#a tale of two marjories

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

for the record whichever one wins I'm gonna do some ask games for to try and get myself back into creative mode on something.

a brief blurb on each, for context:

crosscountry apocalypse: the world Stops. Dany (not her real name) is trying to get to her family. instead (or maybe as well) she gets a traveling companion named Robin. neither of them knows what they're doing but at least Dany can act like she does. they're both scared. over the course of a year, they grow closer and learn to trust and find purpose in a world that's so much quieter than the one they know and so much more dangerous. all things end or stop. some things have to keep going too.

a tale of two Marjories: two cousins who share the same name meet up annually during family reunions at an ancestral lakehouse for most of their lives. this story covers their final summer together as they learn to grow up and let go and keep their heads above water through change and trials and pain.

untitled wedding story: a multicultural family tries to navigate cultural and interpersonal tensions while preparing for the marriage of one of their daughters. Hailey, the older sister of the bride to be, is trying to figure out the trajectory her life should take as both her siblings seem to already know, so she takes up the role of Wedding Planner(TM). as the two vastly different sides of the family butt heads and tension builds as more guests arrive, the wedding itself may be the most normal part of the situation.

eldritch places: a post-grad enviromental sciences student (is that even a thing?) is tapped by a shadowy government organization to take part in a remote research project inside the enormous sarcophagus hiding a mysterious island from the world. along with her handler/research partner, Tom, Olive will experience things she's never even conceived of being afraid of. the epic highs and lows of noneuclidean research, as it were. at least she's not alone.

[myrunawaysweets]

I loved your recent post abt human Alastor x reader in the 1920s. Of course this is only a suggestion, what if you continued on with this? Maybe like having them move in with each other, start a family? Perhaps have a tragic ending that resulted both to go to Hell, or maybe reader be a fallen angel! Just all suggestions! Have a great day/night/evening<3

I dont know how long this was in here, I was scrolling through settings to mess around and found this, so I hope you didn't wait too long!

But this is one of my specialties and I'm honestly really flattered that you made a request!

The next day, the cops found a bloodied body in the alley beside the club. The corpse was too disfigured to recognize, knees bashed in backwards, jaw hanging loosely, ribs tearing out of the chest and a smile etched into the poor bloodied face as it hung on the wall.

Surely this was the work of the smiling killer in New Orleans, who else could it be?

No one had ever laid eyes on the killer and lived to tell the tale... except you.

You had been held by the psychopath in a loving embrace, wrapped up in a blanket on his couch.

For some reason, when you looked into this man's eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes as he softly smiled at you... you felt no fear, no urge to run or hide.

Yes you knew he had killed people, that he was no better than a monster... yet you couldn't help but think what made him this way. Everyone knows not to trust a bad apple, but not everyone suspects the tree that bears bad fruit... so you couldn't blame him, after all, why would you blame the apple for the trees wrongdoing.

Instead, you held onto him and stuck close.

Now you peacefully kneaded dough as your loving boyfriend drank his bitter coffee in your bakery as a customer walked in. Marjorie, a nice old lady who came by every second day for a box of beignettes.

"(Y/n)! Have you heard the news?"

You looked up from your dough, flour had stuck to your apron as you wiped your hands "What news, ma'am?"

"Theres been another murder!" As the words left her lips you could see alastor tense up as you studied him.

The poor lady was shaking as she opened her purse "it was a young fellow around your age! He had such a long life ahead of him too..."

You could see alastors hands shakily lift his cup to his lips.

"What a terrible thing! Here, have these on the house, as a thank you for your patronage" you smiled, handing her the box and pushing her change back towards her gently.

The lady smiled with a thank you before turning to leave.

"Say hello to Mr Broussard for me will you?" You waved at her as she closed the door.

As soon as the door closed you slammed the oven shut with the bread inside.

"ALASTOR HARTFELT!"

The coffee spewed from his lips as he stood up to face you "honey listen-"

"Don't you 'honey' me! You promised you'd stop this!" You placed your apron on the counter as you circled around to meet him at the cashier "You said you were out to go hunting!" You poked his chest as you cornered him.

"(Y/n) it wasn't a lie! I was hunting! For the scum of the earth!" Alastor held his hands up in defense from your accusations, trying to reason with you and get back onto your good side.

"You know damn well what I think of your little hunting!" You grabbed your purse and started for the door before he blocked your path.

"(Y/n), dearest, where are you going?" His smile could not hide the panic in his eyes.

"Away from you, I'll be at mimzys until you can decide which one you'd prefer to give up "you pushed him aside and opened the door "me? Or your little 'huntin'?" You slammed the door as you walked to mimzys club.

Just because you didn't care that he did the murders before, didn't mean you were okay with him continuing them. Part of you thought you could eventually get him to see the good in the world again and leave behind this cold blooded killing, he loved you enough to do that at least right? Then maybe when you two grow old and wrinkly, God could open the golden gates for both of you... if your foolish boyfriend could ever stop hurting innocent people...

You sat on the stool with mimzy, drinking a glass of wine.

"I just don't get it! How can he keep choosing to go 'hunting' almost every night, mimz?! Doesn't he see the danger?" You sighed.

The short blonde looked at you "what can I say dollface? Boys will be boys! They've gotta have some sort of hobby, an most of the time, it's a gruesome one! Why can't they just take up knittin or even painting? Always hunting or boxing I say" mimzy took a swig "and every night? That's harsh! Doesn't he see how pretty you are?"

The two of you giggled.

Nights like these were always nice, just you and mimzy sitting in the empty bar, drinking and talking the night away.

"At this point mimzy, I think its better for me to just stay alone though, it doesn't seem like he's changing anytime soon and I don't know how long I can take this" you looked down at the glass, running your finger along the brim...

"Its okay girly" mimzy rested her hand on your shoulder "I'm sure he'll come around eventually, either way, I'm here for ya"

She really was one of your best friends.

Your conversation was interrupted when you heard a slight creak in the floorboards behind you two, making you turn around.

"This place is really getting old, I'm gonna need to find a way to get a new place" mimzy sighed.

The night went by fast as you two talked, and before you know it, you were right back in front of your bakery, sign lights were off as you opened the door, silently clicking the lock before making your way to the upstairs where your humble abode resided.

Alastor most likely went to blow off some steam, he tended to do that after your arguments/fallout.

You had left in such a hurry that you forgot to take out the bread from the oven, but luckily, alastor had seen you bake many times and finished the loaf before placing it on the cooling rack.

By the time you finished downstairs, it was midnight as you started walking upstairs, exhausted from the days work and alastor fiasco.

When you opened your door, you were met with a nervous Alastor standing straight and tense in front of you.

"I have something to say-" you both said in unison.

Alastor seemed to tremble as the words left your lips, still unable to make eye contact.

"I know it's not very gentlemanly of me, but may I go first?" His words almost came out as a mumble as his smile was strained.

You nodded, indicating he may continue.

"Thank you" Alastor took a shaky breath before looking you in the eyes "darling, I know I haven't made it easy for you with my... hunting... but I promise-"

Anger boiling in your blood, you interrupted him "do you know how many times you've told me that lie, Alastor?" Your nose scrunched up in anger as you tried to hold back tears "how many more times am I going to keep hearing this?"

Alastors wide eyes showed the fear he had of losing you, making your heart ache even more than it already was.

"I promise... my dear, this is the truth" Alastor took a gentle step forward, eyes trained on the ground.

placing your hands in his "I've put a lot of thought into it... and although I don't like the idea of being unable to kill those filthy vermin... I realized i can't live in a world without you in my arms"

Alastor ran his fingers gently over your knuckles, a gentle smile placed on his lips, almost dropping to a frown.

