, he would have plenty of time to take care of this Robert Crawford.

"I have a home in Scotland. You would be safe there. The governess who lives there and takes care of the house will watch over you. You would be housed and fed and you would want for nothing."

You raised your head, surprised by this proposal.

"Going to Scotland ?" you asked suspiciously.

"Indeed."

And be his without really being his. To be far from this Robert. Protected. This country house in the depths of the Highlands was occupied only by a governess and by the ghosts of his past, the screams of his mother and the sound of his father's belt falling on his back at the slightest reason. A house filled with shadow and bad memories that he had not been able to bring himself to sell after his father's disappearance. His mother had stayed living in their main home, leaving Richard this place that he had never liked but that today would finally find its use.

"I... I don't know," you said, hesitant.

"You will be very alone, I'm afraid. But no one will come looking for you there. You will be fine there and protected, I promise you."

"But... and my father ?"

"I will keep an eye on him, but it might be wiser not to tell him where you are going."

"And the wedding ?"

"You want it to happen ? You know the miserable life you'll have if you marry this man. And if you ever have children, they'll live in fear. Fear of their mother getting beaten, fear of their father's violence falling on them while you stand there, too afraid of getting another beating after the children," he spat vehemently.

You shuddered as you heard him say the cold truth, a truth you guessed he had known when he was younger.

"What's the price ?" you finally asked.

"The price ?" Richard repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"What's the price of your protection, Lord Turpin?"

Richard, fascinated by your frankness, wanted to tell you that the price would be that you would be his. But he said nothing. You would become his, but at your own pace. He wouldn't force it on you, and you'd end up believing it came from you.

"Nothing at all, I promise you."

"I don't believe you. Everything has a price. You're The Death's Judge. I can't believe you are doing something for free for a complete stranger," you said briskly.

"Believe me, miss [Y/S], you're not a stranger to me," he replied mysteriously.

A cold sweat ran down your spine. He had noticed you. You weren't sure if that was a good thing.

"If you agree, we'll go see your father and tell him why we're going to scare you away. But, we'll be careful not to tell him where. If you want to write to him, you will have to address the letters to me and I promise to get them to him."

You felt trapped. Trapped on all sides. Trapped by this marriage that you didn't know how to get out of, trapped by Lord Turpin who had just made you an offer that you feared was poisonous. But you also knew that he was right. Robert had shown you his true nature. He would end up breaking you.

"What if he hurts my father ?" you asked.

"Do you think he is so influential ?"

"He certainly does. And his family is rich. Money rules everything, you must know that, Lord Turpin."

"Indeed, Miss [Y/S], but his family is only a small merchant family. They do have some contacts in high society, but certainly not in the nobility," he said firmly, "and... they have me as an enemy now," he added coldly.

You shivered when you heard him say that, but when he gently moved his hand towards your scarred face, you didn't move. However, he gave you the space you needed to do so, you could have backed away a thousand times before he gently placed his warm palm against your cheek. He gently caressed your bruises before whispering:

"Accept, miss [Y/S], and I promise you that you will be safe."

And without even realizing it, you whispered yes.

Richard didn't wait a second longer to send The Beadles to get your father. The poor man arrived all trembling in the judge's office, but when he saw you, his protective instincts immediately kicked in awake.

"[Y/N], are you in trouble ?" he asked you, genuinely worried.

"Indeed, mister [Y/S], trouble that you should have noticed instead of encouraging your daughter to marry that Crawford," Richard scolded.

Your father looked at him with wide eyes, but his face darkened when Richard told him what you had been through when you weren't even married yet. Your father didn't like the idea of ​​letting you go, especially not without knowing where and especially not under Lord Turpin's tutelage, but when you told him that you were afraid Robert would kill you, your father finally gave in.

That same evening, he had you get into one of his carriages. After you kissed your father one last time, Richard had you get into the carriage, cozy and provided with blankets and soft cushions.

"My coachman is a trustworthy man. You will arrive in Scotland in a week and he will keep you safe the whole journey."

"You promise to watch over my father ?" you asked gently.

"I promise," Richard replied firmly before handing you a letter, "don't open it until you arrive in Scotland. Please."

The please, spoken with such vulnerability made your heart beat a little faster.

"You are intelligent... and brave. You deserve the best. I promise you that you will have nothing to fear in Scotland, no one will come looking for you there."

Before you could answer, Richard had already turned away, his gaze dark, already busy thinking of a plan to get rid of Robert Crawford.

Throughout the journey, you clutched the letter in your hands, aware that it must contain much more than just words, but you held on without ever opening it. The journey was long, tiring and the coachman was not very talkative, but as Richard had promised you, he had watched over you like an eagle.

Once you arrived in Scotland, you were greeted by a stern-looking lady, the famous governess of the mansion.

"Miss [Y/S], I presume ? I have received a letter from Lord Turpin announcing your arrival. Come in, I will show you to your room."

The natural authority of the old governess did not make you want to upset her. She looked a lot like her master, you thought with a small, discreet laugh. She briefly introduced you to the mansion before showing you to your room.

"I'll let you settle in, miss," she said before leaving, leaving you alone.

It was a large room with off-white walls. Thick velvet drapes framed large windows that looked out onto a magnificent garden that winter had not yet extinguished with its biting cold.

You waited for nightfall and, after sharing dinner with the governess who was much more kind than you had imagined, you retired to your room. With trembling hands, yous grabbed the letter, opened it, and by candlelight you lost yourself in Richard's words, words that filled an entire page in firm handwriting.

"Miss [Y/S],

[Y/N],

I haven't been completely honest with you. It's been a long time since I noticed you. 5 years, 11 months and 28 days, to be exact.

I don't know how to reveal the depth of what I feel for you without scaring you, but the truth is that my heart started beating faster the moment I looked into your green eyes without you even really noticing me.

It's not for lack of courage that I never approached you before that day when I understood that your life was in danger. It's out of love that I never wanted to enter your life.

My nature... my nature is not the noblest. You are such a pure creature [Y/N] and I refuse to corrupt this beauty, this purity with the darkness that surrounds me.

Here, in Scotland, you can choose to start a new life, far from London, far from memories that you probably want to forget.

[Y/N], I love you and when I come to see you, it will not be as a judge, it will not be as a protector. It will be as a man in love and I will leave you the choice to do what you desire with my heart.

Richard Turpin"

You had a lump in your throat, you didn't know what to think. Millions of emotions passed through you, violent, like waves that submerged you. That night, you didn't sleep. The following nights, you only fell asleep after rereading the letter, again, again and again.

Meanwhile, in London, Turpin and Beadle Bamford were working on a... Machiavellian plan.

"I have a plan, my lord. It will require... some financial means of course," Beadle told Turpin with a sly smile.