"I can change... and I know you want me to, I'll put in the effort to become the man you want, the man you need..." Alastor lifted your hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he placed a soft kiss.

The anger you felt died down, but still hesitant, you asked "how can I be sure you mean it?"

Finally looking back into your eyes again, he knelt down on one knee, still holding your hands "I, Alastor Hartfelt, would like to ask you, (y/n) (l/n), for your hand in marriage, I swear on my mother's grave that I will never take your words lightly, love you with undying devotion, and never kill again" he then rested his forehead onto your knuckles gently before he desperately whispered "please"

This proposal was not exactly practical, considering your argument not even 6 hours ago. There was no ring, no classy dinner, it wasn't how anyone would imagine a marriage proposal, yet here you were, heart beating rapidly as you felt tears fill your eyes.

Your words felt stuck in your throat as you looked into your lovers eyes "do you mean it?"

For what felt like the first time, Alastors smile dropped as his face held a serious expression "with all my heart, ma' cherie"

Your knees buckled as you fell into his arms, tears streaming down your face as you held your lover tightly, whispering out a shaky "Yes" into his chest.

Months went by, the wedding went off without a hitch.

Mimzy was your maid of honor. No one else was really there for your wedding, considering your family had cut ties with you years ago, and all Alastors' relatives were either deceased or overseas.

Nonetheless it was a happy and joyful union.

Alastor had kept true to his word and never killed another human, kissing your shiny ring every night like a reminding prayer.

Your bakery gained popularity since you were now Mrs Hartfelt. But popularity has its downsides... it wasn't long until women started talking about you, jealous of your position as Alastors wife.

The words themself didn't hurt you much, but the constant harassment and inability to leave the house without being called a harlot, that was slowly getting to you.

Alastor had assured you many nights before bed that things would get better, and if need be, he would give up his career as a radio host. The poor man would do anything for your happiness, anything to assure that you'd stay his forever...Even kill if you'd permit him to.

But there was only so much Alastor could do... it wasn't until one evening when you failed to show up to your shared home that he began to lose it.

Alastor was on edge, thinking of all the possibilities, you could've been held back at the bakery by a man who held ill intentions, you could be checking in with mimzy or got taken by a jealous fan. So many thoughts raced through his head as he slowly made his way to the door to look for you, eventually deciding against it, sitting back down as he patiently waited for your return...

Except you didn't.

It wasn't until a whole sleepless night had passed when he decided to go search for you. But of course, he came home empty handed. Were you unhappy in this marriage? Did you elope with a man he didn't know about? Did you realize you didn't love him and run away?

The second option was to call the police, something he's never done before.

The police launched an investigation, it was only until a month later, you were found in an alleyway, someone had called the cops about a crazy woman attacking a man, the situation escalated to the man killing her in self-defense.

They found traces of drugs in your blood, filing you as a drug abuser.

your body was frail and malnourished, pale like it had been weeks since you last seen the sun.

Alastor was called to the scene to see if this lady was indeed his wife.

When he arrived, he felt like the world was about to open up and swallow him whole.

As his eyes fell onto your pale lifeless body, something snapped inside of him.

You were never one to use drugs, never one to attack someone for no reason... something was wrong.

He knelt down and held your hand with tears in his eyes. Although he had seen many dead bodies in his life, this was the one body he never wanted to see like this.

He hated how your body was treated the same as the trash that walked the earth, like a lowly peasant when instead, the world should weep for the loss of you.

'This is all wrong' he thought, as he cradled your body in his lap as your blood stained his white shirt, but he couldn't care less as the last ray of light left his dark world.

It was long after your funeral, he hasn't been able to sleep since then. Every night he'd wait until daybreak for your arrival, like this was all some twisted joke.

It wasn't until one day he realized you needed revenge.

Yes, he promised to never kill anyone, but that was when you were alive, when you were beside him, when he was able to fall asleep with you by his side every night, Before you were selfishly taken from him.

He hasn't slept in days, maybe weeks? He couldn't remember... all he knew was that the man needed to pay for what he did to you...

It took a while but he eventually found the lying heathen.

There he was, sitting at mimzys bar, the same bar he met you, sitting on the same stool that YOU would sit on... it made Alastor sick watching this man live like he didn't take you away from him.

Alastor walked in, and sat beside the wretched man.

"You seem familiar" Al questioned, sipping on his whiskey.

The smug bastard grinned before turning to him "I'm the hero that took down that crazy bitch not long ago"

It took all of Alastors' willpower to seem calm and oblivious.

"My, you must be quite the hero then, let me buy you a drink and you can tell me ALL about it" Alastor motioned for a drink to be served, and the unknowing bastard fell right into Alastors wicked game.

It didn't take long to say the least. This prick was an easy target, and now here he was, being buried in a forest in the middle of nowhere.

You surely would not be happy with your dear husband actions... but who could stop him now?

For months, the spilling killer of New orleans went on a rampage, almost no one was safe, not even dear old Marjorie...

Eventually, alastor had killed all the men and women involved in your kidnapping and drugging... and here he was, burying the last one...

What would he do now? You weren't there for him to return to... all his plans revolved around your future with him

I guess all he could do now

.

.

.

Was Die

As if on cue, a bullet pierced Alastors skull straight through his forehead... as everything went black...

Hello! I've been working on this for a while now, at least a week, and I think I'm just going to make another part for this, keep an eye open for it cause it will hold the afterlife of these two lovers!

[rated-s-for-shenanigans]

band of brothers characters as taylor swift lyrics

dick winters- marjorie. ‘never be so polite, you forget your power/never wield such power you forget to be polite’

lewis nixon- fortnight. ‘i was a functioning alcoholic till nobody noticed my new aesthetic’

carwood lipton- nothing new. ‘how can a person know everything at eighteen and nothing at twenty-two?’

ronald spiers- vigilante shit. ‘they say looks can kill and i might try’

david webster- the lakes. ‘take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die/i don’t belong here and my beloved neither do you.’

joeseph liebgott- mr. perfectly fine. ‘hello, mr. perfectly fine/how’s your heart after breaking mine’

eugene roe- epiphany. ‘crawling up the beaches now/sir i think he’s bleeding out/and some things you just can’t speak about.’

babe heffron- would’ve, could’ve, should’ve- ‘god rest my soul, i miss who i used to be/the tomb won’t close, stained glass windows in my mind/i regret you all the time’

george luz- i can do it with a broken heart. ‘i was grinning like i’m winning/i was hitting my marks/cause i can do it with a broken heart’

joe toye- mastermind. ‘if you fail to plan, you plan to fail/strategy sets the scene for the tale/i’m the wind in our free-flowing sails/and the liquor in our cocktails’

wild bill guarnere- new romantics. ‘we are too busy dancing to get knocked off our feet/baby, we’re the new romantics, the best people in life are free’

donald malarkey- death by a thousand cuts. ‘saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts/flashbacks waking me up/i get drunk but it’s not enough’

skip muck and alex penkala- champagne problems. ‘how evergreen our group of friends/don’t think we’ll say that word again’

drop any suggestions in the comments! or if you'd like to see some other characters

[amiserableseriesofevents]

Hi! If you have no other clegan requests, then I would like this:

"good. now you know what it's like."

(prompt list by @novelbear  - reactions to making someone cry)

Hello dear! I haven't forgotten about you, I just had to sort out and post Chapter 14 of Such stuff before diving into this 🥰 I hope you'll enjoy the angst 😗

1.9k of Angst, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort below the cut

Major Gale Cleven marries his longtime sweetheart, Marjorie Spencer, less than a month after his return to the US after the war. The bride is splendid and radiant and the groom looks as handsome as ever in his uniform — no one needs to know that it doesn't feel right anymore on his body, that the belt's been latched two holes tighter than before the war, that he still feels cold even if it's summer and he's dressed in wool.

Major John Egan, Cleven's best friend, is absolutely charming in his role of best man. He flirts with bridesmaids and old ladies alike, dances dutifully with all the bride's friends that ask him, he laughs, and drinks only a few glasses of whiskey to celebrate — no one needs to know that his hands keep shaking whenever he tries to stay still, that there's a flask tucked into his breast pocket filled with nasty liquor that makes his eyes water every time he takes a sip from it, that his heart is bleeding in his chest for the same exact reason he should be celebrating today.

The bride asks him for a toast, at some point. John forces himself to ignore the spark of worry in the blue depth of the groom's eyes as he stands, clears his throat and raises a glass.

He tells the wedding party tales about the groom. How he once landed a plane with all four engines busted. How he once danced with a dog while completely sober at a party. How he never used to drink anything stronger than a ginger beer but had to take care of drunk comrades too many times to count — and he knows that pretty well, him being the drunk comrade Gale would always take care of. How he is the best man sweet Marge could possibly wish for cause he never gave up on the thought of being reunited with her, not even in the darkest of times.

(What he doesn't say: how the groom had kissed him the night after that nightmare of a flight to Algeria, a kiss with blood and desperation in their mouths, a kiss that had made John feel alive for the first time in months.

How him dancing with Meatball was actually a weird way for Gale to apologize to John for having refused his invitation to go to London together, because he knew what John wanted to do and he wasn't ready to give that to him yet — nevermind all the other kisses they'd shared in abandoned haylofts and dark corner, nevermind all those times they'd found comfort in each other's bodies, nevermind that John had almost sunk on his knees and begged him to go, right there, in front of everyone.

How John had almost drunk himself to death the day Buck went down, and when that didn't kill him he'd driven a jeep drunk out of his mind and then tried to stay on his burning plane to be blown out of the sky and go back to the man he loved.

How his Buck never gave up on the thought of marrying Marge, not even in the darkest days of a bleak German winter, but that didn't stop him to find comfort once again in Bucky's arms, in his mouth, along the sharp lines of his body, between his shaky legs.

How he knows with excruciating precision every sound the groom will make tonight during his wedding night, every whimper and moan, every shaky breath, every whispered curse and breathy laugh.)

John tries to leave the wedding without even saying goodbye but Gale knows him too well. He catches up with him in the parking lot, thanks him wearily for his beautiful toast.

“I forgot to add one thing,” John tells him, because now he really doesn't have anything left to lose. “That I love you, more than anything in the world.”

Gale doesn't say anything back to him, maybe he hopes the sadness in his eyes will be enough.

It's not. John leaves, and doesn't look back.

—

The happy marriage between Gale and Marjorie Cleven crumbles apart in less than one year.

They'll say it was because of the war, that Gale didn't come back as he was before and they couldn't work out anymore.

They'll say it was because of the children, Marge wanted them but Gale never seemed sure enough to actually try, fearing he'd unlock something ugly buried deep inside him, the venom of his father dripping through.

They'll never tell the truth: Gale is in love with someone else. Marge doesn't know who — she had a hunch, but Gale refused to listen to her trying to talk about that, said she wouldn't understand because she wasn't there, she doesn't know. Still, she rightfully refuses to play second fiddle in her own wedding; she gives him the ring back, packs a suitcase and goes home to her parents.

Gale goes home too; not to Casper, Wyoming, nor in South Dakota. He drives a whole day and a whole night to Manitowoc, Wisconsin. To the only place he's ever truly felt at home: with John.

He doesn't have an address so he asks around town if anyone knows where Major Egan lives. A nice lady points him to where the the Egans are staying; Gale doesn't think too much of that weird plural, he figures John's still with his mom and sister as he thinks about what to do after.

He rings the doorbell, practicing in his mind what he's going to tell John once he sees him again.

It's a blonde woman that opens the door, tall and with piercing blue eyes but not the same shade of John's — not his sister, Gale's mind provides.

She looks equally surprised to see him. “Can I help you, Sir?” She asks.

Gale goes through the motions. “Good morning, Ma'am. I'm sorry to disturb you, I'm looking for Major John Egan. We served together, I was passing by and wanted to say hello.”

The woman smiles at his words, almost relieved. “Of course! Any friend of Bucky is welcome here. Bucky! There's someone at the door for you.”

“If it's the pastor I swear I'm going to tell him-” John's familiar voice echoes through the narrow entryway behind the woman as he walks to the door, adjusting his tie, but the words die on his lips as he sees Gale staring right back at him. “Buck,” he says, voice full of wonder and for a second Gale still thinks it's going to be ok. Then the curve of John's mouth sharpens, the surprise sours in his eyes.

“Buck Cleven, what are you doing here?” He asks him, tone wrong, posture tense.

“I was passing through and thought about stopping by,” Gale says, glad now more than ever to have left his duffle bag in the car. “How are you? It's been a while.”

“It sure has,” John says. “I've been good, thank you Buck.” Then his gaze shifts to the woman, like he's just now noticing her here. “Oh, what a disgrace I am! I forgot to properly introduce you two. Jo, this is Buck, one of my best pals from the war. Buck, this is Jo. My wife.”

Those two words lodge themselves into Gale's heart.

“Oh. I didn't know you got married, congratulations", he tells John, voice strangled, hands fisted at his sides.

“Yeah, it's been a short engagement but what can I say, when you know you know, right Buck?”

Gale nods. “Right. Well, I better go now, I don't want to make you late for work. Jo, it's been a pleasure to meet you,” he says, and retreats to his car. He hears hushed voices behind him and tries to walk faster, but the door closes and John reaches him just before he can open the door to his car.

“Buck,” John says again, harsher this time. “Buck, look at me.”

Gale exhales and turns. “What?” He asks, chin raised in defiance.

“Why are you here?”

“Marge left. We couldn't make it work, the war changed too many things. It changed me, too much,” Gale says then he adds, “She knew.”

“She knew what?”

“That I'm in love with someone else. That I'm in love with you,” Gale spits out, cheeks getting hotter and hotter by the minute. It's getting harder to breathe and to keep the stinging in his eyes at bay; he fails, John's face in front of him suddenly blurry.

“Are you crying?” John asks. When Gale doesn't answer, he talks again. “Good. Now you know what it's like.”

“Did you marry her just to spite me?” Gale asks, outraged. “Were you just waiting for me to cave?”

“No, Buck. I married her because she's a nice woman, she treats me well, and she doesn't really care if I had someone else before or during the war.”

“She fucking looks like me.”

“That's a plus,” John admits. “She's also a pilot, so. And she's my wife, and we've been talking about building a family.”

“And what about me?”

“What?”

“What about the fact that I fucking love you?” Gale almost shouts, remembering at the last second that they're not alone in the world — there's also Bucky's wife, apparently, and their neighbors. The words come out of him in a strangled whisper, more tears now running freely down his cheeks.

John laughs. “You know, I could do exactly what you did when I told you that at your wedding. But I know what that felt like, so I won't. I'm going to tell you things exactly how they are: I loved you, I loved you so much. You broke my heart and moved on, and I had to move on too. I have a wife, I love her. I love you less, but I still love you. There's no place in my life for you, not now, not like this.”

Gale feels like he's breathing molten led, not air. “And what am I supposed to do?” He asks.

There's sadness in John's eyes now, and something too akin to love not to make Gale's heart ache. “I don't know, Buck. You'll have to figure it out. It's better this way, I promise.”

“But I love you,” Gale tries again. This time, John yields and hugs him.

“I love you too,” he murmurs in Gale's ear. “But we cannot make it work. I am so sorry, Buck, so fucking sorry.”

It's not your fault, Gale thinks. It's mine.