"It doesn't matter as long as there is nothing to link us to what is going to happen," Turpin replied in a cold voice.

"Believe me, my lord, you will never be implicated."

"What part will that little rascal you found, Bamford, play ?"

"A foreign investor. He will flatter your nemesis by promising to make him even richer than his own father. A personal fortune that he will think he can build on his own without papa's help."

"Good. Good. I know men like that well. They always want more and they take even when they don't deserve it," Turpin muttered darkly.

It had only taken one poor but desperately rich young man to bring Robert down. In a luxuriously decorated office rented by Turpin in a prestigious club in central London, the young man dressed like a true gentleman by Bamford stood before Crawford with a simple but terribly dishonest offer. Richard knew the world well enough to know that every man, even the most perfect, had flaws and for the majority of them, money was their greatest weakness. Despite his family's wealth, Robert was one of them.

"Don't worry, Mr. Crawford. The deals I propose are common in our circles. Money is moving discreetly, and I promise you that your income will be... tripled."

The man hired by The Beadle had learned his lines well. The deal was simple: he would get Robert involved in suspicious business and in exchange he would receive a substantial sum of money... on the condition that he go into exile in Australia where an honest job was already waiting for him for a certain Elliot Marston, a cousin of Richard who would keep an eye on the corrupt man if ever he got the idea of ​​blackmailing the High Judge of London.

"Laws are made to be circumvented," Robert replied, "I am not a novice. Prepare the documents and let's conclude this matter quickly."

And while hidden in the shadows, Richard watched with the hint of a carnivorous smile, the trap had just closed on Crawford.

A surprise inspection of the goods received orchestrated anonymously by Richard and the rumor was launched. Robert, ruined, was not a man to be trusted. He laundered money, made fraudulent investments and in less than a month, the reputation of the entire family was tarnished and Robert, arrested, was brought before Richard.

"Mr. Crawford, you have flouted the laws of our beautiful country. You have humiliated yourself and you have humiliated the name of your family! The evidence is overwhelming: commercial fraud, money laundering and fraud," Turpin listed, icy.

"That is false! It's a plot!" cried Robert in a vain attempt to defend himself.

"Out of kindness to your parents who have a respected name in worldly circles, I will spare you the rope. In the name of the Crown, it will be forced labour in a sugar colony in America," said Turpin without blinking.

He struck his gavel without a glance at Robert, but inwardly Richard gloated. He did. He left the courtroom and went to his office. He threw his powdered wig on a chair before turning to Beadle with a broad smile.

"My friend, once again you have been brilliant," Richard whispered.

"I live only to serve you, my lord," Beadle replied, honeyed.

A week later, Robert boarded a ship for the Americas without his family even trying to buy his freedom. The Crawfords were far too humiliated by their son's actions and in a hope of not falling out of the good graces of the nobility, Crawford senior had publicly disowned his son.

In the cab that took him to Scotland, Richard was torn. Now you knew he had noticed you and if you had read his letter, you knew he loved you. But could you ever love him back ?

What does it matter, he thought. He had gotten rid of that parasite Robert and he would never touch you again. If you were Richard's, his hands would never lay on you to hurt you. Oh, he would make you scream, for sure, but only from pleasure. But would you be able to see beyond the shadows that surrounded him ?

As Christmas approached, that holiday that Richard abhorred more than anything, the Scottish moor was already covered in a thin white film. The smoking smoke from his house indicated that you were nice and warm and he had no doubt that the old governess was watching over you as he had asked her to.

"Lord Turpin," you murmured when he came back into the living room where you were busy embroidering a handkerchief.

"Miss [Y/S], I wanted to come in person to tell you that you have nothing more to fear. Never."

You looked down, intimidated, before telling him in a whisper that you had read his letter. Richard looked at you attentively but you did not dare to look up at him. For the first time, he was unable to probe the mind of another human being.

"And ?" he finally dared to ask.

"5 years is a long time," you said, finally plunging your eyes into his, "why did you never say anything ?"

Richard sighed, searching for the right words without scaring you.

"Because I am a coward," he finally said. "Not in a courtroom, not in the middle of a crowd of nobles, not in a political plot. But in front of you, I am nothing more than a man and a coward."

His raw sincerity disarmed you for a moment.

"But why me ? I'm just a merchant's daughter. A little governess barely educated enough to teach other little girls to read. And you... you're Lord Richard Turpin."

Richard approached you gently and reached out to caress your cheek. You shivered slightly but at no point did you try to pull away.

"You are the sweetness. The light. Perhaps my redemption," he replied softly.

You looked at him, not knowing what to say. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you, but he finally pulled away. Immediately, you missed the warmth of his hand on your cheek.

"Will you come back to London with me?" he asked you with ill-concealed hope.

"Yes," you breathed with an emotion you couldn't quite define.

The journey home was long, but Richard made sure you had everything you needed. Every time you shivered, he would adjust a blanket around your shoulders, pay for the best rooms in the best inns, and make sure the journey didn’t take too much of a toll on you.

“We’ll be back in time for you to celebrate Christmas with your father,” he said one day as you struggled to stay awake.

But to your surprise, when you arrived in London, Richard didn’t take you back to your father. He showed you into his imposing mansion. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior, but not as ornate as you’d imagined, nor as well-kept as one would expect for a man like Richard. There were many cobwebs and a certain amount of disarray. Books were scattered everywhere, and as he led you up a large wooden staircase, you noticed very few servants milling about the manor.

"This whole part of the manor could be yours," Turpin finally said, stopping in the middle of a hallway that housed four different rooms.

"I don't understand," you said, turning your large green eyes toward him.

"The manor is austere, like me, but I'm sure your presence will brighten it. Robert... Robert won't come to haunt you anymore, but your engagement was announced and I don't want you to have to face the whispers and cruelty of the outside world. This manor could be your refuge."

"I... I don't want to force you into anything," you answered timidly.

“Miss [Y/S], you’re not forcing me to do anything,” Richard replied, taking your hand, “you deserve to be cherished, protected. And if you give me permission, I coulds give you all that and more. You deserve more than whispers in tea rooms or sideways glances on the street. Let me be your protector."

"I don't want you to be my protector," you whispered.

A shadow passed over Turpin's face as his heart clenched like a dagger had pierced it, but he recovered so quickly that you could have imagined the flash of pain in his hazel eyes.

"I want a husband."

Richard looked at you, eyes wide as you looked down, your cheeks tinging pink. With a finger, he lifted your head, forcing you to look at him.

"Are you sure about what you just said, [Y/N] ?" Richard asked in his deep voice, using your first name for the first time, "Because once you say yes, there's no going back."

"So be it," you whispered.

Without waiting, Richard's lips landed on yours with passion, ardor, desire. And for the first time, Richard thought that Christmas had a very nice surprise in store for him.