He extricates himself from John's hold. “There's nothing to be sorry about,” he mumbles. “I'll be fine. And if you ever need me for something, anything, you just have to call, ok? Anything, I mean it.”

(What he doesn't say: if you ever get tired of her, if you ever want to pick things back up from where we left them, if you ever feel lonely or bored one day, call me and I'll be there, waiting for you, atoning the sin of having let you go.)

John's always read him like an open book. “Thank you, Buck. I'll see ya,” he says, and goes back to his house — to his wife.

But Gale reads him perfectly too, and he knows one thing for sure: sooner or later, he'll be back.

Now it's his turn to sit and wait.

[mermaidinthecity]

Prologue

To put it plainly, we just couldn’t stop writing songs. To try and put it more poetically, it feels like we were standing on the edge of the folklorian woods and had a choice: to turn and go back or to travel further into the forest of this music. We chose to wander deeper in and my collaborators and I are proud to announce that my 9th studio album and folklore’s sister record is here. It’s called evermore.

I’ve never done this before. In the past I’ve always treated albums as onе-off eras and moved onto planning the nеxt one as soon as an album was released. There was something different with folklore. In making it, I felt less like I was departing and more like I was returning. I loved the escapism I found in these imaginary/not imaginary tales. I loved the ways you welcomed the dreamscapes and tragedies and epic tales of love lost and found. So I just kept writing them. And I loved creating these songs with Aaron Dessner, Jack Antonoff, WB, and Justin Vernon. We’ve also welcomed some new (and longtime) friends to our musical kitchen table this time around…

Before I knew it there were 17 tales, some of which are mirrored or intersecting with one another. The one about two young con artists who fall in love while hanging out at fancy resorts trying to score rich romantic beneficiaries. The one where longtime college sweethearts had very different plans for the same night, one to end it and one who brought a ring. Dorothea, the girl who left her small town to chase down Hollywood dreams – and what happens when she comes back for the holidays and rediscovers an old flame. The ‘unhappily ever after’ anthology of marriages gone bad that includes infidelity, ambivalent toleration, and even murder. The most righteous motive, to avenge the fallen. The realization that maybe the only path to healing is to wish happiness on the one who took it away from you. One starring my grandmother, Marjorie, who still visits me sometimes…if only in my dreams.

I wanted to surprise you with this the week of my 31st birthday. You’ve all been so caring, supportive and thoughtful on my birthdays and so this time I wanted to give you something! I also know this holiday season will be a lonely one for most of us and if there are any of you out there who turn to music to cope with missing loved ones the way I do, this is for you.

I have no idea what will come next. I have no idea about a lot of things these days and so I’ve clung to the one thing that keeps me connected to you all. That thing always has and always will be music.

And may it continue, evermore.

Taylor

— Taylor Swift, Evermore (2020)

[alex31624]

Duck Comic Reading Club Week 17: Paperinik New Adventures: The Darkest Night

Behold, the return of Francesco Guerrini to PKNA. The second I saw the art, I thought this is the guy from Earthquake. I was right.

From the get go, we know this issue is going to look beautiful.

Now this is a Christmas tale. Merry Christmas, I guess. Weird fact of the day, in Venezuela they celebrated Christmas on October 1 by presidential order. Why? Beats me.

Anyway, shout out to this guy who saw aliens in his front door and his first reaction was to axed them. A true hero.

Throughout the story, we see that clock and I like the idea, but it doesn't add much. There's no deadline, like, at midnight the ship will come and everyone will be dead. That's a shame because, it would have add a lot of tension.

This town is on full Evronian invasion mode, but someone sends a "help us" message.

Hey, just like Ducks on the Road.

In the meantime, the army found out about the invasion, but…

The general has been removed from duty.

To be fair, he did take a bunch of soldiers to do a military attack on foreign territory.

The problem here is General Wisecube is a PK defender, while Coronel Westcock is a PK attacker. With him in charge, PK's future could be in a lot of troubles.

Talking about PK, where's our hero? He's on a top mission.

Christmas shopping. Sadly for him, but lucky for the people in the town, Uno found the message asking for help. Donald immediately enters in hero mode and jumps into the action.

I really like how the conversation is drawn, with only their heads all over the page.

Meanwhile, Morrighan and Camera 9 arrived at the town. How? I didn't mention that before, but Channel 00 was having a party, and Angus fooled Morrighan in follow one of his "fake" clues. They got just in time for the invasion. Talking about good timing.

By the way, this page is just beautiful.

PK arrived at the town, and saves this young lady that introduces herself as Marjory. But you and I know she's '91 Gosalyn, after leaving St. Cannard. She was the one who sent the message.

The way Guerrini show the destruction caused by the PK does what he does best, beats the hell out of Evronians. But of course, '91 Gosalyn joins the battle.is amazing. I love his art, I could spend all day staring at it.

Shout out to Camera 9 who never forgot his duty. He and Lyla are the only upright ones on Channel 00.

PK does what he does best, beats the hell out of Evronians.

But of course, '91 Gosalyn joins the battle.

But this time, it was too much. PK is doomed.

JA! Who could ever believe that? Donald must be the unluckiest duck ever, but when the mask is on, luck lady always smiles at him.

In the first reading, I thought, this Evronians can't beat anyone. But now, they're obviously over powered by the army. If they didn't retreat, it would have been a massacre.

You could said, why the army let them go? I think a full attack on that troope would result in a stronger answer. Sadly, we have been seen much of that in the world lately.

The Coronel later claim that this was nothing but a drill, and everybody buys it. The thing about civilians in super hero comics, they're dumb. All of them.

'91 Gosalyn and her family thank PK for his help. Is good to see him being treated as a hero for a change.

He even got a kiss. Way to go hero.

h

Finally, we found out the General has some loyal soldiers who are willing to help PK. There're some extra pages, turned out, the army got Camera 9's tape and changed it.

The world will remain ignorant about its invaders. For now.

We're back on track guys. Two weeks with good stories.

We just need Urk far away.

[scotianostra]

January 15th 1803 saw the birth of Marjory Fleming, "Pet Marjory", child writer and poet, who died in 1811 of meningitis at the age of 8 years and 11 months.

One of my favourite, yet tragic tales, young Pet Marjory is a touching story of a wee lass that packed so much into her short life.

Marjory Fleming was an extraordinary child prodigy, she left poems, letters and a journal that are now one of the treasures of the National Library of Scotland; and in 1889 Sir Leslie Stephen, Virginia Woolf's father, wrote an entry about her for the original Dictionary of National Biography, believing that 'no more fascinating infantile author has ever appeared. What makes this all the more remarkable is, Marjory was a mere 8 years old when she died.

It’s been said she was a distant relative of Sir Walter Scott, although there is no real evidence they ever met Robert Louis Stevenson and Mark Twain also thought highly of her.

Marjory spent most of her sixth, seventh and eighth years in Edinburgh being tutored by her teenage cousin, Isabella Keith. Isabella is mentioned is the somewhat odd opening line of Marjory’s famous journal: ‘Many people are hanged for Highway robbery Housebreking Murder &c. &c. Isabella teaches me everything I know and I am much indebted to her she is learnen witty & sensible.’

Marjory returned to Kirkcaldy in July 1811, and wrote on 1 September to her cousin, ‘We are surrounded with measles at present on every side’. She herself contracted measles in November and although she apparently recovered, died in December from what is now thought to have been meningitis. She was a month short of her ninth birthday.

Marjory was an accomplished and witty poet and diarist although she was not published until 50 years after her death. Her writings became hugely popular in the Victorian period albeit with the published editions altered as some her her language was thought inappropriate for an eight year old. The first account of her was given by a London journalist in the Fife Herald and reprinted as a booklet entitled Pet Marjorie: a Story of Child Life Fifty Years Ago. The nickname ‘Pet’ and the spelling of her name with ‘ie’ were inventions of her biographer: both appear on Marjory’s gravestone in Abbotshall Kirkyard, Kirkcaldy erected in 1930.

Marjory’s precocious intellect is noted in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: ‘She records enjoying the poems of Pope and Gray, the Arabian Nights, Ann Radcliff’s ‘misteris [sic] of udolpho’, the Newgate calendar, and ‘tails’ by Maria Edgworth and Hannah More.’ Her abilities are also apparent in the pithy comments in her journal and in her valiant attempts to write in rhyming couplets.

Robert Louis Stevenson is quoted as saying, ‘Marjory Fleming was possibly – no, I take back possibly – she was one of the noblest works of God.’

I had a hunt around and found a few of her poems and have picked out two that I liked best the first is written about her cousin with whom she lived in Edinburgh, the simplicity and innocence of the poem I must admit has brought a tear to my eye, especially as it written by a 6 year old……“

My Dear love Isabella”

Here lies sweet Isabell in bed,

With a night-cap on her head;

Her skin is soft, her face is fair,

And she has very pretty hair;

She and I in bed lie nice.

And undisturbed by rats and mice;

She is disgusted with Mr. Worgan,

Though he plays upon the organ.

Her nails are neat, her teeth are white,

Her eyes are very, very bright;

In a conspicuous town she lives,

And to the poor her money gives;

Here ends sweet Isabella’s story,

And may it be much to her glory.I love in Isa’s bed to lie,

Oh, such joy and luxury!

The bottom of the bed I sleep,

And with great care within I creep;

Oft I embrace her feet of lillys,

But she has gotten all the pillys.

Her neck I never can embrace,

But I do hug her feet in place.

The manuscripts of Marjory Fleming’s writings can be seen in the National Library of Scotland online here https://digital.nls.uk/marjory-fleming/archive/100989212

[fictionadventurer]

Imaginary Book Recs Cover Thoughts: Round One

Two Passengers on the Last Train by A.G. Benedict: Obscure English literary fiction from the 1920s. I read it as a Gutenberg ebook, but the original cover was one of those clothbound classics with silhouette images. Any modern-day reprints are by very small publishing houses that provide minimal, low-budget covers using old illustrations (something like this version of Manalive.)

Song of the Seafolk by Marjorie A. Penrose: American children's fantasy from 1954, with illustrated cover typical of the era. Has had rerelease covers in subsequent decades (including one very nice painted cover from the '90s).

Bright Folly by Glorya M. Hayers: 1930s comedy mystery. Most representative cover is the mass-market paperback that looks like the more cartoony covers of Wimsey novels (like the editions that contain this version of Gaudy Night), though with a bit more of a sunny Wodehouse twist.

On Eternity's Doorstep by Willa Aldecott: Classic autobiographical novel about WWI nursing. Several rereleases over the years, all involving variations of historical photographs or historical-nursing-items on a colored background. (The Hiding Place keeps coming to mind as a cover comp, except with more sepia-toned photos and gentle browns and neutrals as background colors.)

The Queens of Wintermoon by Jessica Wagner: 1980s (or '90s, I can't remember) adult fantasy with an illustrated cover. A 2010s attempt to repackage it as a YA series split the book into four covers that each featured the heraldic symbol of the House of each of the four sisters (Raven, Eagle, Falcon, and Firebird) on a different jewel-toned background (probably blue, green, orange or red, and violet or black).

Caroline by Maria Layton: 1820s classic novel. Anything that's been done for an Austen book is applicable here.

The Lands of Dorothon series by Barbara Lamley: Off-brand versions of Narnia.

The Autumn Queen’s Promise by Rose Rennow: 1990s children's historical fantasy. Illustrated cover that combines the fantastical autumn colors of An Enchantment of Ravens with the more straightforward historical imagery of a book like The Sign of the Beaver or The Witch of Blackbird Pond.)

Island in the Stars by Carolyn Taylor Harris: 1970s children's science fantasy, with the period-accurate slightly wonky cartoony style.

The Camille series by Annette Nowell: Anne of Green Gables covers but with more exotic settings as the background. Both Camille in the Alps and Camille in the Andes involve her climbing mountains in intrepid Edwardian girl-reporter wear.

The Lakeshore Plan by Louise Zajac: Something between Swallows and Amazons and The Penderwicks. Could go full-on painted summer scenery, but simple drawings and/or silhouettes are also valid options.

Ever Miss Eliza by Charlotte Koning: 1940s slice-of-life light fiction. Honestly, I just picture the cover of D.E. Stevenson's Charlotte Fairlie, except the illustration is a woman in front of a rural schoolbuilding.

The Ocean’s Revenge by Edward G. Whitmore: 1940s pulp fiction in all its glory. Cover features a striking painting of a futuristic submarine in the grasp of a huge squid-creature.

The Book of All Days by Harriet Street: Painting of a little girl peering at an old-fashioned book.

The Guardian of the Nest by Aurelia T. Noah: 1960s children's fantasy. Probably a cloth-bound cover with the images (fairy tale carved right into the cover the way they are in some old books.

The Thief’s Debut by M.J. Ponders: Very recent indie-published fairy tale retelling that is unfortunately saddled with the genre-typical "girl in a sparkly prom dress" cover that probably involves her wearing a mask and standing in front of a vaguely Venetian-looking building. In a better world, it would get a digital-painted cover more along the lines of The Electrical Menagerie, (though the subject matter would be something between The Princess Bride and The Lies of Locke Lamora).

The Interdimensional Book Carrier by Martin Kaspar: Modern-day bestseller. Cover comps coming to mind are The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry and Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore

[townsenddecades]

1303 - Day 4

As the year nears its end, Anne’s pregnancy progresses nicely. She has few complications, and mostly spends her time indoors – if she doesn’t have to go outside to do laundry – caring for Robert, baking bread and doing some knitting.

Her family, however, isn’t kept indoors so easily, despite the temperatures. Edith, for her part, spends a lot of time over in Tovar at the Watmore’s cottage. Their eldest daughter, Marjorie, is several years older than she and Anna, but she still likes talking to her and hearing all her gossip. Marjorie is friendly with the local shopkeeper, who gets all the handy tales from travellers out of Praaven.

Edith likes spending time with Mrs. Watmore, too, who has recently had a pair of twin girls whom Edith is fascinated by. She is far too young for thinking about children herself, but she believes she’d like to always live in a big family like her own or the Watmores.

Because there isn’t much to do on the farm while the fields are unusable until spring – not only is the ground covered in too much snow, it is also far too hard – Benedict decides to take Benjamin the ponds to teach him how to fish. It is a useful skill to have, and he is glad to have bonding time with his son, just the two of them.

Meanwhile, Anna amuses herself by building a snow pal in the chicken coop, one of several that has cropped up in the countryside since the snow has gotten deep enough.

With the Townsends thus occupied, the year comes to a peaceful conclusion.

END OF THE YEAR STATISTIC:

Births:

None!

Deaths:

None!

Marriages:

Henri de Bellefaye & Joan Pelham (Baron’s Family)

Prev: 1303, Day 3 <--> Next: 1304, Day 1

[guildtree]

EXCEPT IT'S WEDNESDAY BECAUSE I DO WHAT I WANT

Anyways, this is meant to be an opportunity for writers to do a "behind the scenes" look at one of their fanfics, something I've wanted to do for a while. I'm choosing Left Behind, my story about Taimi and Marjory becoming friends while recovering from Balthazar, because not only is it my first posted fanfic and one I still love, but because GOOD LORD does it have a story behind it.