A year later

"My dear, if you continue to eat so many gingerbread cookies you'll get indigestion," Richard said as he sat down nonchalantly next to you on the library couch.

Wrapped in a blanket in front of the fireplace where a good fire was crackling, your aching legs resting on a stool and a book lying next to you, you made a little pouty face.

"It's not me who wants gingerbread cookies, it's the little inhabitant who keeps me awake every night and who prevents me from walking more than five minutes without my feet hurting," you replied as you grabbed another cookie.

Richard, smiled, a real smile, one of those that was reserved only for you. He still sometimes wondered how he had been lucky enough to marry you, you whom he had so often watched in secret, thinking he would never be able to have you. And yet, you had chosen him despite these faults. Your light was enough to balance his darkness.

"Enough biscuit," Richard finally said, taking the plate away from you as you were about to take a third, "it's time for bed, my dear."

And without giving you time to protest, he lifted you up as if you weighed nothing to take you to the room you shared. As often, he helped you take off your dress and put on your nightgown and while you settled under the covers, he came to sit next to you. In a caring gesture, he placed a hand on your round belly.

"It would be wise to let your mother sleep tonight. She is particularly insolent when she is sleep deprived," Richard said in a soft voice.

You smiled, shaking your head before placing your hand on his.

"I hope it will be a girl. A little girl who will give you a hard time," you joked.

"My dear, whether it is a son or a daughter doesn't matter to me, either one or another will be loved as much because they will be a part of you."

He kissed you tenderly, grateful for the second chance you were giving him, promising himself that the world would never come to hurt the child to come,. This child who was his redemption. He would watch carefully to it. In secret.

[bestiarium]

Nocnitsa, the night hag [Slavic mythology]:

Nocnitsa is a hag or witch from Slavic folklore who inhabits woods and forests. She is heavily associated with night and darkness, and as such, she mainly targets sleeping children at night. A deeply evil creature, Nocnitsa usually bestows nightmares onto her victims, but she other ways of inflicting suffering: sometimes she shows up at night to breastfeed infants, but her milk is highly poisonous and will cause the child to fall ill.

In this aspect, she is associated with the Rusalka, another supernatural female monster that kills with her breasts. Sometimes, the breasts of a Rusalka were said to be made of iron or stone, and she would crush her victims to death with them.

To appease Nocnitsa, people would make offerings of bread (sometimes also salt), which would then be rubbed on the child. There are also certain charms or rituals to ward off the witch and cure a child’s insomnia. Alternatively, young children could be protected against Nocnitsa with a protective circle or by simply placing a knife under the cradle.

She is also called Nochnitsy (or a variation), Kriksy (meaning “scream”) and Plaksy (“the sniveler”, “one who snivels”), sometimes combined into the name ‘Kriksa-Plaksa’. In Belarus, Nochnitsy were a group of tiny spirits instead of a witch, but the principle remained the same. The Nochnitsy caused children to sleep badly, but they were deeply afraid of fire. To cure an infant cursed by the Nochnitsy, parents would make them sleep in front of the fireplace, or sometimes put onto a large tray or shovel and put in an oven for a short while (note: a smoldering warm oven, not a burning one. Please do not put babies in burning ovens).

Interestingly, Nochnitsa (if it is indeed the same character) plays a minor role in the Slavic story of Pizamar, a mortal woman who fell in love with the god Svarozhich. Unfortunately, the gods forbade love between mortals and deities, so Pizamar tried to take her own life. She walked towards a cliff at night, but right before she could jump off, Nochnitsa cast a sleep spell on her.

Every time she tried to commit suicide, Nochnitsa put her to sleep. Lada and Chors, two goddesses, watched this scenario unfold several times before taking pity on Pizamar. They stole divine mead of immortality from the other gods and gave it to her, turning her immortal. Pizamar then became the entertainer of the gods, dancing and singing for them, which she did with such passion and talent that she eventually became the goddess of the arts.

Sources: Rose, C., 1996, Spirits, Fairies, Gnomes and Goblins: An Encyclopedia of the Little People, Bloomsbury Academic, 370 pp., p. 130, p. 186. Bane, T., 2013, Encyclopedia of Fairies in World Folklore and Mythology, McFarland, 428 pp., p. 277. Kliauz, V., 2001, Video-Recording Ritual Incantations and Folk Cures (1), Institute of World Literature, Moscow, SEEFA Journal, VI (2), 28-34. Bane, T., 2016, Encyclopedia of Beasts and Monsters in Myth, Legend and Folklore, McFarland, 428 pp., p. 241. Valodzina Tatyana, 2006, ‘Unchristened Flesh’: the Woman’s Breast and Breastfeeding in Traditional Slavic Culture, with Especial Reference to Belorussian, Forum for Antropology and Culture, No3, 168-192. Monaghan, P., 2014, Encyclopedia of Goddesses and Heroines, New World Library, 448 pp., p. 306. Min’ko, L. I., 1973, Magical Curing (Its Sources and Character and the Causes of its Prevalence, Soviet Anthropology and Archeology, 12:1, 3-33. (image source 1: Vasilyna Holod on Artstation) (image source 2: Alexandru Munteanu on Artstation)

[fromthedust]

Natural History Museum - London 

The Museum first opened its doors on 18 April 1881, but its origins stretch back to 1753 and the career of Sir Hans Sloane, a doctor and collector. Sloane travelled the world as a high society physician. He collected natural history specimens and cultural artefacts along the way. After his death in 1753, Parliament  bought his extensive collection of more than 71,000  items, and then built the British Museum so these items could be displayed to the public. In 1856 Sir Richard Owen - the natural scientist who came up with the name for dinosaurs - left his role as curator of the Hunterian Museum and took charge of the British Museum’s natural history collection. Unhappy with the lack of space for its ever-growing collection of natural history specimens, Owen convinced the British Museum's board of trustees that a separate building was needed to house these national treasures. He drew-up a rough architectural plan in 1859 entitled 'Idea of a Museum of Natural History'. The plan was later referred to by architect Alfred Waterhouse in the design of the Natural History Museum. In 1864 Francis Fowke, the architect who designed the Royal Albert Hall and parts of the Victoria and Albert Museum, won a competition to design the Natural History Museum. However, when he unexpectedly died a year later, the relatively unknown Alfred Waterhouse - a Quaker architect from the north of England - took over and came up with a new plan for the Museum. Waterhouse used terracotta for the entire building as this material was more resistant to Victorian London's harsh climate. Construction began in 1873, and the result is one of Britain’s most striking examples of Romanesque architecture — considered a work of art in its own right and has become one of London's most iconic landmarks. Owen's foresight has allowed the Museum to display very large creatures such as whales, elephants and dinosaurs, including the beloved Diplodocus cast that was on display at the Museum for 100 years. He also demanded that the Museum be decorated with ornaments inspired by natural history. And he insisted that the specimens of extinct and living species kept apart at a time when Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution was revealing the links between them. Along with incorporating Owen’s ideas into his plans, Waterhouse also designed an incredible series of animal and plant ornaments, statues and relief carvings throughout the entire building – with extinct species in the east wing and living species in the west. Waterhouse sketched every one of these sculptures in great detail, even asking Museum professors to check the scientific accuracy of his drawings, before creating the fantastic decorations that complement the Museum’s exhibitions.  While the building reflects Waterhouse’s characteristic architectural style, it is also a monument to Owen’s vision of what a museum should be. In the mid-nineteenth century, museums were expensive places visited only by the wealthy few, but Owen insisted the Natural History Museum should be free and be accessible to all. The Museum took nearly eight years to build, and moving the collections from the British Museum in Bloomsbury was a huge job. Relocating the zoological specimens, which included huge whale bones and taxidermy mammals, took 394 trips by horse and cart spread over 97 days. The Natural History Museum finally opened in 1881. The building’s decorative and Romanesque style by Waterhouse is reminiscent of medieval European abbeys, but it is also a monument to Owen’s vision of what a museum should be: the world’s largest and finest institution dedicated to natural history.