So here's the tale: I wrote this thing in October of 2022, shortly after essentially dropping out of college. COVID had knocked me flat on my ass both mentally and physically, so I was still recovering from a pretty severe health crisis/depressive episode and had very little to do with my life. I'd started writing fiction again after a few years of not doing it at all. And then my uncle calls me up and says, "Hey, I'm going to Europe for three weeks, I know you're not busy, would you like to catsit my two kittens while I'm gone? I'll pay you." Obviously, I jumped at the chance to cuddle cute fluffy animals and earn money for it. Easy, right?

WRONG. First off, these kittens were not tiny fluffballs, they were five-month-old former-stray terrors that hadn't been fixed yet and still had tons of nervous energy. They caused chaos whenever I wasn't watching. Second, it took all of half a week for them both to somehow get sick with gonorrhea (honestly, they'd probably had it before and the symptoms just hadn't shown up yet). If you've never had to deal with two hyperactive, aggressively cuddly kittens with diarrhea ... be thankful. It was a disaster. Between taking them to the vet, giving them medicine regularly, cleaning up after them, and making sure they didn't break anything important, I wound up over at my uncle's house way more than I'd expected. Eventually, I just started dragging my laptop along so I could sit on the couch and write for hours while keeping the little fuzzy troublemakers in the corner of my eye.

I'd had the idea for Left Behind for a while - ever since I'd heard that little achievement line where Taimi mentions that Marjory's been calling her a lot and, "it seems like she's kinda lonely." (Which like, Marjory? Lonely? What? But then it clicked for me that she's not only alone, she's alone and injured, and she's probably feeling frustrated about not being able to do anything, much like Taimi has felt over several arcs, and ohhhhh... I can make them friends.) But I'd also be deluding myself if I said that nothing about my situation while writing bled into my work. I mean, I certainly had a good perspective on how much medicine sucks, and how hard being a caretaker can be, especially when the people (or cats) you're taking care of aren't cooperating! There are references to Taimi and Marjory being up at ungodly hours because I was up at ungodly hours trying to find the very small, pitch-black kitten who was hiding in the house somewhere because she really did not want to take her medicine. Some of the more out-there comedy is definitely influenced by that sleep deprivation as well.

But on a more serious note: I think the reason why my first posted story is at it's core about recovery and finding camaraderie in that recovery is because those were the things I needed at the time too. I mentioned that in October I was just starting to come out of a nasty depressive episode? I do mean just starting. I didn't feel good, I merely felt not terrible, which was a significant improvement but still didn't feel like enough. I think, consciously or not, I put a lot of my own hopes, wants, and frustrations into these characters. Hidden in Marjory's rage at feeling useless are a lot of my own frustrations about how my depressed brain simply wouldn't let me do things sometimes. In Taimi's fear of being forgotten are my own anxieties about how in taking a break from college I'd ruined my whole future. And their entire story of healing, growing closer, and finally moving on was what I wanted for myself most at that moment: a way out, a new start, and people who could understand and help me through all of that.

I wrote that entire fic over the three weeks I was catsitting, fending off kittens who wanted to step on my keyboard and chew my laptop wires the whole time. I finished a few days before my uncle was due to come home from Europe, and I was so exhausted and annoyed at that point, I was just like, "You know what, FINE, this is pretty good, why don't I post it." So I did, and then I went to go give the cats their meds and fall asleep, and when I woke up the next day there were 11 comments waiting for me, and I learned that people actually might like my writing and what I had to say. And now here we are 8 months later, I'm in a much better place, I've got a little community of friends and people who like my stuff, and writing has been a valuable hobby that brings me accomplishment and happiness. All because of my uncle's sick kittens xD

This got long, but it was a story I've wanted to tell for a while, so as always: thank you for reading.

[draw-you-coward]

winter’s rest

ao3 mirror

~*~

“Not a holiday party,” Roza had said, vague and useless as ever, with an eyeroll that really was asking too much of the sky above. “Just… a get-together. At the end of the year. I do not know—you are forcing me to stoop to your level of idiocy.”

And he had flounced off, dramatic black cloak billowing behind him as if underneath it was a trapped child desperately puffing enough air to make it undulate even on a windless day. Yet despite his offensive lack of organizational skills and his proclamation that he “does not keep track of the date,” he had managed to put together quite the quaint little winter gathering, here in his huge new expensive mountain lodge that Canach had had no idea he owned. Probably with Kasmeer’s help.

The conversations and laughter the evening has wrought have mostly died down, and the loudest noise is the crackling of the flames in the firepit. Dragon’s Watch (and for some reason Laranthir) are spread out in various nooks and crannies of the living room, laid to waste by the most unflagging pursuant of all: slumber.

Most of them are sleeping, at least. Roza is folded up on one of the couches with his legs bent upwards like a cricket, absolutely riveted by the little cubic children’s toy Taimi has gifted him. Trahearne has wandered off, as spirits know no rest, probably to… read, or something. Canach, of course, is ever alert.

Mostly. The hearty meal they had shared is catching up to him as well, weighing his vines with river stones and promising him in a seductive whisper that he can rest and remove his armour. As it is, it is set aside by the door, and he had only been persuaded to take it off when at least three other people had done the same. He has kept a few bombs on his person, just in case.

Trahearne returns, surprisingly, carrying an armful of hefty woolen blankets. He smiles at Canach when he notices his gaze—gently, too much for a Firstborn. It makes the bark beneath his collar itch, and he turns his head to the side, watching out of the corner of his eye as Trahearne unfolds a blanket and carefully drapes it over Laranthir, who is curled up on the fireplace rug. He tucks in the edges.

He moves to Roza, who still does not look up from his cube. He gets a blanket: red and black plaid, thick and warm. He shifts helpfully as Trahearne spreads it over him, not disconnecting his hands, and mumbles a distracted, “Thank you.”

As Trahearne leaves, he adds, “Love you,” and even Canach cannot ignore the way that makes the man smile. Nightmare’s sake, he thinks through the pleasant warmth striking itself to heat in his stomach. He really is a miserable old bastard.

Roza gets a kiss on the forehead, though Canach is not looking at them, not at all. And then, too soon, Trahearne is standing next to him, his tall form dark and silent. Two blankets remain in his arms: one brown, one green.

“In case you get cold,” Trahearne explains, though it is pointless to explain a blanket. “I thought Marjory might like the green one, although she and Kasmeer are asleep now. Hence, you get the privilege of the picking.”

Who even says ‘hence?’ Canach looks up at him. He looks real, solid; bright yellow eyes as piercing as they ever were. Canach remembers when they had first met, years ago, the intent behind those eyes impossible to read as he had said, Ah. The Scourge of Southsun. It seems my commander got to you after all.

It seems he did, Canach thinks to himself. And now here they are, and he is being offered blankets by a Firstborn. In case he gets cold.

“I’ll take the brown one,” he says.

Trahearne’s eyes curl with a smile. He simply hands the blanket over, and does not attempt to tuck Canach in like he is a skrittling being put to bed with tales of shinies. He is glad to have his pride kept intact. Of course.

Trahearne goes to the women next, as Canach tries to shake out his blanket without looking too pathetic about it. The green fabric catches air as it spreads, descending onto Kasmeer and Marjory with graceful lethargy. That marks the last of them—Taimi had left early, citing exhaustion (and immediately invoking a small pile of gifts that had descended onto her golem like plague insects upon a corpse), Braham had decided to stay in the norn village nearby, and Rox and Rytlock… had gone off to do whatever it is charr do now, in this time of relative peace. Probably try their best to prevent another civil war from brewing over an idiot. That leaves the rest of them, here to infringe upon a home they have no right to, taking permission they had not asked for to stay the night.

“Do either of you want hot cocoa?” Trahearne whispers, quiet as silk.