https://www.nhm.ac.uk/about-us/history-and-architecture.html

https://www.nhm.ac.uk/visit/virtual-museum.html

[fatehbaz]

Just in case. Some might enjoy. Had to organize some notes.

These are just some of the newer texts that had been promoted in the past few years at the online home of the American Association of Geographers. [At: aag dot org/new-books-for-geographers/]

Tried to narrow down selections to focus on (1) Indigenous, Black, Latin American, oceanic/archipelagic geographies; (2) imaginaries and environmental perception; (3) and mobility, borders, carceral/abolition geography.

These texts feature concepts/subjects like: Indigeneity and "geographies of time" in the Ecuadorian Andes. "Migration and music in the construction of precolonial AfroAsia." The "practice of collective escape" and "reimagining geographies of order." The "making and unmaking of French India." The "literary geography" of the rubber boom in Amazonia. "Coercive geographies" and mass imprisonment. "Anti-fatness as anti-Blackness." The "(un)governable city" of colonial Delhi.

---

New stuff, early 2024:

A Caribbean Poetics of Spirit (Hannah Regis, University of the West Indies Press, 2024)

Constructing Worlds Otherwise: Societies in Movement and Anticolonial Paths in Latin America (Raúl Zibechi and translator George Ygarza Quispe, AK Press, 2024)

Fluid Geographies: Water, Science, and Settler Colonialism in New Mexico (K. Maria D. Lane, University of Chicago Press, 2024)

Hydrofeminist Thinking With Oceans: Political and Scholarly Possibilities (Tarara Shefer, Vivienne Bozalek, and Nike Romano, Routledge, 2024)

Making the Literary-Geographical World of Sherlock Holmes: The Game Is Afoot (David McLaughlin, University of Chicago Press, 2025)

Mapping Middle-earth: Environmental and Political Narratives in J. R. R. Tolkien’s Cartographies (Anahit Behrooz, Bloomsbury Publishing, 2024)

Midlife Geographies: Changing Lifecourses across Generations, Spaces and Time (Aija Lulle, Bristol University Press, 2024)

Society Despite the State: Reimagining Geographies of Order (Anthony Ince and Geronimo Barrera de la Torre, Pluto Press, 2024)

---

New stuff, 2023:

The Black Geographic: Praxis, Resistance, Futurity (Camilla Hawthorne and Jovan Scott Lewis, Duke University Press, 2023)

Activist Feminist Geographies (Edited by Kate Boyer, Latoya Eaves and Jennifer Fluri, Bristol University Press, 2023)

The Silences of Dispossession: Agrarian Change and Indigenous Politics in Argentina (Mercedes Biocca, Pluto Press, 2023)

The Sovereign Trickster: Death and Laughter in the Age of Dueterte (Vicente L. Rafael, Duke University Press, 2022)

Ottoman Passports: Security and Geographic Mobility, 1876-1908 (İlkay Yılmaz, Syracuse University Press, 2023)

The Practice of Collective Escape (Helen Traill, Bristol University Press, 2023)

Maps of Sorrow: Migration and Music in the Construction of Precolonial AfroAsia (Sumangala Damodaran and Ari Sitas, Columbia University Press, 2023)

---

New stuff, late 2022:

B.H. Roberts, Moral Geography, and the Making of a Modern Racist (Clyde R. Forsberg, Jr.and Phillip Gordon Mackintosh, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2022)

Environing Empire: Nature, Infrastructure and the Making of German Southwest Africa (Martin Kalb, Berghahn Books, 2022)

Sentient Ecologies: Xenophobic Imaginaries of Landscape (Edited by Alexandra Coțofană and Hikmet Kuran, Berghahn Books 2022)

Colonial Geography: Race and Space in German East Africa, 1884–1905 (Matthew Unangst, University of Toronto Press, 2022)

The Geographies of African American Short Fiction (Kenton Rambsy, University of Mississippi Press, 2022)

Knowing Manchuria: Environments, the Senses, and Natural Knowledge on an Asian Borderland (Ruth Rogaski, University of Chicago Press, 2022)

Punishing Places: The Geography of Mass Imprisonment (Jessica T. Simes, University of California Press, 2021)

---

New stuff, early 2022:

Belly of the Beast: The Politics of Anti-fatness as Anti-Blackness (Da’Shaun Harrison, 2021)

Coercive Geographies: Historicizing Mobility, Labor and Confinement (Edited by Johan Heinsen, Martin Bak Jørgensen, and Martin Ottovay Jørgensen, Haymarket Books, 2021)

Confederate Exodus: Social and Environmental Forces in the Migration of U.S. Southerners to Brazil (Alan Marcus, University of Nebraska Press, 2021)

Decolonial Feminisms, Power and Place (Palgrave, 2021)

Krakow: An Ecobiography (Edited by Adam Izdebski & Rafał Szmytka, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2021)

Open Hand, Closed Fist: Practices of Undocumented Organizing in a Hostile State (Kathryn Abrams, University of California Press, 2022)

Unsettling Utopia: The Making and Unmaking of French India (Jessica Namakkal, 2021)

---

New stuff, 2020 and 2021:

Mapping the Amazon: Literary Geography after the Rubber Boom (Amanda Smith, Liverpool University Press, 2021)

Geopolitics, Culture, and the Scientific Imaginary in Latin America (Edited by María del Pilar Blanco and Joanna Page, 2020)

Reconstructing public housing: Liverpool’s hidden history of collective alternatives (Matt Thompson, University of Liverpool Press, 2020)

The (Un)governable City: Productive Failure in the Making of Colonial Delhi, 1858–1911 (Raghav Kishore, 2020)

Multispecies Households in the Saian Mountains: Ecology at the Russia-Mongolia Border (Edited by Alex Oehler and Anna Varfolomeeva, 2020)

Urban Mountain Beings: History, Indigeneity, and Geographies of Time in Quito, Ecuador (Kathleen S. Fine-Dare, 2019)

City of Refuge: Slavery and Petit Marronage in the Great Dismal Swamp, 1763-1856 (Marcus P. Nevius, University of Georgia Press, 2020)

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … December 13

1904 – The Iowa Supreme Court rules that "irresistible insane impulse" is a possible defense against a charge of sodomy.

1904 – Glen Byam Shaw (d.1986) was an English actor and theatre director, known for his dramatic productions in the 1950s and his operatic productions in the 1960s and later. Created CBE in 1954, he also received the Hon DLitt of the University of Birmingham in 1959.

In the 1920s and 1930s Byam Shaw was a successful actor, both in romantic leads and in character parts. He worked frequently with his old friend John Gielgud. After working as co-director with Gielgud at the end of the 1930s, he preferred to direct rather than act. He served in the armed forces during the Second World War, and then took leading directorial posts at the Old Vic, the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre and Sadler's Wells (later known as the English National Opera).

Byam Shaw was born in London, the youngest of five siblings. He was educated at Westminster School, where his contemporaries included his elder brother, James Byam Shaw, later a well-known art historian, and John Gielgud, who became a lifelong friend and professional colleague.

Byam Shaw's first appearance was at Torquay in the west of England, in C. K. Munro's comedy At Mrs. Beam's. In 1925 he made his London debut, playing Yasha in J.B. Fagan's production of The Cherry Orchard, in a cast that included Alan Napier as Gaiev, O.B. Clarence as Firs and Gielgud as the young student Trofimov. Over the next few years Byam Shaw appeared in three more plays by Chekhov, and in plays by Strindberg and Ibsen. He made his New York debut in November 1927 as Pelham Humphrey in And So To Bed.

Actress Constance Collier was impressed by Byam Shaw and used her influence to gain him roles. Among those to whom she introduced him was Ivor Novello, then a leading figure in London theatre. She directed them both in the play Down Hill in 1926. Byam Shaw and Novello became lovers for a short time. This drew him into contact with the poet Siegfried Sassoon, another friend of Collier; he and Byam Shaw became close. Their friendship lasted for the rest of Sassoon's life, although they ceased to be sexual partners quite quickly; Sassoon became involved with Stephen Tennant, and Byam Shaw fell in love with an actress, Angela Baddeley. They married in 1929. The marriage, which lasted until her death in 1976, was, Denison writes, "a supremely happy one, both domestically and professionally"; the couple had a son and a daughter.

1912 – England requires flogging for a second violation of the 1898 law prohibiting Gay solicitation.

Peter Dorey (L) with Ernest Cole

1947 – Peter Dorey (d.2021) was the co-founder of Gay’s the Word, the first bookshop in the UK dedicated to selling books and magazines for the LGBT+ community.

Dorey founded the shop in Bloomsbury, central London, together with Ernest Hole and Jonathan Cutbill, in 1979. Naming the shop after the Ivor Novello musical, the trio aimed to provide a safe space where LGBT+ people could meet and share a love of books, including many titles that were not available elsewhere.

Peter Dorey was born in 1947 in London to Frederick and Irene Dorey and educated at Preston Manor Grammar School in Wembley. Whilst at the University of Leeds he became interested in broadcasting, working for the student radio station on campus. Upon graduating he joined the BBC as a sound engineer, spending more than 20 years at studios in Belfast and Bristol. It was at a meeting of Gay Icebreakers, a social group, that he and his colleagues came up with the idea of a specialist bookshop for the LGBT+ community, with Dorey providing the funding.

During the miners’ strike of 1984-85, the bookstore became the meeting hub for Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM), a group which raised funds for striking coalminers in south Wales. Their story is celebrated in the film Pride (2014), directed by Matthew Warchus.

As the subject of long-term surveillance and institutional homophobia, Gay’s the Word was raided in 1984 by HM Customs and Excise, which claimed that “indecent or obscene” material was being held there. Thousands of pounds of stock was removed by Customs officers whilst Dorey and his colleagues were charged with conspiracy to import indecent books, under the archaic Customs Consolidation Act of 1876.

Questions in parliament from Chris Smith and Frank Dobson and pressure from campaigners forced a review of the case. A crowdfunding campaign raised £55,000, including £3,000 donated by the author Gore Vidal. Smith came out as Britain’s first openly gay MP a few months later. The charges against Dorey and his co-directors were eventually dropped.

Dorey met Timothy Groom in 1985 and they were partners until Groom's death in 2010.

1948 – Tom Walmsley, born in Liverpool, England, is a Canadian playwright, novelist, poet and screenwriter.

Born in Liverpool, Walmsley came to Canada with his family in 1952, and was raised in Oshawa, Ontario, and Lorraine, Quebec. He dropped out of high school and battled addictions as a young adult.

In addition to his plays, Walmsley was the winner of the first Three-Day Novel Contest in 1979 for his novel Doctor Tin. He later published a sequel, Shades, and another unrelated novel, Kid Stuff. Walmsley wrote the screenplay for Jerry Ciccoritti's film Paris, France in 1993. Ciccoritti also later adapted Walmsley's play Blood into a film.

Walmsley's style of writing ranges from the naturalistic to the poetic and, at times, the absurd. He moves easily between dramatic and comedic, and some of his "darkest" work is treated with a cutting sense of humour. His most common themes include sex (both hetero- and homosexual, often involving sado-masochistic fetishes, adulterous affairs, and, in the case of Blood, incest), violence, addiction (to alcohol and heroin in particular), and God (from a Christian perspective). He rarely deals with politics directly, although he openly displays a distaste for middle-class morality and social conservative interpretations of Christianity.Early in his career, Walmsley summarized his sense of personal identity as "blond, stocky, below average height, uncircumcised, bisexual, tattooed, with bad teeth and very large feet".

1975 – Lionel Baier, born in Lausanne, is a Swiss film director. He began his career with a short called "Good Enough To Eat" and two docs: one for Swiss television called The Pastor, the other about gay pride in the Valais.

At 28 he released his first feature, a breakout festival hit, Garcon Stupide, about a confused, uneducated, perpetually frisky 20 year-old named Loic who wants more than the quick tricks he turns with older men on the streets of Lausanne. The marketing department tried to sell Baier's follow-up, Stealth, as another gay romp but the character's main preoccupation is coping with the discovery that his family's background is Polish, which leads to a road trip, which leads to a providential hookup.