That makes Roza look up from his game. “Yes, please,” he says. “Do you want help making it?”

Trahearne waves him off, and looks to Canach. He deliberates for a moment before nodding.

“If it’s not too much trouble, Firstborn. Thank you.”

And what is this, this being that he has turned into? Trahearne leaves, and Canach watches him go with an echo of despair that he does not truly feel. What happened to the thing that bites, the infrangible creature who knew no chains? Why does he not even care that much? He is being passably civil to a Firstborn.

Trahearne is kind to Roza. He treats him well. Canach looks into the fireplace, watching the flames as they flicker.

The minutes pass leisurely. Trahearne comes back with a truly horrendous monstrosity of a mug, and a simple clay one. Canach has a brief thought as to where the cup is that he made for himself—but he cannot drink, right. Sometimes he seems so alive. More than he had in his Pact years, to be frank; Roza is good for him.

Canach gets handed the normal mug. He takes it, staring into it as steam wafts to his nostrils. The monstrosity is for Roza, of course, who chirps out a truly sweet noise once it is given to him, setting his game aside.

“You remembered,” Canach hears him say, lowly, though he is not watching them. He is no voyeur.

“Of course. I could never forget this thing.”

A quiet giggle. “I’m surprised you haven’t ‘accidentally’ broken it yet.”

“I may have spilled tea on it once or twice. But you are none the wiser, dearest.”

Canach’s face aches, beneath his thorns, vine-deep—he takes a sip of the cocoa. It is of course perfectly heated. He wonders if Trahearne’s hands, like Roza’s, are cold from his magic.

“Come sit next to me, Brother,” Roza says. Canach glances at Laranthir. He is asleep.

He looks up. Roza’s mouth lifts in a small, but very genuine smile. “Please,” he adds.

Canach rises, heart thick in his throat, not minding his blanket tumbling ungracefully to the floor. He seats himself next to Roza on the sofa, though he feels as if he is too heavy to balance its weight. The commander, even if he has been doing some martial training lately, remains light as a twig. Then he shifts to make room, scooping his legs up, and the cushion dips. Canach remembers that he has been eating more, and that his own armour is set by the door, keeping a watch over the chilly night through the windows.

Roza crawls onto him as he ever does when his thorns are on, minding his atrocity of a mug. “Love you,” he says.

Canach does not look for Trahearne, who has disappeared. He is off to read, probably, if only because Canach cannot fathom what kind of hobbies he actually has. He should probably learn, one of these days.

Roza makes an airy, disdainful noise. “You’re supposed to say it back,” he articulates.

Canach swallows. “I mean it back.”

He mouths at his drink as Roza cranes his head up to look at him. His leafy hair is loose, worn freely. Trahearne had undone it earlier with a smile, and Kasmeer had laughed, and Canach had looked away, bark itching, insisting they play another round of spin the bottle and only realizing from the laughter it had incited what his comment seemed like. Now it is hours later, after Laranthir has stolen away a few pecks—the man is more devious than he seems—and Roza is looking at him with disheveled hair and large eyes.

“You will say it back,” he ordains, “One day. But until then, I will wait.”

And then he smiles, until his black eyes squish into crescents, and he clinks his mug against Canach’s and takes a sip.

~*~

end note:

roza’s lodge looks similar to the Cathedral Mountain Lodge from the outside, except more nordic/norn[ic??] themed. there’s a part of the front roof that’s fashioned into a little nesting cave for eirwen :)

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

By The Shore Of The Lake

Everything ends. Even summer. Especially summer.

Everything always ends and Marjorie Andrews knows this intimately. It’s why she can’t be excited about moving into the lakehouse the way everyone else is. It’s been in the family for years, used only for reunions and now she’s moving in permanently, and she loves it, but she knows it’s not really permanent. Nothing ever is.

She’s kicking her feet over the edge of the lake, toes dragging through the water as she sits in jeans and t-shirt on the floating dock, when she hears the gravel crunch as functional as a doorbell. A half empty glass of iced tea is abandoned on the dock and possibly dumped wholesale into the lake when she stands and runs, with the careful balance and blind direction of someone who’s crossed this path a hundred times before, to the driveway. If anything is home, this is.

Her mom is shouting from inside, but Marjorie only cares about the car now parked in front of the garage and the people coming out of it. Her aunt and uncle smile warmly but her cousin, blonde curls falling around her shoulders, is all Marjorie can see.

“Marjorie!” They both cry at the same time, falling into the type of hug that can only be had between girls who don’t see each other often enough.

There are two too many duplicate names in their family. The two Marjories, auburn Andrews and blonde Taylor, as well as the first Marjorie’s father and brother’s shared name of Zachary.

Marjorie Taylor is from the city and has lived there her entire life, in the same apartment since she was born. Marjorie Andrews isn’t jealous of this, just puzzled by it; she’s never known anything but moving every few years, military deployments and weeks of missing her dad and wondering where they would land next. Permanence may as well be a foreign word to her, which means that she and her favorite cousin have a language barrier. Their Rosetta stone is this house, where they’ve seen each other every summer since they were babies. If there’s anywhere they’ve grown up, it’s here.

“I can’t believe you live here now,” Marjorie Taylor says, arm in arm with her namesake as they walk into the house ahead of her parents. “The lakehouse has become a lake home!”

Marjorie Andrews laughs. It’s always like this. Even if they haven’t talked in months, the moment they meet again it’s as if they’re picking up a conversation that never really stopped. “Something like that,” she agrees with a pointed look at the boxes still stacked in the front hall, things that haven’t been put away yet. “Mama, they’re here!” She shouts into the kitchen.

Emilia Andrews leans out into the entryway with her dark brown hair in a frazzled ponytail and a patchwork apron over her clothes. “Good thing, dinner will be ready in about half an hour,” she says. “How was the drive?”

Aunt Maud shrugs. “Nothing to write home about.” She follows Emilia back into the kitchen, leaving her husband to shoot the girls a quizzical raised eyebrow.

Auburn Marjorie nods into the family room, down the hall and to the right of the kitchen. “Grandma and Papa are in there, last I know,” she says, and Uncle Anthony takes off to greet his in-laws. This leaves the Marjories to their own devices in the front hall, still arm in arm.

“I need to see you room,” says Marjorie Taylor, and without hesitation or another word Andrews turns and pulls her up the stairs. They go as fast as they can as an unofficial three-legged race without tripping. “Which one is yours?”

The first Marjorie grins. “The lavender room,” she says, “The one you and I always share!” She makes it to the landing and turns down the hall, past what they call the peach room, where Zach is laying in his bed with headphones on and a notebook in hand, and throws open the next door.

Her room is so named for its pale purple walls, now turned golden by the afternoon sunlight coming in through the open window on the far wall. Where there used to be matching twin beds taking up most of the floor space, there’s now a wooden loft bed with space to set a mattress up beneath it and beside the desk tucked away in the corner. In the opposite corner is a soft disc chair, orange and fuzzy, beside a bookshelf stacked on top of a dresser. There are still boxes in the free spaces, but the room is more lived in than it’s been in a long while.

“You made it so cute!” Marjorie says, bouncing up and down on her toes. “I love it!”

Marjorie, who lives in this room for now, points with her foot at the dresser. “There’s space in the dresser for you if you want, and we can set up your bed after dinner.”

“Cool,” Marjorie Taylor says. “Is it weird changing everything around here?” She asks while reaching up to pull her hair into a ponytail.

“A little,” Marjorie says. “Everything changes, I guess.” She pretends like she doesn’t hate that. This is her last summer before she has to choose if she’s going to college or where. Blonde Marjorie is already enrolled for this year’s fall semester and they haven’t really talked about it, she just heard it from her mom. It’s probably their last summer together, and they need to hold onto that even if so much is changing, even the layout and life of the lavender room. Everything changes. Everything ends. Sometime, they should have known, this will too.