In 2009, Baier made Another Man about a straight writer who stumbles into a job as a small-town newspaper movie reviewer For something different, the next year Baier shot Low Cost on his cell phone in a month. Low Cost is a 60-minute drama about a 34 year-old who knows when he's going to die. In 2013 he released Great Waves, his first period drama, set in April 1974 during Portugal's Carnation Revolution.

1990 – Anton Hysén is a Swedish footballer who plays in the Swedish third division for Utsiktens BK, which is coached by his father Glenn Hysén. He is a former member of the Swedish national under-17 association football team and was given a trainee contract with BK Häcken from 2007 to 2009,[3] but was hindered by injuries and instead joined Utsiktens BK, for whom he plays in his third season. He was previously a member of Torslanda IK. His older brothers are football players Tobias Hysén (half-brother) and Alexander Hysén. He won the seventh season of Let's Dance, being the first openly gay person to win this competition.

He came out as gay to the Swedish football magazine Offside in March 2011. Daily Mail has described Anton as the "first high-profile Swedish footballer to announce that he is gay" and as the second active professional football player to come out, after English footballer Justin Fashanu in 1990. The BBC called him "a global one-off".

Hysén was profiled on Swedish broadcaster TV4 on March 9, 2011, in a debate show moderated by Lennart Ekdal titled "Can gays play football too?".

He works part-time as a construction worker.

1999 – US Defense Secretary William Cohen ordered a full review of the "Don't ask, don't tell" policy. The policy had recently been criticized for creating a hostile environment.

2002 – The Belgium Senate approves same-sex marriage, making Belgium the second country to do so.

[astrovian]

Richard Armitage's Recommended Reading List from the official Geneva paperback release promotional material sent to book retailers/libraries in 2024

Robert Louis Stevenson: The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

I narrated this for Audible, and I love the fact that the format feels like a case study of a psychologically compromised patient, rather than a traditional novel. It made me question whether it was a true story or fiction. I also love Stevenson's obsession - one shared by many authors and psychologists - with the alter ego. It's been suggested that Stevenson was subversively writing about suppressed sexuality (which was at the time considered unacceptable in social circles). His Mr Hyde was perhaps something that was literally 'in hiding' and forcing its way out.

C.J. Tudor: The Drift

A departure for Tudor into Zombie territory, i suspect conceived during the pandemic, and set across three different time zones. This is a chilling, thrilling genre puzzle about a group of survivors, a bus crash buried in the snow, a stranded cable car and a group of misfits walled up in a dystopian hellish retreat that feels like the end of the world. Lurking in the shadows is something so deadly it feels like an impending apocalypse.

Robert Harris: Act of Oblivion

Harris is one of my favourite authors. He's so immersed in historical detail his stories always feel like documents from an archive rather than invention. Act of Oblivion is the ultimate destination thriller. Set in 1660, during the Interregnum, the novel reminds me of a relentless road movie. Richard Nayler, head of the regicide committee of the Privy Council, is consumed by a quest to find the last remaining fugitives who signed the death warrant of Charles I. It becomes a lifelong, all-consuming obsession that takes the form of an epic journey from London to the New World and the developing colonies.

Susanna Clarke: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

It's the 20th anniversary of this seminal novel, and it's been very much on my mind as I have narrated a new audiobook edition for Bloomsbury. A spectacular Dickensian destination thriller set in London and the European continent during the Napoleonic wars, I love the array of extraordinary characters (some factual, some fictional) and the weaving of magic into the politics of the time. Dr Strange and Mr. Norrell attempt to restore practical magic to England by convincing the government and the military of its usefulness in war. The rivalry between the two men in exacerbated by the emergence of an older, darker force which, along with Clarke's historical tapestry drawn from factual events and folklore, gives the story a bedrock that is convincing and compelling.

Stephen King: The Shining

Chiller, thriller a s destination; I can't get through the winter without a Stephen King novel. I've read The Shining a few times and as frightening as it is, there is something about the remote isolated setting of the Overlook Hotel in the midst of this brutal winter that intrigues me. The descent of Jack Torrance into madness, and the terrifying consequences of this for his wife and young son, makes for a trembling page-turner. One thing the book does better than the film is balance the fear with the spiritual: the 'shining'. In the novel, Jack's son Danny has a special psychic glow and in a child it feels like an impenetrable power for good in the facenof evil. You've probably seen the film, but the book is well worth a read too.

[hd-erised]

H/D Erised Fic: At Night All Birds Are Black

Author: veradubhghoill Recipient: IzRoan Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ronald Weasley, mild Pansy Parkinson/Neville Longbottom Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~51,700 Tags: Dark Magic, Ghosts, Casefic, Pining, Potions, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Forced Proximity, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Child Abuse, Body Horror, Gore, They’re in Love Your Honour, Alcohol, Death of a Child (OC), Kidnapping of a Child (OC), Pregnancy of a Minor Character, Previous Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Additional Warnings in Author's Notes

Summary: Harry loves being an Auror—the long hours, adrenaline-fuelled chases, and even the paperwork. But when a haunting leads to his suspension, he’s forced to continue his investigation in secret. As he unravels the murder of a young girl, he turns to the one person he never expected he’d need: Draco Malfoy.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

At Night All Birds Are Black

[richincolor]

New Releases - Week of June 25, 2024

We have four books that we're watching for this week. This week will bring us a romance and a whole lot of fantasy. 

Sleep Like Death by Kalynn Bayron Bloomsbury YA

Only the truly desperate – and foolish – seek out the Knight, an ancient monster who twists wishes into curses. Eve knows this first-hand: one of her mothers was cursed by the Knight and trapped in the body of a songbird. With the unique abilities to communicate with animals and conjure weapons from nature, Eve has trained all her life to defeat him.

With more and more villagers harmed by the Knight’s corrupt deals, Eve believes she’s finally ready to face him. But when Queen Regina begins acting strangely – talking to seemingly no one, isolating herself, and lashing out at the slightest provocation – Eve must question if her powers are enough to save her family and her kingdom.

Crashing Into You by Rocky Callen Henry Holt & Co.

In this fiercely moving YA romance novel, Leti Rivera’s love of street racing is put to the test when tragedy strikes her family and threatens to tear her apart from the boy she’s falling for.

Seventeen-year-old Leti Rivera dreams of becoming a famous female street racer. Her brother taught her how to drive so fast that nothing can catch her.

But when Jacob Fleckenstein crashes into her life, Leti starts to think that running isn’t always the answer. Together, inside her car, they both feel like they’re flying, and Jacob’s gentleness and honesty threaten Leti’s vow to keep her heart tight in her fist and her grief locked away.

Yet after tragedy strikes following a race, Leti blames herself and swears an oath, a juramento, to give up driving. But will she be able to keep her promise when racing could be the very thing that saves Jacob . . . and herself? Perfect for fans of Netflix’s Atypical and I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter.

We Shall Be Monsters by Tara Sim Nancy Paulsen Books

After her sister Lasya’s sudden death, Kajal vows to do whatever it takes to bring her back. No cost is too great, even if it means preventing Lasya’s soul from joining the cycle of reincarnation. But as Kajal prepares for the resurrection, her sister’s trapped soul warps into a bhuta—a violent, wraith-like spirit hell-bent on murdering those who wronged it in life. With each kill, the bhuta becomes stronger and fiercer, and Kajal’s chances of resurrecting Lasya with her soul intact grow slimmer.

Blamed for Lasya’s rampage and condemned as a witch, Kajal is locked away with little hope of escape. That is, until two strangers who label themselves rebels arrive and offer to free her. The catch: She must resurrect the kingdom’s fallen crown prince, aiding their coup to overthrow the usurper who sits the throne. Desperate to return to Lasya’s body, Kajal rushes to revive the crown prince . . . only to discover that she’s resurrected another boy entirely.

All her life, Kajal has trusted no one but her sister. But with Lasya dead and rebels ready to turn her over to the usurper’s ruthless soldiers, Kajal is forced to work with the boy she mistakenly revived. Together, they must find the crown prince before the rebels discover her mistake, or the bhuta finally turns its murderous fury on the person truly responsible for Lasya’s death: Kajal.

Children of Anguish and Anarchy (Legacy of Orïsha #3) by Tomi Adeyemi Henry Holt & Co.

New allies rise. The Blood Moon nears. Zélie faces her final enemy. The king who hunts her heart.

When Zelie seized the royal palace that fateful night, she thought her battles had come to an end. The monarchy had finally fallen. The maji had risen again. Zélie never expected to find herself locked in a cage and trapped on a foreign ship. Now warriors with iron skulls traffic her and her people across the seas, far from their homeland.

Then everything changes when Zélie meets King Baldyr, her true captor, the ruler of the Skulls, and the man who has ravaged entire civilizations to find her. Baldyr’s quest to harness Zélie’s strength sends Zélie, Amari, and Tzain searching for allies in unknown lands.

But as Baldyr closes in, catastrophe charges Orïsha’s shores. It will take everything Zélie has to face her final enemy and save her people before the Skulls annihilate them for good.

[acourtofthought]

Pop Quiz

1. From a logical standpoint, who is a more reliable source of information?

a) A journalist who has never once sat down for an actual interview with Sarah J. Maas and thinks that the Fated Mates author should explore a new avenue in her illustrious career by writing a rejected mates trope?

"and it offers hope that her future romance subplots will break the mold."

I don't think Bloomsbury or SJM, given the source of revenue she's pulling in, is looking to completely shake up the foundation she's built her empire on.

A journalist who in another article claimed this regarding Papa Archeron:

"His daughters hardly grieve his death,"

Which demonstrates that they did not read the novella or SF?

b) One of Sarah J. Maas's best friends who visits her home, holds her children in her arms and does not think E/riel is happening?

[therumpus]

The Myriad Worlds We Each Contain: Mini-Interview with Maya Jewell Zeller

By Janet Rodriguez

Maya Jewell Zeller writes poems that glitter, like crystal snowflakes, and land with such beautiful grace you might not expect them to be the swift agents of change they are. Zeller’s most recent collection of poetry, Out Takes / Glove Box (New American Press, 2023), selected by Eduardo Corral for the New American Poetry Prize, is a gift to her readers. Structured in five distinct sections, each containing thematically focused poems, Zeller paints image after image of beauty and starkness, life and death, science and history, motherhood and loneliness. Diane Seuss describes the book as enchanting, where “the vehicles that carry us into and out of imaginative spaces abound.” Zeller’s newest project, Advanced Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury Academic, 2024), is the equally impressive flip side of a proverbial coin. Complementing the creative surface, Advanced Poetry is a college textbook with a diverse canon. Upon closer examination, the anthology is an ice-cutter of college texts, where readers and educators alike are challenged “to push their writing and reading into new understandings and innovations, across varied and inclusive global aesthetics.”

In May of 2024, Zeller was featured at the Lion Rock Visiting Writers Series at Central Washington University, which was broadcast for those of us who couldn’t be there in person. She had recently returned from a month-long residency at the University of Oxford, where she worked on current and future creative projects, a place where she “was also able to rest and gather up energy for the next stretch of work.” 

Through a series of emails, Zeller and I discussed what structure means for a writer, how creativity is sparked through inspiration, and why landscapes inspire her poetry and conversation.

***

The Rumpus: I love how Out Takes / Glove Box takes the reader on a  multifaceted journey through the imagination. When someone asks you what your book is, what do you say? 

Maya Jewell Zeller: I think of it as maybe an avant-garde, indie, documentary film, or a museum with several curated and related exhibits. I really want readers to feel invited and welcome in it, even as the protagonist is very specifically a version or many versions of myself—my girl-self, my woman-self, my mother-self, middle-aged, in the academy, in late capitalism, feeling the extreme othering and splitting effects of the economic over selfhood, as she wills magic back into her life, and defends her rights to her reproductive system and her mind’s way of mapping image and narrative. I’m so grateful to Diane Seuss for her insightful and generous blurb, as well as to Eduardo Corral, Laura Read, and Carol Guess for how they all saw parts of the book that others didn’t—that kind of close reading and validation of what the book is doing as an art space.  It felt like they understood its very viscera.

Rumpus: The five sections of the book contain complementary poems that are also very different from one another. Why did you structure the book this way?

Zeller: I think of the book’s shape as a Wunderkammer or Commonplace book on a self, fractured by contemporary pressures and mended by everyday joys. I often quote Kazim Ali on his own writing of Bright Felon, a hybrid text which he says, “wrote itself out of requirement.” I feel this way about my own organic forms, both in terms of poetic structure and in terms of a collection’s arc. In a lineage with Denise Levertov and Hopkins, I do believe art rises up and out of us and we need to listen to its need for unconventional orders, disjunctive music, and surreal images. EJ Ianelli asked me about this—which he called “difficult poetry”— in a Spokane Public Radio interview back in fall, and I told him that rendering a difficult world into art often requires us to take shapes that fragment narrative. 

In the case of Out Takes, the book’s five sections feel to me like a cabinet of curiosities or a curated set of museum rooms. It begins with a frontis poem, “Field Girl Come Home,” which is both an invocation/invitation from the mud fields, and a documentation of setting in which we might imagine the book takes place. Section 1 follows that [with] a set of poems that are “documentary” and then a series of “out takes” from that documentary—developing the conceit of film, through deep image poetics. Section 2 are all autobiographical poems of the speaker’s self, past and present. Section 3 practices embodied poetics by taking the voice of a persona: a woman who has been institutionalized because she believes she used to be a mermaid. This mythic, lyric imagining, I hope, creates a space in which we ultimately believe women—who are rarely believed, in our imaginary and real worlds—and also follow these women’s emotional truths to deeper understandings. Section 4 is a set of spells, which reiterate the need for magic as a healing space. It also suggests that revision and re-seeing allow us to fully inhabit. This section repeats two versions of one poem—the way the book keeps insisting that more than one way of existing deserves equal space. Finally, Section 5 returns us to a series of outtakes: surreal dreamscapes that pull from the book’s imagery and narrative suggestions and deepen those threads. We are invited to imagine, again, the whole book as a film with a cutting room floor ready for more collage-making.