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Numbers 2 and 19 for the book-ask please. :-)

But of course, my dear! :-)

2. top 5 books of all time?

That's another tough one! I decided to interpret "top 5 books of all time" as the five fiction-reads (seven, actually, since I was not sure if the two plays count) that impacted me most, at different stages of my life:

Kabale und Liebe by Friedrich Schiller- how I learned that I enjoy 18th century literature and theatre.

Richard III by William Shakespeare- to this day my favourite play.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë- the first literary classic novel I recall having read in English.

Horatio Hornblower and Aubrey-Maturin series by C. S. Forester and Patrick O'Brien respectively- sometimes, one just needs to go to sea, debauch a sloth, and/or debate your personal honour.

The Flight of the Heron and the William of Orange triologies by D. K. Broster and Marjorie Bowen respectively- both reads that were recommended to me on this site, and that touched me profoundly for taking surprising approaches to their protagonists and themes that are rarely found in historical fiction today.

19. most disliked popular books?

I don't think I have touched anything that qualifies as 'popular' in ages. What I defnitively don't get behind is the soulless dystopia that is booktok with its ever-recurring storylines by the same three authors. It lacks originality, and hurts authors who would have original tales to tell and don't find a publisher.

[202027]

“Florida, like a piece of embroidery, has two sides to it—one side all tag-rag and thrums, without order or position; and the other side showing flowers and arabesques and brilliant coloring.” Harriet Beecher Stowe, Abolitionist, Author, 1896

 “The general wildness, the eternal labyrinths of waters and marshes, interlocked and apparently never ending; the whole surrounded by interminable swamps…Here I am then in the Floridas, thought I.”  John James Audubon, Ornithologist, 1831 

 “I just love it. I just love the way it looks. The way it feels. It’s such a strange place that seems to exist completely on its own. I just kind of, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s the characters and how it’s just such an extreme place.” Harmony Korine, Artist, Film Director, 2019

“Miami seemed not a city at all but a tale, a romance of the tropics, a kind of waking dream in which any possibility could and would be accommodated.” Joan Didion, Author, 1987 

“This is the most fantastic place that I have been yet in America.” Tennessee Williams, Playwright, 1941

“The Everglades were like a set of scales on which the forces of the seasons, of the sun and the rains, the winds, the hurricanes, and the dewfall, were balanced so that the life of the vast grass and all its encompassed and neighbor forms were kept secure.” Marjory Stoneman Douglas, Environmentalist, 1947 

“I’ve found peace in Florida.” Jack Keroauc, Poet, 1957 

“The place is a paradise.” Wallace Stevens, Poet, 1922 

“I am happy here, happier than I have been for years. The air is sweet, yes, literally sweet. I am renewed like the eagle. The clang and clamor of New York drops away like a last year's dream.” Zora Neale Hurston, Author, 1932

“Monotonous, they call this land of mine / Who do not know its sameness is a song, Who have not sensed the fact that its design / Is but a sweeping curve the tides prolong. They say that it is lush and overgrown, In need of winter with its wand of death; But they have never walked in groves alone / Where petalled snow came down with every breath, And they have never seen the startled flame / Of great flamingoes rushing toward the sun, Or traced along the quiet path they came / White egrets homing when the day is done.” Vivian Yeiser Laramore, Poet Laureate, 1931-1975 

"As I call upon my memories of a Floridian adolescence, I relive that invigorating sensation of driving down the freeway, when the weather is unsure of itself. One minute I'm driving past Flamingo Road through blinding rays of our state’s signature sun; the next I am ambushed by a torrential downpour– only to rediscover that familiar Florida sunshine waiting for me on the other side, just one mile away. I spent my most formative years in a paradise of contradiction, an endlessly flat and vividly green landscape of flamboyancy. My upbringing was nurtured by a hormonal climate that understood the fluctuations of my adolescent spirit. Florida is as blissfully confused as I once was." Camila Mendes, Actress, 2020 

“Is there anything more Florida than a flamingo?” Nancy Klingener, Writer, Radio Host, 2018

"For a photographer, being in Florida was like being sent to heaven before you die." Arnold Newman, Photographer, 1987

[ahaura]

azalea crocus & tigerlily !!! MWAH KEESES 💓

azalea— what is the most recent song you listened to? how do you feel about it? it was extraordinary girl by green day ! i haven't listened to them in a few years so i've been revisiting. im not really sure how it makes me feel because revisiting them as an adult is an odd experience and i was never familiar with the narrative context as a kid so it's... like coming home but aware of the tragedy of the story

crocus— do you have any significant dreams that you remember? what were they about? i do remember some of the dreams ive had over the years. when i was a kid i had a dream that my family and i were camping but there was a zombie chasing us, and the zombie was invisible except for the shoes, and i remember trying to climb into the car before it could get to us. it scared the shit out of me fjdkfsjfdkj

tigerlily— do you have any favorite quotes from any movies, tv shows, books, or poetry? (or from people in real life) OH YOU BET I DO !!!!!

I love you. I want us both to eat well. (Christopher Citro, "Our Beautiful Life When It's Filled with Shrieks")

The girl is gone. She is plumb finished. (Catherynne M. Valente, Six-Gun Snow White)

What / is it they say, heart-sick or downhearted? […] What the heart wants? The heart wants / her horses back. (Ada Limón, "Downhearted")

You'd think she'd stay, but [she] vanishes in a flash. (Little Forest, dir. Yim Soon-rye)

for I will be horribly in love with her. (William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, dir. Josie Rourke)

Is nothing of mine sacred? (Marjorie Liu & Sana Takeda, Monstress)

I will not allow that I was moved by justice rather than love, for justice is also a form of love. (Susan Sontag, The Volcano Lover)

See ya / see ya / see ya real soon. (Catherynne M. Valente, "Mouse Koan"

Frodo : What are we holding on to, Sam? Sam : That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for. (Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, dir. Peter Jackson)

I love you. I'm glad I exist. (Wendy Cope, "The Orange")

Just like that, she says, and goes. (Ling Ma, Severance)

There is no one like her. (Mary Gordon, Joan of Arc: A Life)

He was far from the lizard of love. (Leonora Carrington, The Seventh Horse And Other Tales)

Tell her to come home. (An entry in the Iñupiat dictionary for the Alaska Rural School Project from the University of Alaska, p. 1970, referenced for the North Slope and Kobuk River dialects)

Should we go into it together / If I go into it / with you I will never come out (Margaret Atwood, Power Politics)

What if love comes for everyone? (Destination Wedding, dir. Victor Levin)

[ao3feed-ineffablehusbandz]

Season Two

Season Two

by Dee_Morris, ranguvar82

“Something is Up Down Below! Season two of Ineffable is a riveting tale of intrigue and mystery. Magic and fantasy combine for a thrilling ride from start to finish! Season two promises to be an action-packed, romantic comedy drama that will have you on the edge of your seat!”

After being turned down for a role in season one, Anthony Crowley has been asked to come on board as a romantic interest in season two, opposite the handsome Aziraphale Fell. He will DEFINITELY keep it professional. He's great at that.

I'm so excited to collaborate with ranguvar82 and IneffableMcMuffin on this actor AU. Chairs will update weekly, probably.

Words: 2557, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub (Good Omens), Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur (Good Omens), Beryl Ormerod, Agnes Nutter, Anathema Device, Marjorie Potts - Character

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Himbo Gabriel (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Human, Actor AU, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Communication kink, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, all the gay sex, Fluff and Humor, low angst, Smut and Feels, some references to biphobia

From https://ift.tt/sOtzK5X https://archiveofourown.org/works/48062104