I hope the book also serves as an invitation to create form, imagine one’s own art and art life as complicated and worth sharing in whatever shape it needs to take, to invent models, to move outside normative expectations for both poetic and book structures and allow the material itself–and our deep imaginative spaces and diverse reading canons—to guide us. 

Rumpus: The language in your poetry is thoughtful, but dangerous. Precise, but deadly. I feel like my skin is being detached from me as I'm reading. What is it about language that can do this? 

Zeller: Detached skin! I love this, and I’m overjoyed that you had that visceral experience. It recalls the well-known moment in Emily Dickinson’s letter to T. W. Higginson: “If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way.”  I love that—a feeling so many poets have written about since, and I do not pretend to really understand it—poets, who make art with words, sometimes translate an experience or feeling so successfully that someone else is able to also feel it, across time and space and in another body. That is what I always aspire to, and I’m honored you felt it. 

Rumpus: You began your reading with, “I am most comfortable when I am dissecting a dead cow..." I know I might be misquoting you, but you ended this part by saying, "I want to see the worlds inside of this..." How many worlds does a person possess deep inside?

Zeller: I was reading from my essay, “Scavenger Panorama,” originally published in Willow Springs Magazine and then listed as a Notable in Best American Essays 2023. I like to think that Vivian Gornick and anyone else who read it understood the Joan Didion feeling of being on nodding terms with our past (and present?) selves, the myriad worlds we each contain. I hope that it gives other writers—particularly those who don’t always feel themselves represented in literature—permission to share those worlds, to create space to expand them. 

Janet: How do your inherited landscapes influence your art?

Maya: My landscapes are both coastal and inland, in the Pacific Northwest, as well as probably some percent Iowan (my mother is from Des Moines). I hope that my connection to and love for these various watersheds and home-spaces comes through in the poetry—that it may be riparian and delta and converge and sheetwash and rivulet and soaking wet and barn-roof-beat, as well as ferned and mossed and also logged and fished and mud-rutted and salvaged and repurposed and gritty and glittery and full of tall grasses and flung seeds, hay and scrape and grass-cut legs and rusted gears. I hope it is as beautiful and complicated as the people and plants and animals in these places and the people who pass through, too. I think of other contemporary poets who write of rural spaces with both gentleness and unflinching questioning—poets like M.L. Smoker and Joe Wilkins and Vievee Francis and Kathryn Smith and Canese Jarboe, and feel an unwavering depth of gratitude that I get to be alive and working with language during this time, when the pastoral and antipastoral and necropastoral coexist in our conversations about life and love, on and off the page.

Rumpus: You collaborated with Kathryn Nuernberger to compile Advanced Poetry: A Writer's Guide and Anthology. It’s an ideal textbook: the most inclusive, representative sampling of modern and classical poetry. Is this the reason you traveled to England? What is your dream for this book?

Zeller: It’s always an honor to collaborate with Kate, and we were really thrilled to be able to bring more light to the poets in its pages and moreover, to encourage every person writing to curate their own canons. That, really, is our dream for this book—that it gives permission to poets at all stages of their careers to dream their own ways forward in a web of rhizomatic literary and other ancestries. 

Traveling to England was interesting at this stage in my own academic, creative, and personal lives because while I have genealogical roots in Scotland, and I feel at home in the green and gardens (and mud), my own upbringing was in rust and ravine and logging communities—people of physical labor, and not much “of the academy.” I always feel like an imposter in higher-ed, so I felt this even more at a prestigious school like Oxford, where you wear a formal academic gown to a swearing-in—and then to a dinner. These are beautiful events held in ancient halls and heralded sometimes by a horn and chalices of wine and gavels and by people who represent their fields with joy and depth and sometimes a public bravado and others a real nerdy shyness I find very charming. I want the poetry textbook to feel like all of that for its readers—but the swearing-in to poetry can be a ceremony the poet invents themselves, and the attire anything that feels holy to their own culture and creature, and honoring of their deep personal poetics, from any background or way of being. 

[starsreminisce]

*knock knock knock* The girlies are asking me about an announcement lmao and I pulled Death on two different occasions when asking about the season we could possibly expect it. And that was the only card that came out. So Scorpio season/fall looks suspicious but I’m also questioning it because I think the book will be a fall release and idk if SJM would announce it a year in advance. I was thinking if not an announcement maybe an update. Have you ever asked about it? It’d be nice to compare answers 😭 💕

I don’t think SJM will announce the book a year in advance either. We’ll probably get about half a year between the title reveal and the release date. So, Scorpio season could be when we get the title, cover, or even the book itself.

I’m a big believer in November for the announcement, mainly because ACOSAF and ACOMAF were both announced in November. It makes sense to me that SJM would return to that pattern. Plus, with holiday sales, it would be a great opportunity for preorders from long-time readers and collectors, as well as new readers interested in the sets. That adds up to a lot of potential sales.

I haven’t asked tarot about the timing, but I have looked into the surrounding energies. Essentially, I’m getting the sense that SJM is feeling burnt out and is using the next manuscript as a negotiation tactic for something. Meanwhile, Bloomsbury seems to be taking a “whatever you want” approach.

As for astrology, while it’s frustrating that we don’t have her birth time, and I haven’t figured out her rising sign, I still find transits interesting. I would love to see if her book announcements or releases align with her tropical zodiac releasing or Vedic mahadashas, but I’ll take what I can get.

I asked a friend about potential transits, and transiting Mercury conjuncting her natal Saturn in the first week of November could bring a major announcement. Also, transiting Mercury conjuncting her Uranus in the third week of November might bring a surprise or off-the-cuff announcement.

A lot of planets seem to be conjucting on her solar return. I pretty much accepted if not in November then next year, around her birthday.

So far, there have been two book announcements in March, two in April, one in May, one in June, one in October, and two in November.

Saturn has also been retrograde for most of the year, and since it’s in Pisces, where she has her Sun, Jupiter, and Venus, I’d blame that for the delay. The retrograde ends in November, so hopefully, once that moves forward, so will whatever has been stagnant so far for her.

So yea, that's what I have so far! With that, so many things have been popping up with ACOTAR related stuff so, maybe it's a sign we would get something soon.

Thanks for asking!